Education is important to me because it represents freedom, stability, and the ability to rewrite a story that was written for me before I ever had a choice. Growing up, education was not emphasized or modeled in my household. Both my mother and father dropped out of school in the ninth grade, and as a result, generational patterns of instability, limited opportunity, and survival thinking continued. I became the first person in my family to graduate high school and attend college, not because the path was clear, but because I refused to accept that my circumstances defined my future. For much of my life, I learned early that nothing was guaranteed. I did not grow up with consistent guidance, financial security, or emotional safety. Education became the one thing I could control when everything else felt uncertain. School gave me structure when my life felt chaotic and gave me a vision of something greater than what I was surrounded by. Every assignment completed and every milestone reached felt like an act of defiance against the limitations placed on me. Being a first-generation student carries both pride and pressure. I navigated the education system without parental guidance, often figuring things out on my own. Despite the challenges, earning my high school diploma was a powerful moment for me. It was proof that I had already broken a cycle that existed long before I was born. Attending college is my way of continuing that work and honoring the perseverance it took to get here. Education matters to me because it allows me to break generational curses. I am determined to change the direction of my family’s future and create a new foundation built on opportunity, knowledge, and self-worth. I want my children to grow up seeing education as a natural expectation, not an unreachable dream. I want them to know that their possibilities are not limited by where they come from. The legacy I hope to leave is one of transformation and empowerment. I want to show other women, especially Black women, that just because you come from a messed up environment does not determine who you are called to be or what you are qualified to become. Too often, society defines people by their trauma instead of their potential. I want my journey to stand as proof that resilience, determination, and education can interrupt even the deepest cycles of hardship. Through education, I hope to advocate, uplift, and create change for those who feel unseen or underestimated. My lived experiences have given me empathy and strength, but education gives me the tools to make a lasting impact. Whether through my career, mentorship, or community involvement, I want to be someone who opens doors and reminds others that their past does not disqualify them from a meaningful future. Ultimately, education is important to me because it represents choice. It allows me to define my own identity instead of inheriting one shaped by struggle alone. The legacy I hope to leave is not just a degree, but a new standard for my family and my community. I want to be remembered as someone who broke the cycle, changed the narrative, and proved that purpose can rise from even the most difficult beginnings. Education gave me the language to understand my worth and the confidence to stand firm in who I am becoming. Each step forward reminds me that progress is possible, even when the odds are high. I carry this commitment with pride, knowing my success is connected to the hope, healing, and possibilities I aim to pass forward.

My experience in foster care began at sixteen years old, on February 18. At that age, I was old enough to understand what was happening, but still young enough for it to completely change my world. I was placed into foster care after my mother told the state that she did not want me. Just two weeks later, on March 2, my mother passed away. Losing my mother so soon after being removed from her care left me with grief, confusion, and a deep sense of abandonment that I did not yet have the words to explain. Once I entered foster care, stability was never guaranteed. I experienced frequent house hopping, moving from place to place without knowing how long I would be allowed to stay. Each move meant adjusting to new rules, new people, and new environments, often without warning. It was exhausting and emotionally draining. I struggled to trust adults or believe that I was truly wanted anywhere. Every time I started to feel comfortable, I was reminded that nothing was permanent. Living in foster homes forced me to grow up quickly. I had to learn how to advocate for myself, navigate systems that felt cold and impersonal, and survive emotionally while still trying to be a teenager. One of the hardest challenges was trying to believe that I was deserving of love and care. Being placed into foster care because my own parent said she did not want me deeply affected my self-worth, and it took years to unlearn the belief that I was disposable. At eighteen, I aged out of foster care with no permanent home or safety net. Instead of stability, I experienced homelessness and found myself living in motels while still attending high school. At one point, I lived with an abusive alcoholic who physically beat me. Despite the danger and fear I faced daily, I continued to show up to school, determined to graduate. Balancing survival with education was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I often completed assignments while exhausted, emotionally overwhelmed, and unsure where I would sleep next. Pursuing my education has been a constant challenge due to instability, trauma, and lack of support. Unlike many students, I did not have parents to guide me, provide financial help, or offer emotional encouragement. Everything I have achieved has required resilience, determination, and self-motivation. Education became my escape and my hope—a way to imagine a future beyond survival. Furthering my education will allow me to break the cycle of instability that defined my childhood and adolescence. It will give me the tools to build a secure, independent life and to help others who have experienced trauma, foster care, or abandonment. My experiences have given me empathy, strength, and perspective that cannot be taught in a classroom, but education will allow me to turn that lived experience into purpose and impact. Despite everything I have endured, I am still standing, still learning, and still striving for a better future. This scholarship would not only support my academic goals but also affirm that my story, resilience, and determination matter. I am committed to using my education to create a life rooted in stability, self-worth, and service to others.

