Mathematics has always been a certain truth in my life. While the world often shifts unpredictably around me, filled with unwritten social rules and expectations I struggle to interpret as a student on the autism spectrum, math stands stable. Its logic does not change. Its rules are written, precise, and reliable. In a world where meaning often feels hidden, math offers clarity, a place where persistence and reason always lead to answers. I remember the first time I truly felt that clarity. It was the semester after Hurricane Helene devastated my town, Asheville. I was working through a calculus problem with trigonometric substitution, staring at equations that seemed impossible to untangle. Frustration and too much caffeine built up inside me, and I felt my confidence falter. Yet I returned to the principles I knew, step by step, until the reasoning unfolded before me. In that moment, I realized that math rewards patience and persistence. If I could not solve a problem, it was not math that had failed me. It was simply a signal to look closer, to try again, and to trust the structure it provides. Over time, mathematics became more than a subject. It became a symbol of resilience and a way in which I understand the world. I walked around campus creating hypothetical sets of people, inanimate objects, and even celestial bodies. While social interactions can feel like shifting sands, math is a firm foundation. Its certainty inspires me to pursue physics, where every equation is a key to exploring the universe. Math allows me to navigate complexity, find patterns in chaos, and uncover truths that exist beyond what is immediately visible. What I love most is that math is universal. Its truths are not hidden by opinion, culture, or circumstance. In it, I find a place where effort and reasoning are enough, where clarity exists even in the most complicated problems. As I continue my studies in physics, math gives me confidence that every challenge, no matter how intricate, contains a solution waiting to be discovered. In this certainty, I find not only knowledge, but purpose.

For my family and me, attending a university means rewriting a narrative that has long been written without us in mind. I am a first-generation college student, one of three siblings, and one of two autistic siblings. To pursue higher education is to resist assumptions, to confront stereotypes, and to create a future that no one ever handed to us. It is not just about earning a degree. It is about proving that I deserve to be here. No one in my family has gone to college. My relatives are immigrants from Cuba and the Bahamas who came to the United States chasing opportunity, not degrees. They worked hard to build stable lives in a new country, but college was never financially possible. When I started applying to universities, I did so without a family legacy of higher education to guide me. There were no stories of dorm life or campus tours. There were no tips about choosing a major or preparing for finals. There was only me, determined to figure it out and make something more. Being autistic adds another layer to this journey. Many people assume that someone like me would not thrive in academic spaces. People are quick to make judgments about what we can or cannot do. But I have always known what I am capable of. Every class I pass and every problem I solve is a way of challenging the world’s expectations. I am here not only to learn but to show that autistic students belong in college, in science, and leadership. Like Harry Stenger, I have had to be financially independent. To support my education, I maintain three incomes: two jobs and an upcycled jewelry business I founded, which now sells online and is featured in three physical stores. Balancing that work with a full academic schedule for my physics undergrad requires focus, creativity, and sacrifice. I have learned how to stretch time and resources, how to stay committed when I am tired, and how to find strength in the mission behind my hustle. There have been times when dinner was buttered pasta and resolve. But I never let those moments slow me down. To my family, my going to college represents everything they hoped was possible when they came to this country. It is proof that their sacrifices mattered. To me, higher education is liberation. It is where I get to study physics and astronomy and ask the kinds of questions that light up my mind. It is where I begin building the future I have imagined for so long, one that is rooted in science, discovery, and impact. The Spaghetti & Butter Scholarship would do more than help me afford school. It would affirm that the barriers I have worked so hard to overcome have not gone unnoticed. It would mean that someone sees the long hours, the hard choices, and the quiet perseverance behind every step I have taken. It would help me focus less on surviving and more on thriving. Higher education is not something I take for granted. I have fought for it, dreamed about it, and poured myself into it. It is my way forward, and it is my way of honoring where I come from. This is not just my journey. It is the continuation of everything my family began—and I intend to carry it as far as I can.

Success looks different to everyone. For some, it means recognition or reaching a specific milestone. For me, success is quiet, steady, and deeply personal. It looks like waking up and trying again, even when everything feels overwhelming. It is the decision to keep going despite exhaustion, despite uncertainty, and despite pain. Success, to me, is the commitment to move forward when there is every reason not to. It is resilience, not perfection. This understanding did not come easily. It was shaped by experiences that challenged me in ways I never could have imagined. For years, I lived in shelters, including Trinity Place, while also navigating the juvenile justice system. I was just a teenager, alone and unsure if I would ever find a way out. Then, when Hurricane Helene struck, I lost nearly everything. Our home was destroyed by severe flooding and contamination. I could not control my circumstances, but I could choose how I responded to them. That choice, to keep going in the face of loss, became my earliest and deepest definition of success. During that time, I began making jewelry from discarded materials. Broken beads, tangled wires, and scraps others had left behind became the tools of my self-expression. What began as a coping mechanism turned into something more. Over time, it became the Junkyard Kitty Project, a sustainable jewelry initiative that promotes environmental awareness and self-empowerment through upcycled fashion. This project represents one of my core beliefs: Broken things can be transformed. Nothing and no one is beyond repair. This fall, I will transfer to NYIT to complete my degree in physics with a concentration in astronomy, and I plan to continue into a master's program in applied mathematics. My goal is to become an astrophysicist. I want to deepen our understanding of the universe, but just as importantly, I want to create opportunities for others to experience the wonder of science. I come from a nontraditional background, and I know how isolating it can feel to dream of becoming something you have never seen. Science gave me clarity and hope in the middle of chaos. I want to give that same sense of belonging to others, to show them they are worthy of discovery and capable of brilliance. While I work toward my academic goals, I remain grounded in service. I have returned to Trinity Place to support youth who are currently experiencing homelessness. I have continued developing my online platform, where I advocate for sustainability, creativity, and emotional healing. I have helped distribute food and supplies after natural disasters and assisted elderly neighbors with the tasks they could not complete alone. These efforts are more than acts of kindness. They are a way of honoring my roots and giving back to the communities that held me up when I had very little. I am entirely responsible for funding my education. Each semester brings financial challenges, but I am committed to continuing my journey. Receiving this scholarship would ease the weight of those challenges, allowing me to focus more fully on my academic and creative work. More than that, it would be an affirmation of the effort I put in every single day. It would allow me to keep showing up not only for myself but for those I am working to support through science, advocacy, and art. In the future, I hope to expand the Junkyard Kitty Project into a larger platform that includes mentorship, workshops, and educational outreach. I want to teach young people, especially those in shelters or underrepresented communities, how to use creative expression as a tool for healing and empowerment. I also want to create accessible resources in science and mathematics for students who feel disconnected from traditional academic spaces. There is brilliance in every corner of this world. All it needs is a place to grow. Success is not always loud or obvious. Sometimes, it is simply the act of showing up, even when it is hard. It is the decision to try again, to stay grounded in your purpose, and to walk forward with determination, even when the road ahead is uncertain. That is the definition of success I carry with me. With your support, I will continue to rise, and I will continue helping others rise with me.

