My family couldn’t be seen as anything other than nuclear. I have two married parents, a younger sister, and a supportive extended family. Other than a long history of mental health issues and substance abuse, my family hasn’t had many disputes. When I was younger, my dad struggled with depression, chronic back pain, and unmedicated ADHD, so he self-medicated with alcohol. It once got so bad that he left the house for 5 months, going to rehab and reinventing himself. Thankfully, my mom carried most of the emotional weight, and I was too young to understand the weight of our situation. Eventually, he moved back in, recovered from alcoholism, and sobered up for more than a decade. I was often labeled as a sensitive, overanalyzing kid, but it was not until I faced the challenge of driver’s ed that I began to understand the full scope of my anxiety. After an instructor gently suggested, ‘Maybe driving isn’t for you,’ I found myself shaking, unable to breathe, and envisioning worst-case scenarios. Sitting on the curb, feeling like a failure, I told my mom how driving triggered an overwhelming panic. This led me to therapy, where I was diagnosed with anxiety and began learning to manage it. After coping and understanding my anxiety, my memory lapses, loose focus, and poor listening skills seemed more prominent and challenging to manage. Later, I learned that these traits described inattentive ADHD, which I was then diagnosed with after my psychiatrist’s evaluation. Thankfully, I had a strong support system, including my mom, who was with me every step of the way. Through my journey with anxiety and ADHD, I gained a new perspective on mental health that strengthened my bond with my dad and helped me empathize with others facing similar challenges. The resilience I developed deepened my understanding of the importance of support and self-acceptance, especially for those who may feel different. My journey with mental health not only brought me closer to my dad but also helped me develop empathy for others facing similar challenges. These mental health challenges, along with my passion for art, have become the foundation of my commitment to creating a space where others feel seen and understood. As a child, I coped with stories. After reading my favorites, I would ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day because I couldn’t get enough of those stories. Being around children at home and in my work environment has deepened my understanding of how storytelling and creativity can shape young minds. As much as I loved fairytales, they were missing something important—someone like me. No princesses fell in love with each other, which left me feeling like my own love was something to hide. This gap shaped my mission as an artist: to create stories where all children, regardless of who they are, feel seen and celebrated. Being queer in a conservative state like Nebraska is like walking a tightrope, constantly balancing between staying true to myself and avoiding backlash from parents. Growing up, I realized that my queerness, body, and mental health weren’t obstacles but facets of my identity worth embracing. This shift in perspective, along with the stories and sights around me, inspired me to celebrate life through art. I believe that storytelling can change lives, and through my art, I want to create a space where all children, no matter their background or struggles, can see their stories reflected. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible.

My family couldn’t be seen as anything other than nuclear. I have two married parents, a younger sister, and a supportive extended family. Other than a long history of mental health issues and substance abuse, my family hasn’t had many disputes. When I was younger, my dad struggled with depression, chronic back pain, and unmedicated ADHD, so he self-medicated with alcohol. It once got so bad that he left the house for 5 months, going to rehab and reinventing himself. Thankfully, my mom carried most of the emotional weight, and I was too young to understand the weight of our situation. Eventually, he moved back in, recovered from alcoholism, and sobered up for more than a decade. I was often labeled as a sensitive, overanalyzing kid, but it was not until I faced the challenge of driver’s ed that I began to understand the full scope of my anxiety. After an instructor gently suggested, ‘Maybe driving isn’t for you,’ I found myself shaking, unable to breathe, and envisioning worst-case scenarios. Sitting on the curb, feeling like a failure, I told my mom how driving triggered an overwhelming panic. This led me to therapy, where I was diagnosed with anxiety and began learning to manage it. After coping and understanding my anxiety, my memory lapses, loose focus, and poor listening skills seemed more prominent and challenging to manage. Later, I learned that these traits described inattentive ADHD, which I was then diagnosed with after my psychiatrist’s evaluation. Thankfully, I had a strong support system, including my mom, who was with me every step of the way. Through my journey with anxiety and ADHD, I gained a new perspective on mental health that strengthened my bond with my dad and helped me empathize with others facing similar challenges. The resilience I developed deepened my understanding of the importance of support and self-acceptance, especially for those who may feel different. My journey with mental health not only brought me closer to my dad but also helped me develop empathy for others facing similar challenges. These mental health challenges, along with my passion for art, have become the foundation of my commitment to creating a space where others feel seen and understood. As a child, I coped with stories. After reading my favorites, I would ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day because I couldn’t get enough of those stories. Being around children at home and in my work environment has deepened my understanding of how storytelling and creativity can shape young minds. As much as I loved fairytales, they were missing something important—someone like me. No princesses fell in love with each other, which left me feeling like my own love was something to hide. This gap shaped my mission as an artist: to create stories where all children, regardless of who they are, feel seen and celebrated. Being queer in a conservative state like Nebraska is like walking a tightrope, constantly balancing between staying true to myself and avoiding backlash from parents. Growing up, I realized that my queerness, body, and mental health weren’t obstacles but facets of my identity worth embracing. This shift in perspective, along with the stories and sights around me, inspired me to celebrate life through art. I believe that storytelling can change lives, and through my art, I want to create a space where all children, no matter their background or struggles, can see their stories reflected. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible.