I decided social work was the most ideal path for me because I know what it feels like to fall through the cracks and still have to keep moving like everything is fine. I entered foster care at 16, the same year my mom died. Overnight, life became paperwork, placements, new rules, and trying to act “okay” when I was grieving and scared. I didn’t have parents or steady guidance, and I had to learn how to navigate systems that were supposed to help me—but often felt cold, confusing, and inconsistent. When I aged out at 18, I became homeless, and that taught me something I’ll never forget: people don’t just need motivation. They need resources, stability, and someone who will actually show up and stay consistent. At first, my reason for choosing social work was personal and simple: I wanted to be the person I needed back then. I imagined social work as mainly helping individuals one-on-one—being the supportive adult, the listener, the advocate. Since starting the program, that idea has shifted and matured. I still want to support people directly, but now I understand how much the “bigger picture” matters. Social work isn’t only about caring; it’s about understanding trauma, knowing ethics, building plans that are realistic, and learning how systems like housing, schools, healthcare, and child welfare can either protect people or push them further down. I’m majoring in psychology and minoring in social work because I want both sides: the “why” behind behavior and emotions, and the practical tools to connect people to real help. The more I learn, the more I realize good intentions aren’t enough—you need skills, structure, and persistence to make change. The community I plan to help most is youth who are in foster care, aging out, or already dealing with homelessness—especially teens who are grieving, alone, or trying to survive without a stable support system. I want to help them before they reach the point where everything collapses. That means helping with housing resources, job and school support, mental health services, transportation, food access, and life skills—basic things that can decide whether someone stays on track or gets pulled into survival mode. I also want to support young people who feel invisible in systems, the ones who get labeled as “difficult” when they’re really just hurt and trying to protect themselves. In terms of capacity, I see myself working directly with clients in a case management or youth advocacy role first, then continuing toward a career where I can provide trauma-informed support long-term. I also want to give back outside of my job: mentoring youth who are aging out, volunteering with local shelters or transitional living programs, and eventually creating or supporting programs that offer emergency assistance, hygiene supplies, interview clothes, and guidance for college or job applications. Most importantly, I want to be consistent—because consistency is what I needed most. I can’t change my past, but I can use it to make sure someone else doesn’t have to face the hardest parts of life alone.

Scholarship Essay: How My Mother’s Passing Shaped Me On March 3, 2022, my world changed forever. I was only 16 when my mother passed away, and her death left a hole in my life that I’m still learning how to live with. We didn’t have the perfect mother-daughter relationship. In fact, I spent most of my childhood yearning for a bond that never fully formed. But she was still my mother, and losing her felt like losing a part of myself. The hardest part is the last memory I have of her. She asked me for a hug and a kiss, and I said no. We had just argued, and I was still upset. I didn’t know that would be the last time I’d ever see her. I’ve carried that moment with me for years—blaming myself, wishing I could take it back, just to say “I love you” one more time. That regret has shaped me in ways I never expected. It taught me how fragile life is, how important forgiveness is, and how deeply words and actions matter. Her passing came just a month before I entered foster care. I was already dealing with abandonment, instability, and trauma, and losing my mother added another layer of pain. I didn’t get to have her by my side during high school. No prom together. No birthdays. No one to help me fill out college applications or celebrate my wins. I had to figure things out on my own, and that forced me to grow up fast. Now I’m 20 years old, and I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I’m a psychology major at Delaware State University, and I’m working toward becoming a clinical psychologist. I want to help others heal from trauma because I know what it feels like to carry pain that no one sees. My mother’s death didn’t just break me—it built me. It gave me a deeper understanding of grief, regret, and resilience. It taught me how to show up for others with compassion and patience. Her absence has made me more intentional. I don’t take relationships for granted. I speak love when I feel it. I forgive faster. I listen deeper. And I’ve made it my mission to create spaces where people feel safe to be vulnerable, to heal, and to grow. This scholarship would mean so much to me. Without family financial support, every expense falls on me. Winning this scholarship would help me stay focused on my education and begin saving for my future goals. I plan to open a transitional home called The Shepherd’s Children—a safe space for girls aging out of foster care. It will be a place of healing, structure, and love. A place that says, “You matter. You’re not alone.” I want to build what I never had. My mother’s passing shaped me into someone who fights for others. Someone who turns pain into purpose. Someone who believes that even in the darkest moments, there’s still light to be found. I carry her memory with me—not just in sadness, but in strength. And I’m determined to make her proud.

Being the first in my family to graduate high school and attend college is more than a milestone—it’s a mission. I carry the hopes of those who came before me and the responsibility to break cycles of trauma, poverty, and silence. My journey hasn’t been easy. I’ve faced abandonment, foster care, homelessness, and deep mental health struggles. But each challenge has shaped my purpose and fueled my passion for healing. As a psychology major, my goal is to earn a doctorate in clinical psychology and open my own practice. I want to specialize in trauma-informed care, especially for youth and women who feel unseen. My experiences have taught me what it means to suffer in silence, and I’m determined to be the kind of therapist who listens, understands, and empowers. Being a first-generation college student influences my career goals by reminding me that I’m paving a new path—not just for myself, but for others like me. I know what it’s like to feel lost, and I want to help others find their way. I also plan to open a transitional home called The Shepherd’s Children, a safe space for girls aging out of foster care. It will be a place of healing, structure, and love—everything I needed when I was younger. This scholarship would help me stay focused on my education and begin saving for my future goals. Without family financial support, every expense falls on me. Receiving this scholarship would be a step toward stability and a jumpstart toward building the legacy I envision. I’m not just chasing a career—I’m building a future rooted in purpose, compassion, and change. Being a first-generation student means I get to rewrite the story, and I’m doing it with intention and heart.