When I was fourteen, I entered a teen homeless shelter because ongoing domestic disturbances made it unsafe for me to stay at home. Living in that shelter was the most defining challenge of my life. It took away any sense of security and comfort, replacing it with unpredictability and the daily need to survive. I learned how to find steadiness in chaos, how to listen with empathy, and how to care for others who were going through similar struggles. That time showed me what it means to endure and, more importantly, what it means to grow. Before the shelter, I was a quiet and uncertain teenager. The experience forced me to face my fear and build the skills I needed to speak up for myself and for others. I became more vocal, more aware, and more committed to helping those around me. I discovered that leadership is not always about being in charge. Sometimes, it means being consistent, dependable, and kind. I began organizing efforts in the shelter to support others, like sharing donated supplies and tutoring. These small actions helped me recognize my ability to lead through compassion and action. This experience completely changed how I view education. Before, school felt distant and disconnected from the realities of life. But while I was in the shelter, it became something I could rely on. Studying gave me structure and allowed me to imagine a future beyond my immediate situation. I realized that education could offer a path to stability, self-worth, and opportunity. It became a way to overcome the cycles of instability that I had known for too long. Now, I am studying at the New York Institute of Technology, working toward a degree in physics with a concentration in astronomy, along with a master's in applied mathematics. I chose this path because I am drawn to the wonder of the universe and also because I believe in expanding access to science. I want people from all walks of life to feel that they belong in spaces of learning and discovery. I believe the world of science needs more voices with real-life experience, compassion, and a deep belief in fairness. I plan to use my education to create mentorship programs for students facing housing insecurity and trauma. I also want to develop workshops that combine science, sustainability, and creative expression. These programs would be designed to help young people see themselves as capable, imaginative, and worthy of success. I want to make sure that education does not feel out of reach for those who need it most. The shelter revealed who I am when everything else falls away. It helped me become stronger, more focused, and more committed to making a difference. With education as my foundation, I am ready to help others grow and thrive. That is how I plan to give back, by turning what I have lived through into something that helps build a more open and supportive world.

When COVID-19 hit, my life unraveled. I lost my motivation. I lost my direction. Worst of all, I lost my belief in myself. My grades collapsed. The once-gifted student with dreams of becoming an astrophysicist was barely passing. My 1.5 GPA was proof of how much I had given up. Then Ethan died. I woke up one morning, exhausted from cramming, grabbed my phone, and saw the message from his girlfriend. "I am so sorry to tell you this. Ethan overdosed last night." I even asked her if it was a joke. My friend Ethan had ADHD, and I was the nerdy, autistic girl in middle school who never quite fit in. Because we both struggled in a traditional classroom, we sat at the small table in the corner, where we learned to navigate the world together. School was cruel to me, but Ethan never was. In high school, we drifted in and out of each other’s lives, both trying to stay afloat in our own ways. But one thing never changed. Ethan believed in me. He knew I wanted to be an astrophysicist, and even when I stopped believing in myself, he never did. After he died, I kept thinking about all the times I said, "I will catch up with him later." I kept waiting for life to settle down, assuming there would always be more time. But there was no more time. There was no later. I saw how far I had fallen, and for the first time in years, I refused to let it continue. I enrolled in dual enrollment at AB Tech, determined to rebuild what I had nearly thrown away. I worked relentlessly. My grades rose. My confidence returned. I rediscovered my love for science. Space reminds me that even in the darkest moments, there is order, there is reason, and there is always a way forward. Now, I am graduating with both my high school diploma and an Associate of Science degree. I have raised my GPA from a 1.5 to a 3.6, and by the end of this semester, it will be a 3.8. I will begin my Bachelor of Science in Physics at NYIT in Manhattan and earn my accelerated master's in mathematics. I will become an astrophysicist. Ethan never got the chance to turn his life around, but I did, and refuse to waste it.

The first thing people noticed about my grandfather, Daddy Daddy, was his silence. It was not an empty silence. It was the kind that carried weight, the kind that made you wonder what he had seen and what he refused to say. At seventeen, he lied about his age to join the Navy. Not because he was eager to serve, but because he had nowhere else to go. His father was Bahamian, and his mother was white, and that alone made him an outsider in his own home. His mother’s family never accepted him. They made sure he knew he was different. They made sure he knew he was not one of them. The military was not just an escape. It was survival. By the time he left home, he had already learned how to disappear. He decided to try and pass as white. He had buried that part of himself so deeply that even his children never knew the truth. My mother only found out right before he passed, after he had been drinking. He never spoke about Vietnam and did not talk about what he had seen or the things he had done. It was only after he died that I began to understand him in fragments. We found certificates of his work on the Blackbird and other CIA-Lockheed Projects. But there were other records too. Pieces of his life that had been left behind. One of them lingers with me. During the war, as his plane was taking off from a village under attack, a woman ran toward him, holding out her baby. She was begging him to take the child, to save at least one life. He reached out, but as the aircraft lifted, he could not grab hold. After that, almost everyone in that village was murdered. I wonder how many times he relived that moment. How many nights did he wake up reaching for a child who was never there? How much of his drinking was caused by his guilt? His alcoholism was severe. He was brilliant, thoughtful, and kind, but he was also lost. He built aircraft that touched the edges of space, yet he could not find a way to live in his own skin. He had a family that loved him, but no amount of love could pull him back from the places he went when he drank. The only thing that steadied him was my grandmother, Mima. She was his solace, the one person who made the world quiet. When she passed away, he only lasted two weeks without her. His body gave up the fight, but I think his heart had already let go. What I remember is something softer. I remember the way he took me out to lunch and let me order anything I wanted. The way grey mustache turned upwards as he smiled. The way he bought me and my teddy bears matching church dresses, carefully picking them out as if it was the most important decision in the world. The way he made space for me in his life even when he was struggling to carry his own pain. He was a tortured soul who had spent his life trying to outrun the weight of his past. His alcoholism consumed him, but it did not erase the love he had for his family. It did not erase the moments of tenderness he still managed to give. That is the part of him I choose to hold on to. That is the part of him that war and loss and time could never take away.

Growing up in the South Side of Miami with my single mother and two siblings, I learned the true meaning of resilience, sacrifice, and unconditional love. My mother raised us on her own, navigating the challenges of single parenthood with unwavering strength. My brother and I are both on the autism spectrum, which added complexity to our lives, but she never let obstacles define our future. She worked tirelessly, often scrubbing toilets while we were at school just to afford a birthday cake or a field trip, ensuring that we never felt the weight of our financial struggles more than necessary. Despite the hardships, my mother made our home a place of hope. She instilled in us a fierce determination, teaching us that no dream was out of reach with enough effort and perseverance. Her sacrifices shaped me in ways that words struggle to capture. Watching her pour every ounce of herself into making sure we had opportunities, even when she went without, lit a fire within me, a fire that has fueled my desire to give back and uplift others. That same determination has driven me academically. I am pursuing a degree in physics with a concentration in astronomy and a master's in applied mathematics. My passion for the mysteries of the universe is deeply tied to my passion for people. Science is not just about discovery, it is about using knowledge to elevate society. I want to break barriers in astrophysics while ensuring that others, particularly those from underrepresented backgrounds, have access to the same opportunities I have fought for. Beyond academics, I have committed myself to serving my community. From volunteering at homeless shelters to organizing food distribution efforts and creating upcycled jewelry to promote sustainability, I have sought ways to make a difference. These experiences have reinforced my belief that service and education go hand in hand. My mother’s resilience taught me that even the smallest acts of kindness can create ripples of change, and I strive to embody that in everything I do. Looking ahead, I know that my future will be dedicated to helping others, even if I do not yet know the exact career path I will take. Whether through scientific research, mentorship, advocacy, or outreach, I want to create meaningful change. I envision a future where I can inspire young minds to pursue knowledge fearlessly, and where I can help students from disadvantaged backgrounds access the resources and guidance they need to succeed. I want to use my skills to break down barriers in education and make complex subjects more accessible to those who might feel excluded. Whether it is through science, community work, or another yet-to-be-discovered avenue, my purpose remains the same: to give back, uplift, and make the world a better place. This scholarship would not only help me continue my education but also allow me to carry forward my mother’s legacy. She gave me everything she could, and now it is my turn to use what she taught me to inspire, uplift, and pave the way for others. No matter where my journey leads, I will always be guided by the lessons of perseverance, kindness, and strength that she instilled in me.

At sixteen, I looked in the mirror and did not see a person. I saw someone wasting away, a body barely holding itself together. My eyes were hollow, my skin pale, my arms covered in the evidence of how badly I was hurting. I had been using since I was thirteen, trying to escape a life that never felt safe. From fourteen to sixteen, I was homeless, bouncing between shelters, sleeping in cars, and staying with people who made me feel safer on the streets than in their homes. I was in and out of mental hospitals, on probation, and constantly watching CPS walk through my front door like they already knew I would never make it out. I was once a gifted child. I spent hours reading about space, memorizing the names of stars, and dreaming of something bigger. But my world became smaller. The pandemic trapped me with everything I had been trying to escape. I stopped caring about school. My GPA crashed. I started getting arrested. I thought that was it for me. I had seen what happened to kids like me. I knew where I was headed. Then I woke up in a hospital bed, weak, sick, alone. A nurse told me I was lucky. I did not feel lucky. I felt like I had ruined any chance I had at a life. But something inside me refused to give up. I did not want my story to end like this. I got sober. I faced the music, the weight of my past crushing me. But I kept going. I transferred to Buncombe County Middle College, knowing that if I wanted a future, I had to start with my education. My GPA was a 1.5, proof of how much I had let slip away. I force myself to show up even when my hands shake, even when I feel like an imposter. I spend nights studying until my eyes burn. I raised my GPA to a 3.6 and counting. This June, I will graduate with both my high school diploma and an associate degree in science. Now, I am chasing the dream I almost lost. I will be an astrophysicist. I want to study the vastness of the universe, to prove that even something as small as me has a place in it. I plan to earn a bachelor's in astrophysics and a master's in applied mathematics. I am completely alone in funding my education. If I can secure enough scholarships, I will attend Rutgers. No matter what, I will not stop. The Second Chance Scholarship would mean more than financial relief. It would be a reminder that everything I have fought for has been worth it. But I know I am not the only one who needs a second chance. That is why I will dedicate my life to paying it forward. I have already started by working with homeless shelters, providing meals, and supporting those who feel invisible. But I want to do more. I want to create tutoring programs for students who feel school has left them behind. I want to advocate for resources for young people struggling with addiction and mental health. I want to help organize scholarships for students like me, giving them a chance at education without financial stress. Nelson Vecchione believed in second chances. So do I. This scholarship would not just be an investment in my education. It would be an investment in the people I will help, the lives I will touch, and the future I will create.

Helping others is not just something I value. It is the foundation of who I am. My passion for service comes from lived experience. I know what it is like to be unseen, to reach out for help and wonder if anyone will answer. From ages fourteen to sixteen, I lived at Trinity Place Homeless Shelter. Homelessness as a teenager was isolating and terrifying. Every day was uncertain. I did not know if I would ever have a stable home again. There were nights I barely slept, overwhelmed by fear. More than anything, I felt invisible. The staff at Trinity Place gave me more than shelter. They reminded me I was still a person, still worthy of dignity. When I finally left, I carried that lesson with me. I made a promise to return, not as a resident but as someone who could give back. Volunteering at Trinity Place has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. I have helped coordinate funds and donations, ensuring the youth at the shelter have essentials, warm clothing, and luxuries that remind them they are more than their circumstances. More than providing resources, I want to show them they are seen, valued, and not alone. I was accepted to Rutgers University, my top choice school, but I cannot attend unless I secure sixty thousand dollars by fall. Without scholarships, I will be forced to work full-time just to afford tuition, leaving me little time to continue my work at Trinity Place and other community efforts. This scholarship would allow me to continue my education while also dedicating time to uplifting others. I am pursuing a bachelor’s degree in astrophysics and a master’s in applied mathematics. My dream is to become an astrophysicist, proving that someone who once had nothing can still reach for the stars. This scholarship is more than just financial assistance. It is the key to helping me stay on my path while continuing to serve my community. Beyond science and service, I have always loved stamps. My mother has collected stamps my entire life, and because of her, I have come to appreciate them too. She would take me and my friends to the post office to collect new ones, explaining the stories behind each design. I still remember the excitement of picking out a special edition or discovering one with a piece of history attached to it. I want to pass that tradition on to others. Stamps are tiny pieces of history, culture, and art, and I encourage young people to explore philately by making it personal. If they love music, I show them stamps featuring famous musicians. If they love science, I introduce them to stamps that commemorate space exploration. More than that, I hope to continue what my mother started by taking young people to the post office, helping them start their own collections, and keeping the love of philately alive. I make jewelry using stamps, blending my love for history and art into something tangible. Through this, I preserve the beauty of unique stamps, giving them a new life beyond a collection book. I hope to share this craft and show how stamps can be appreciated in creative ways. Homelessness took so much from me, but it did not take my commitment to service. This scholarship would ensure that I can continue my education, give back to my community, and create the future I once feared was out of reach. I want to show others that no matter where they come from or what challenges they face, their dreams are still possible. .