I am the first in my family to graduate from high school and the first to attend college. That sentence alone carries weight, because the road here was not easy. I’ve endured trauma that shaped me, challenged me, and ultimately pushed me to become someone who refuses to give up. My past is painful, but my future is full of purpose—and I’m determined to build something that not only heals me, but helps others heal too. I didn’t grow up with stability. I experienced abandonment throughout my life. At 13, I was raped. At 14, I was moved to a different state to live with my aunts, but after two years, they no longer wanted me. They dropped me off in Delaware with rocks in my duffle bag and left me there. That moment shattered my sense of safety. I turned to drinking and smoking to cope. I was depressed, angry, and lost. I went through multiple mental institutions and residential homes. At 16, I entered foster care. A month later, my mother passed away. That loss deepened my depression and triggered intense anxiety and bipolar episodes. I was homeless at 18. At 19, I was in an abusive relationship—physically and mentally. But I’m still here. I’m now a psychology major at Delaware State University, working toward my dream of becoming a clinical psychologist. My goal is to earn my doctorate and open my own practice where I can provide trauma-informed care to people who feel like no one understands them. I want to specialize in helping youth, especially those in foster care, because I know what it feels like to be tossed around, unheard, and unseen. I want to be the kind of therapist who listens deeply, who sees the whole person, and who helps others find their strength again. Beyond my private practice, I have a bigger dream: to open a transitional home called The Shepherd’s Children. This home will serve young girls and women in foster care who are about to age out or who are still navigating the system. It will be a safe space filled with love, structure, and healing. I want it to be the kind of place I needed when I was younger—a place that says, “You matter. You’re not alone. You have a future.” The Bright Lights Scholarship would be a huge help in making these dreams possible. As someone who doesn’t have financial support from family, every expense falls on me. This scholarship would help me cover the costs of tuition, books, and living essentials so I can stay focused on my education. It would also allow me to begin saving for my future goals—especially for the transitional home I plan to build. This scholarship isn’t just money to me; it’s a jumpstart toward a future that’s bigger than me. It’s an investment in someone who’s determined to turn pain into purpose. I’ve come a long way, and I still have a long way to go. But I’m committed to the journey. I’m committed to becoming a psychologist who brings light into dark places. I’m committed to building The Shepherd’s Children and creating a legacy of healing and hope. I’m committed to showing other young women that your past doesn’t define your future—and that you can rise, even when everything around you tells you to fall. Thank you for considering me for the Bright Lights Scholarship. I promise to carry this opportunity with honor, and to use it to shine light for others who are still finding their way

Mental Health Scholarship Essay I didn’t have a great childhood. I experienced abandonment, instability, and trauma from a young age. At 13, I was raped. At 14, I was moved to a different state to live with my aunts, but after about two years, they no longer wanted me. They dropped me off in Delaware with rocks in my duffle bag and left me there. That moment broke something in me. I felt discarded, like I didn’t matter. I started drinking and smoking to cope. I was depressed, angry, and lost. I went through multiple mental institutions and residential homes. At 16, I entered foster care. A month later, my mother passed away. That loss deepened my depression and triggered intense anxiety and bipolar episodes. I was homeless at 18. At 19, I was in an abusive relationship—physically and mentally. I’ve seen the darkest parts of life. But I’m still here. I’ve battled depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder for years. I’ve had moments where I didn’t think I’d make it. But I’ve learned how to fight for myself. I’ve learned how to sit with my pain, how to ask for help, and how to keep going. I’ve learned how to turn my story into strength. Now, I’m a psychology major at Delaware State University. I chose this path because I want to understand the mind, the pain, and the healing process—not just for myself, but for others. I’ve lived through trauma, and I know what it feels like to be invisible, unheard, and misunderstood. I also know what it takes to fight your way back. I’m still healing. I still have hard days. But I’ve grown into someone who can look back and say, “I made it through.” I’ve found ways to cope that don’t involve hurting myself. I’ve found peace in my faith, in writing poetry, and in helping others. Moving forward, I will support others by creating safe spaces for honest conversations. I plan to lead peer support groups, speak at youth events, and use my poetry and spoken word to raise awareness about mental health. I want to help people name what they’re going through and know they’re not alone. I want to be the person I needed when I was younger. I also want to advocate for better mental health resources, especially for youth in foster care and underserved communities. I know what it’s like to be placed in a system that doesn’t always see your pain. I want to change that. I want to use my education, my voice, and my lived experience to push for more compassion, more understanding, and more support. My mission is to break the stigma around mental health, especially in communities where silence is the norm. I want to help others feel safe enough to speak up, to ask for help, and to believe in their own healing. I want to show people that your past doesn’t define your future. I didn’t choose my pain, but I choose to use it—for healing, for hope, and for others who are still finding their way. I’m committed to being a light in dark places, and to reminding people that even when life feels impossible, there is still a reason to keep going.