Chachi was my big brother. Not by blood but in every way that mattered. Before I was born, my parents took him in after his family abandoned him. He never talked much about it, and I never asked. He was just my brother. He was there when I woke up, when I fell asleep, and when I needed someone even when I did not realize I did. My biological brother is severely autistic, so my parents spent most of their time making sure he was safe. They did their best, but there were therapy appointments, strict routines, and moments when all their energy had to go to him. Chachi made sure I was not forgotten. He picked me up from school, sat with me while I did my homework, and brought me snacks even when I said I was not hungry. My favorite was when he brought me crackers with Cheez Whiz, pressing the nozzle too hard so the cheese swirled up in messy spirals. When I had nightmares, he sat by my bed until I fell asleep. When I got sick, he brought me a wet cloth for my forehead and made sure I had water. When I was upset, he told me silly stories with endings that made no sense, just to distract me. He never made me feel like a burden. He just took care of me because that is what big brothers do. And then one day he was gone. He had been swimming when a storm rolled in. A bolt of lightning struck the water, and just like that, he was gone. No warning. No goodbye. I did not understand. People told me, but their words did not make sense. I kept waiting for him to come home. I listened for his voice, his footsteps in the hallway, expecting him to walk through the door like nothing had changed. At first, I thought maybe he was just lost. Maybe he would find his way back home. I imagined him walking in one day like he had just been gone for a while, ruffling my hair, calling me kid like he always did. But the house was too quiet. The air felt heavier. No one said his name as much, as if speaking it out loud would make the loss too real. Grief is strange when you are too young to name it. It settles inside you, heavy and quiet, like something you do not know how to carry. I did not have the words for what I was feeling. I only knew that I was sad, that I missed him, that nothing would ever be the same. Losing Chachi changed me. I had to grow up faster. I learned early that life is unfair and that the people we love can be taken away without warning. I stopped believing the world would always be kind. But I also learned that love does not disappear. Chachi is with me when I push through exhaustion. He is with me during my late-night study sessions and when I collapse into bed after work. He is in the way I refuse to quit when things feel impossible. Losing him taught me to keep going even when it hurts. It taught me to take care of others the way he took care of me. I miss him. I always will. Some days, the grief sneaks up on me, sudden and sharp, like an old wound that never fully healed. But I know love does not fade. He is still with me, watching out for me the way he always did.

Science has always felt like home to me. It is the place where curiosity thrives, where questions lead to discovery, and where the universe itself seems to whisper its secrets to those who are willing to listen. But as I got older, I started to notice that most scientists didn’t look like me. I looked around and saw classrooms, labs, and conferences dominated by men. I read textbooks filled with names of male scientists, while the women who changed the world were footnotes, if they were mentioned at all. When I imagined my future in STEM, I struggled to find a reflection of myself. A woman. A disabled person. Someone who did not fit the public’s ideal of who a scientist was supposed to be. I think about women like Henrietta Leavitt, who spent years analyzing thousands of stars, discovering the key to measuring cosmic distances, only to have her male colleagues take credit for it. Her work laid the foundation for our understanding of the universe’s scale, proving that patterns in light could reveal the secrets of distant galaxies. That discovery reshaped astronomy and, in turn, reshaped my own ambitions. It showed me that science is about uncovering the hidden structures that govern our world, about finding answers even when no one else is looking for them. I want to follow that same path, searching for knowledge in the details and pushing the boundaries of what we understand. I think about Marie Curie, who had to fight just to be allowed into scientific institutions, yet still became the first person to win two Nobel Prizes. Her breakthroughs in radioactivity changed modern medicine, allowing us to see inside the human body and develop life-saving treatments. She proved that science is not just about discovery but also about impact. That is what draws me to STEM: the power to change lives. These women were not given a seat at the table. They built their own. Because of them, I know that I do not have to accept the barriers set in front of me. Leadership has shaped my future just as much as science has. Being a leader in STEM is not just about excelling academically or landing a prestigious job. It is about using my voice to push for accessibility in scientific spaces. I have seen firsthand how exclusion and bias can make STEM difficult for women, for disabled people, and for people of color to pursue their passions. Leadership means recognizing those challenges and working to dismantle them. It means speaking up when resources are not accessible, when talented individuals are overlooked, and when the system refuses to change. It is about mentorship, about reaching back and pulling others forward, because I refuse to be the only one who makes it through. True leadership is not just about personal success; it is about making sure that others have the opportunity to succeed as well. I have faced my share of obstacles. I have been underestimated, overlooked, and told that people like me do not make it in this field. But I know that science belongs to the curious, to the determined, to the ones who refuse to give up. So, I will push forward. I will carve out a space in STEM for myself and for the women who will come after me. And one day, when another girl like me looks around and wonders if she belongs here, she will not have to search so hard for the answer. Because the answer will be yes.

I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t aware of how different I was. Conversations felt like impossible puzzles full of rules I didn’t understand. No matter how hard I tried to mimic the rhythm of social interactions, I always got it wrong, talking too much, not enough, missing the unspoken cues that came so easily to everyone else. It was exhausting constantly being reminded that I didn’t quite fit. But the stars never asked me to explain myself. They didn’t need words, and they didn’t expect me to decode subtle social signals or fill silences with small talk. They just existed, steady and predictable, moving through space according to laws I could understand. When everything else felt chaotic and unmanageable, the stars gave me something that made sense. People assume intelligence is enough to succeed in STEM, but that has never been true. The system is built for people who move through the world a certain way. It rewards those who can network effortlessly, those who can advocate for themselves in the right tone and at the right moment, and those who fit into the rigid structure without struggling against it. It does not make space for people like me. That is why having Autism has shaped my future goals and career. I am determined to carve out a place for autistic women in STEM. There are so few of us in the field, not because we lack ability but because we are shut out before we ever get a chance to prove ourselves. We are told we do not communicate the right way, that we are too rigid or too intense or too difficult. We are underestimated and dismissed. I know what it is like to be ignored even when I know the answer. I know what it is like to be treated as if I am less capable just because I do not navigate social situations the way people expect. I also know that the way I see the world is an asset. Autism is the reason I fell in love with physics. It allows me to focus deeply, to see patterns others miss, and to engage with complex problems in ways that are natural to me. The field of astrophysics needs minds that think differently, and I refuse to let the system push people like me out. I am pursuing a degree in physics with a concentration in astronomy because I want to contribute to our understanding of the universe, but I also want to break down the barriers that keep autistic women from succeeding in STEM. This scholarship would not just help me continue my education, it would be a step toward proving that autistic women belong in this field. I know what it is like to be unseen. I know what it is like to be underestimated. And I know that I will not let that stop me. I will study the stars, and I will create a space for people like me to do the same.

Growing up, I was always fascinated by the night sky. While other children saw twinkling dots, I saw infinite possibilities. I remember lying on my back, staring at the vast darkness, feeling both insignificant and inspired. What existed beyond what my eyes could see? What forces governed the celestial bodies, and how could we unravel their mysteries? These questions, which began as childhood curiosity, became the foundation of my passion for astrophysics. My journey into STEM has not been easy. As an autistic woman and a first-generation college student, I often faced the unspoken expectation that science was not my place. But that never bothered me. I immersed myself in physics, captivated by the elegant complexity of the universe. I thrived in calculus and astronomy, eager to understand the mathematical language that describes the cosmos. My love for science is not just about knowledge but about the endless potential for discovery. The idea that equations can predict planetary motion, uncover the fate of a star, or explain the very fabric of reality ignites something within me. More than anything, I am obsessed with the math that makes up our universe. As I work through Calculus Two, even something as tedious and intricate as trigonometric substitution fascinates me. There is something almost poetic about how abstract mathematical principles can be used to describe the tangible universe. The way integrals can define the motion of planets, the way differential equations can predict the decay of a star, the way a series can converge to describe the infinite- all of it fills me with a sense of awe. Math is the language of the cosmos, and I am determined to become fluent in it. Despite my passion, there was a time when I lost faith in my abilities. During the pandemic, I experienced homelessness as a teenager. The constant instability made school feel impossible, and I struggled deeply. My grades plummeted, and I began to believe that I was not capable of success. I felt like I was drowning, unable to see a future for myself. But everything changed when I transferred to Buncombe County Middle College. There, I had the chance to start over, to prove to myself that I was more than my circumstances. Since 2023, I have raised my GPA from 1.5 to 3.6 and counting, and in doing so, I rediscovered my strength. That experience reassures me that I am tough enough to do whatever I set my mind to. No obstacle, no challenge, and no setback will ever define me again. My financial need is significant. Being accepted into Rutgers, with its prestigious astrophysics program, felt like an impossible dream, especially with the acceptance rate dropping to thirty-four percent this year. Now, faced with nearly sixty thousand dollars in annual tuition, I am determined to find a way to make this dream a reality. With no financial support from my family, I am entirely responsible for funding my education. I have worked hard to secure scholarships and financial aid, but the gap remains daunting. This scholarship would not only provide financial relief but also reinforce that my dreams are worth pursuing and that my passion has value. I will also be the first doctor in my family. The path to a PhD is long and challenging, but I am ready to take every step necessary to get there. My goal is to contribute to our understanding of dark matter, gravitational waves, and exoplanetary systems. I want to help answer some of the universe’s biggest questions while paving the way for a more inclusive scientific community. Ambition, drive, and passion define my journey. I will not only push the boundaries of astrophysics but also help ensure that the next generation of scientists sees a more diverse and supportive field. Julie Adams dedicated her life to inspiring young women in STEM. To receive a scholarship in her name would be an honor and a responsibility, one that I would carry with me as I continue my journey in astrophysics. My passion is not just about the science itself but about making space for others who, like me, once looked up at the stars and saw endless possibilities.

Growing up autistic, I experienced the world in a way that often felt out of sync with those around me. Until sixth grade, I was homeschooled, where I thrived. But when I transitioned to public school, I lacked the social instincts that others seemed to develop naturally, making me an easy target. The bullying began immediately, relentless and cruel. It was more than just teasing. It was a deliberate attempt to shame me. At first, the bullying was just in school hallways, but soon, it followed me home. Anonymous accounts on Instagram and Snapchat posted pictures of me, mocking my clothes, my voice, and my mannerisms. Over time, it escalated into something far darker. My peers flooded my posts with hateful comments, telling me I was worthless, that I deserved to be abused, that I should not exist. The worst betrayal came when private photos from sleepovers were leaked. Innocent moments when I was in my undergarments or unclothed while sleeping were stolen and shared online to humiliate me. What had once been safe spaces became sources of fear. I felt hunted, dehumanized, and trapped in a world that no longer felt livable. For years, I struggled with self-harm and suicidal thoughts, unable to escape the torment that followed me everywhere. Yet, as much as the pain threatened to consume me, I refused to let it define me. Instead, I found strength in purpose. I turned my experiences into motivation, working to protect others from enduring what I had. I began by educating my younger cousins on how to stay safe online. I teach them to block bullies, recognize online dangers, and always seek help from a trusted adult. I stress to them that they are never alone, that no matter what is said to them, they have worth beyond measure. Beyond my family, I have worked to create safer spaces within my community. Volunteering at Trinity Place Homeless Shelter showed me the power of dignity and kindness in restoring hope to those who have been cast aside. After Hurricane Helene, I coordinated food distribution and provided assistance to elderly neighbors, ensuring they had access to necessities. I support anti-bullying initiatives, both in person and online, making sure that young people know they have a right to exist without fear. Every child deserves protection, and I am determined to be part of that fight. My financial need is significant. Getting into Rutgers felt like an impossible dream, especially with the acceptance rate dropping to thirty-four percent this year. Now that I have this opportunity, I face the overwhelming challenge of affording nearly sixty thousand dollars in annual tuition. My family's struggles with housing insecurity, made worse by losing our home after Hurricane Helene, have left me entirely responsible for funding my education. Despite these obstacles, I refuse to let finances stand in the way of my future. I am committed to becoming an astrophysicist, no matter how steep the climb. Ambition, resilience, and impact define who I am. The hardships I have faced- bullying, homelessness, and financial uncertainty do not define me, but they have shaped me into someone who will never stand by while others suffer. I will continue fighting for safer spaces, understanding, and dignity for those who need it most. This scholarship would not only help ease the financial burden I carry but would also reaffirm that perseverance and kindness can triumph over cruelty. With your support, I can turn my pain into purpose. No child should feel the loneliness and fear I once felt. Together, we can make the internet a tool for empowerment, not destruction.

Helping others is not just something I value. It is the foundation of who I am. My passion for service comes from lived experience. I know what it's like to be unseen, to reach out for help and wonder if anyone will answer. From ages fourteen to sixteen, I lived at Trinity Place Homeless Shelter and was in and out of the juvenile justice system. I experienced firsthand the struggles of instability and the lack of dignity many homeless individuals endure. But those experiences also gave me purpose, a drive to ensure that no one around me feels as invisible as I once did. Returning to Trinity Place as a volunteer was one of the most meaningful moments of my life. I was no longer just surviving. I was giving back to those walking the same path I once had. I coordinated funds and donations, ensuring the youth at the shelter had access to essentials, clothing, and small luxuries. I knew how much a simple gesture could restore dignity. More than just providing resources, I wanted to remind them they were seen and valued while also inspiring them to help others in their own ways. After Hurricane Helene devastated my home, I faced loss all over again. My home was condemned due to severe flood contamination, forcing me to relocate. Yet even then, my focus remained on others. I coordinated food distribution for elderly neighbors who could not leave their homes, ensuring they had meals when resources were scarce. I also helped with essential tasks such as flushing toilets where plumbing had failed and cleaning where I could. Even in the wake of disaster, I held onto the belief that no one should feel abandoned. I hoped to ease their burden while also encouraging a sense of community, showing that small acts of kindness can create a ripple effect. My commitment to service extends into education. As a peer tutor, I have worked with students facing academic challenges, many struggling with circumstances beyond their control. I understand what it feels like to have the odds stacked against you, but I also know how much guidance and encouragement can make a difference. Tutoring has never been just about academics. It has been about helping others believe in their potential, just as I have fought to do in my own life. My goal has always been to create a cycle of support and empowerment, so those I help feel encouraged to lift others up as well. Despite the obstacles I have faced, I have remained committed to my education, maintaining strong academic performance while balancing my responsibilities to others. Now I am transferring to Montclair University to complete my bachelor's degree in physics with a concentration in astronomy, followed by a master's degree in applied mathematics. My goal is to become an astrophysicist, a dream I have clung to even in my most difficult moments. However, pursuing this ambition comes with challenges. I am entirely responsible for funding my education, and this scholarship would provide critical support in helping me continue on this path. This scholarship is more than financial assistance. It is an opportunity to continue uplifting others and to prove that success is not just about personal achievement but about empowering those around you. My experiences have taught me that resilience isn't just about enduring hardship but about transforming adversity into purpose. I hope that those I have helped, whether through food distribution, tutoring, or community service, are inspired to create change in their own ways. No matter where life takes me, I will always carry this commitment with me.

Last summer, I woke up exhausted after cramming for my summer courses. I felt the crust in my eyes before opening them. Taking extra classes seemed like a good idea, but at that moment, I just wanted to go back to sleep. I grabbed my phone, shut off my alarm, and opened Instagram like I did every morning. That was when I saw the message from Ethan’s girlfriend. "I am so sorry to tell you this. Ethan overdosed last night." I stared at the screen, rereading the words, confused. I was in shock. I even asked if she was joking. I have been through hard things, homelessness, eating disorders, and my own addiction that nearly destroyed my relationships with everyone around me. But those were things I could blame myself for. Ethan’s death was different. There was no one to blame, and nothing I could do to change it. I met Ethan in eighth grade. He had been held back a year, and I was the nerdy autistic girl who struggled to make friends. Because of my autism and his ADHD, we were sat together at a smaller table in the corner of the room to help us focus. Middle school was cruel to me, but Ethan never was. He made school feel less lonely. We reconnected in high school, but by then, both of our lives had taken a turn. Addiction snuck into both of us. At first, it was a way to cope, to escape from the instability, but it quickly became something neither of us could control. We both told ourselves the same lie, that we had it under control, that we could stop whenever we wanted. I got clean, and he told everyone he had too. I believed him. After Ethan died, I kept asking myself the same questions. What if I had paid more attention? Would I have noticed the signs? Could I have stopped it? I was so overwhelmed with school, so busy trying to rebuild my own future, that I barely had time to hang out. I told myself we would catch up later, when things calmed down, when I had more time. But later never came. Losing Ethan changed everything. It made me realize that addiction is not something you outrun. It is always there, waiting for a moment of weakness. His death made me question everything, why did I make it out when he didn’t? How many second chances do we really get? And if I was so sure I was in control, what made me any different from him? For a while, I was afraid. I thought about how easily my story could have ended the same way. But Ethan never got the chance to rebuild his life, I still have mine. I still have the opportunity to make something of myself, to push forward, and to prove that our stories do not have to end in tragedy. This fall, I will graduate with both my high school diploma and my associate’s degree, something I never thought I would accomplish. I have been accepted to Montclair State University, where I will earn a Bachelor’s in Physics with a concentration in Astronomy and an accelerated Master’s in Applied Mathematics. Addiction has shaped my life, my relationships, my struggles, and how I see the world. But it does not define me. I refuse to let my story end like Ethan’s did. Instead, I will use it to show others that no matter how far you fall, there is always a way back.

My name is Nyah Slattery, and I am a first-generation college student, an autistic woman in STEM, and an aspiring astrophysicist. I come from a mixed Caribbean family and have always been drawn to creativity and discovery. Whether painting, designing fashion, getting lost in video games, or staring at the night sky, I have always loved exploring new ideas. I started as a fine arts major because creating has always been part of who I am, but I realized that my love for science was just as strong. To me, physics and art are not opposites. Both are ways of understanding and imagining the world, and I have never been someone who fits into just one box. As a first-generation college student, I have had to navigate higher education without a guide. No one in my family could explain how to apply for college, secure financial aid, or plan for a career in science. Every decision and opportunity, I had to seek out myself. But I refused to let the lack of guidance hold me back. This spring, I will graduate with an Associate’s in Science, a milestone that once felt impossible. Then, Hurricane Helene turned my world upside down. Before the storm, I balanced full-time work with school, pushing through exhaustion because I knew what was at stake. But when Helene hit, I lost my job, my home was damaged, and suddenly, my future felt uncertain. The financial strain has been overwhelming, and the damage to my home has made it impossible to stay. This fall, I will be relocating to New Jersey to rebuild and continue my education. At Montclair State University, I will continue my undergraduate studies with my Bachelor’s in Physics with a Concentration in Astronomy and my Master’s in Applied Mathematics through an accelerated dual-degree program. Choosing Montclair was about securing the best education in the most efficient and financially responsible way. The total tuition for both degrees is $42,000 a year, a significant investment, but one that saves me money in the long run by allowing me to complete my master’s at a reduced cost. While this program makes financial sense, it is still a major challenge, and I cannot afford it on my own. With no financial support from my family, I have worked multiple jobs since I was 15 to fund my education, often balancing full-time work with full-time school. The Sikora Drake Women in STEM Scholarship is more than just financial assistance. It is the opportunity to continue my education without the constant fear of whether I can afford it. This scholarship would ease that burden, allowing me to focus on my studies, research, and the impact I want to make. My dream is to earn a Ph.D. in astrophysics, not just to study the universe but to help change the landscape of STEM. As a neurodivergent woman, I know what it feels like to be in spaces that were not built for people like me. I want to change that. I want to create opportunities for young women and neurodivergent students who dream of pursuing science but feel like they do not belong. For me, science is not just about equations or theories. It is about resilience and proving that no matter where you come from or what challenges you face, you can carve out a place for yourself in the world. The Sikora Drake Women in STEM Scholarship would not just help me reach my goals. It would allow me to create space for others to do the same.

Becoming an astrophysicist specializing in black holes and dark matter is my ultimate goal. I plan to focus my research at Montclair University on gravitational waves and the LIGO (Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory) project to better understand how black holes interact and how gravitational waves ripple through spacetime. To achieve this goal, I need to secure funding for my education and gain hands-on experience in astrophysics research. My financial strategy is well-structured, allowing me to meet the costs through scholarships, personal contributions, and strategic budgeting. The cost of attendance at Montclair University is $47,000 per year after my merit scholarship. I have already been awarded the $5,000 Presidential Scholarship, which provides me with access to alumni, first-priority internships, and exclusive STEM networking events. These opportunities will allow me to connect with professionals in astrophysics, apply for competitive research positions, and build relationships with mentors in the field. In addition, I have been approved for $5,500 in federal loans and will contribute $5,000 per year from my personal income and savings. This leaves $31,500 per year that I need to cover through scholarships and grants. To meet this goal, I am actively applying for scholarships through platforms such as Scholarships.com, Scholarships360, Bold.org, Going Merry, as well as local scholarships. My goal is to earn at least 30 $1000 scholarships every year to cover tuition. I have already won a scholarship that covered my deposit, with additional funds left over, and I will continue securing funding through persistent applications. To improve my finances, I plan to work part-time as a tutor in mathematics and physics, which will not only provide a source of income but also reinforce my own knowledge. I am also exploring undergraduate research assistant positions that offer stipends, particularly in Montclair’s gravitational wave research programs. I am also very resourceful and can always find a side hustle! Beyond finances, I am taking deliberate steps to gain expertise in astrophysics. Montclair University is involved in gravitational wave research, with faculty contributing to LIGO and related projects. I plan to join a research team analyzing gravitational wave data, using mathematical models to study black hole mergers and neutron star collisions. Engaging in undergraduate research will allow me to contribute to cutting-edge discoveries, gain experience with advanced computational techniques, and collaborate with faculty working on real-world astrophysical problems. I also intend to apply for summer internships at NASA, the National Science Foundation (NSF), or private aerospace companies to gain hands-on experience in astrophysics and data analysis. Through my Presidential Scholarship benefits, I will have first-priority access to internship placements and exclusive networking events, allowing me to build connections and gain mentorship from leading experts in my field. Additionally, I will present my research at academic conferences, enhancing my credibility and positioning myself for future opportunities in graduate programs and research institutions. Long-term, I plan to pursue a Ph.D. in astrophysics and work in gravitational wave research, either at a major research institution, a government agency like NASA, or a collaborative project like LIGO. By studying gravitational waves, I hope to deepen our understanding of black holes, dark matter, and the structure of spacetime, while also contributing to technological advancements in precision measurement and quantum physics. Through scholarships, personal earnings, research opportunities, and strategic networking, and with your help, I can ensure that financial barriers do not stand in the way of my aspirations. With careful planning, persistence, and dedication, I am confident that I will not only complete my degrees but also contribute meaningful advancements to the field of astrophysics.

Last week, I walked into Neverland Café in North Miami Beach, feeling like I had nothing left to give. Miami was once a place where my queer siblings and I could be ourselves without fear. Where Pride flags waved freely, and where the LGBTQIA+ community had carved out spaces of celebration and resilience. But over the last few years, Miami has changed. Hate crimes are on the rise, queer spaces feel less safe, and policies targeting trans and nonbinary people have gained traction. I had just spent the weekend helping with my cousin's baby shower, surrounded by people who love me in theory but do not accept all of me. In many immigrant communities, queerness is often seen as something that must be hidden or outgrown. My family is no different. Throughout the weekend, I heard anti-queer comments, casual dismissals of my two trans siblings' and my identities, and unspoken reminders I had shown up for my family, but they had never once shown up for me. By the time the weekend ended, I felt completely drained knowing these same people had voted for leaders who want to erase me and my siblings. I needed to be somewhere that did not make me feel small. So I walked into Neverland Café. I met Johnny Mimosa, a cashier who radiated confidence in a way that was almost defiant. He was effortlessly, unapologetically himself, chatting with customers, laughing loudly, and taking up space without hesitation. In a city that felt more hostile by the day, he was fierce. He took my order like it was any other day. He did not tone himself down, did not shrink, did not visibly carry the exhaustion that had settled into my bones. He was living proof that queer joy still exists, even in the face of adversity. I sat down across from my mom. She saw the way I slumped over my plate, the way I barely touched my food. I exhaled. “It just feels like it’s getting worse.” She nodded, letting me sit with that feeling before saying something that cut through the tension. “This is what they want, they want you tired,” she said. “They want you so drained, so broken down, that you stop fighting.” I turned my head, watching Johnny Mimosa behind the counter, still existing. He was not small. He was not shrinking. He was not giving them what they wanted. And this is not the first time they have tried to erase us. My queer predecessors had fought harder battles. They fought through Stonewall, through the AIDS crisis, through laws that criminalized their existence. They did not give up. They paved the way for me to stand where I am now. I left Neverland Café that night different than when I walked in. Since that night, I have thrown myself back into activism with a renewed sense of purpose. I continue to advocate for neurodivergent LGBTQIA+ students in STEM, ensuring that queer, autistic people like me have a place in scientific fields. I refuse to be silent when trans lives are under attack, because silence is what they want, and I refuse to give it to them. I give back to my community through mutual aid, just as my community has lifted me when I needed it most. That night, my mom reminded me of something I had almost forgotten: They will never stop trying to erase us. But as long as we refuse to disappear, they cannot win. We are still here. We have always been here. And as long as I am standing, I will keep fighting.

The first time I truly connected with the world was by looking beyond it. The night sky was vast, filled with infinite possibilities, yet it made me feel safe. Space did not demand small talk or expect me to change who I was to fit in. It simply existed, patient and full of mysteries waiting to be explored. Growing up autistic, the world often felt overwhelming. Conversations were confusing, and I struggled to find where I belonged. Doctors and teachers warned my mother that I would struggle, that my autism would limit what I could do. I heard the whispers too. Words like “incapable” and “not meant for big things” followed me, quietly shaping the way people saw me before I ever had the chance to prove myself. But space did not judge me. While the world around me was loud and demanding, space was patient. I lived in books about planets, black holes, and time itself. The more I learned, the more I realized that science was about more than just understanding the universe. It was about questioning the limits of under At fourteen, I was sent to Trinity Place Teen Homeless Shelter in Asheville. Everything familiar, stability, privacy, the comfort of knowing what tomorrow would bring, was gone. The world had always felt unpredictable, but in the shelter, that uncertainty became my reality. For a kid who relied on structure to feel safe, it was terrifying. The constant movement between places, the lack of control, and the feeling of being invisible wore on me. I read physics textbooks whenever I could, finding comfort in the idea that the universe followed laws. Even in chaos, there was order. No matter where I was, the stars remained constant. If they could shine in the darkness, then so could I. After leaving the shelter, I made a promise to give back. I donated items to Trinity Place, things I had longed for when I was there, skateboards, makeup, and warm clothing. Small comforts that made me feel like a person rather than just a survivor. That promise became even stronger after Hurricane Helene displaced my family and many families in my community. Watching them lose everything reminded me how fragile stability can be. As a family, we volunteered to help those impacted, offering food and supplies to people who, like me, had suddenly found themselves without resources. The experience deepened my commitment to helping others, whether through direct support or my long-term goal of using science to make a difference. Now, I am attending Buncombe County Middle College, working toward my Associate’s in Science and preparing to graduate in Spring 2024. My love for physics and astronomy is not just about exploring the cosmos, it is about using science to improve life here on Earth. Space exploration has already led to advances in climate monitoring, medical imaging, and disaster response technology. I want to contribute to these innovations, using research to develop better climate models, sustainable energy solutions, and tools that help communities facing instability. Beyond research, I am committed to advocating for neurodivergent students in STEM. Too often, autistic individuals are overlooked despite their unique perspectives and problem-solving abilities. I want to change that. I hope to create a world where neurodivergent minds are valued and supported in scientific fields. Despite challenges, my family has supported me, and while I once stood under the night sky, wondering where I belonged. Now, I know. I belong among the dreamers, the problem-solvers, and the advocates. The universe is full of possibilities, and I am ready to find my place among the stars.

Growing up, I watched my single mother scrub toilets to afford our school uniforms. Despite our struggles, she always kept an open door for neighborhood kids, offering meals, a place to play, and even a shower if needed. Her generosity shaped my values and instilled in me the importance of giving back. From ages 14 to 16, I lived in Trinity Place Teen Homeless Shelter in Asheville due to domestic struggles. Those years were some of the hardest of my life. Moving between shelters, I didn’t have the stability of a home, a place to feel safe, rest, or dream. I lacked privacy, space, and access to many of the small comforts most people take for granted, like my own bed, a phone, or personal belongings. Each day was a reminder of how isolating and dehumanizing homelessness can feel, especially as a teenager. Living at Trinity Place taught me that homelessness is not just about lacking a roof over your head, it’s about the loss of dignity, security, and hope. Too often, homeless individuals are treated as invisible, but my experiences showed me how much compassion and support can mean to someone in that position. This understanding has fueled my passion for addressing homelessness as widespread issue. When I left the shelter, I worked full-time, sometimes at multiple jobs, while attending school full-time. As I rebuilt my life, I sought ways to give back to the community that once helped me. I started by donating items to Trinity Place that would have brought me comfort during my stay, like skateboards, makeup, and other small luxuries that reminded me of my individuality. Although Trinity Place has since closed due to funding, my commitment to helping the homeless community has only grown. Working downtown, I witness Asheville’s housing crisis every day. I’ve made it a personal mission to support those in need by providing food, hot coffee, bus passes for the heated buses, and warm clothing to the homeless individuals on Wall Street, where I work. These small acts of kindness help me give back in meaningful ways, offering a bit of relief during Asheville’s harsh winters where many homeless individuals pass away. After Hurricane Helene, I also volunteered and donated to assist those displaced by the storm. Seeing people lose their homes, like my own sister, reminded me how important stability is and reaffirmed my dedication to fostering empathy and connection in my community. As I continue my life, I carry with me the lessons I learned during my time at Trinity Place: the importance of kindness, the resilience of the human spirit, and the power of even the smallest acts of compassion. My experiences shaped my commitment to creating a world where no one feels invisible or unworthy of care.

When I was in second grade, my teacher asked the room of bright-eyed and runny-nosed 7-year-olds the cliché elementary question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Without hesitation, I raised my hand and answered, “I want to be a scientist.” That simple statement 12 years ago marked the beginning of my academic journey—a pursuit of knowledge that has shaped who I am today: a woman with an unshakable passion for STEM, a dream of exploring the cosmos, and a determination to break barriers in a male-dominated field. I have chosen to pursue STEM to explore some of the most elusive, unanswered questions in physics and uncover the solutions hidden within the data. How do neutrinos acquire their mysterious masses? Could supermassive black holes genuinely originate from seeds? Is Penrose right about the Big Crunch? These inquiries have expanded my curiosity beyond the natural world into the fundamental nature of matter. After completing my Associate in Science this spring, I will enroll in Montclair State University’s dual-degree program, where I will earn a Bachelor’s in Physics with a Concentration in Astronomy and a Master’s in Applied Mathematics. This scholarship will help fund my education and make my dream of astronomical innovation a reality. My goal is to help piece together the puzzles that astronomers and physicists have yet to solve, fostering innovation and contributing to our understanding of the cosmos. I aim to answer the unknown while simultaneously revolutionizing technology and space communication through improved data analysis and extraterrestrial understanding. Equally important to me is creating meaningful change within the STEM field itself. As a disabled woman from Miami’s Southside ghettos, I understand the challenges of navigating spaces where representation is scarce. My experiences have fueled a passion for empowering others, especially young girls, disabled or not, who dream of entering STEM. While being on the spectrum often made it hard to exist in a world that seemed to understand black holes more than it did me, it has also been one of my greatest strengths. I want to show young girls that the obstacles we face do not define our potential, and inspire the next generation to pursue their dreams fearlessly. Today, I contribute to this goal by fostering online academic conversations and communities. With your support, tomorrow I can help develop and lead outreach programs that empower young girls, especially those in underserved and disabled communities, to explore and pursue STEM fields. STEM is not just my passion; it is my purpose. With the help of this scholarship, I believe I can bridge gaps in our understanding of the universe, foster technological innovation, and help build a more diverse and equitable scientific community. By representing underserved voices, I hope to help reshape the future of astronomy and STEM, proving that innovation flourishes when driven by diverse perspectives.