Growing up, I was known as the perfect poster child: diligent, quiet, and never a distraction. Beneath the surface, I struggled with my memory and anxiety. My foggy memory was dismissed as forgetfulness, and my emotional reactions as a “sensitive” trait. It was not until high school that I understood these as signs of something deeper. I was often labeled as a sensitive, overanalyzing kid, but it was not until I faced the challenge of driver’s ed that I began to understand the full scope of my anxiety. After an instructor gently suggested, ‘Maybe driving isn’t for you,’ I found myself shaking, unable to breathe properly, and envisioning worst-case scenarios. Sitting on the curb, feeling like a failure, I told my mom how driving triggered an overwhelming panic. This led me to therapy, where I was diagnosed with anxiety and began learning to manage it. My journey of handling my mental health condition with treatment, support, and time not only helped me get my license a year later; it also taught me empathy. Now, I can relate to anyone who feels out of place or overwhelmed by things they cannot control, similar to how I struggled as a freshman and still navigate today. In my work at Falling Waters Kids Connection, an afterschool daycare, I draw on this empathy daily. When a first-grader named Hannah cried seven times on a zoo trip, the other staff grew frustrated, but I saw myself in her. Kneeling to her level, I talked her through her worries, understanding how to comfort her. This ability to connect with emotions will help me build trust and create art that resonates deeply with others. My memory lapses continued, making simple tasks challenging. Easily forgetting directions, names, or instructions made me feel like a burden on my family and friends, who often had to remind me of things. Thankfully, I had a strong support system of people around me to remind me and fix my careless mistakes. Soon after I fully coped and understood my anxiety, my memory and poor listening skills seemed more obvious issues and harder to manage. Later, I learned that these traits described inattentive ADHD, which I was then diagnosed with after my psychiatrist’s evaluation. Initially, I was in denial, but as I accepted this diagnosis, I began to see how my neurodivergent traits were integral to my identity as an artist and future illustrator. My ADHD fuels my creativity, ability to hyperfocus, and tendency to think out of the box, traits that are essential for creating art. I am completing projects more efficiently, and my love for visual storytelling has grown stronger through treatment. I aim to use these strengths to become a children’s book illustrator, using art to tell stories that reflect diverse, complex experiences, including those shaped by neurodivergence. I’m excited to pursue art at the University of Kansas, where I’ll continue developing my skills, resilience, and empathy. Understanding and embracing my neurodivergence has shaped me into a resilient, empathetic, and creative person. These traits, once obstacles, now empower me to connect deeply with others and find innovative solutions, especially in my work with children. My inattentive ADHD is not a limitation but a strength that pushes me to think innovatively, support those who feel out of place, and continue building resilience in the face of challenges. I am excited to contribute this perspective to my college community, using my creativity and empathy to foster understanding and inspire others to embrace their differences. In doing so, I know I’ll continue growing and making a meaningful impact.

From my earliest memories, fairytales sparked my imagination and left me wanting more. After reading favorites like “Puff the Magic Dragon,” I’d ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day. Yet as much as I loved these tales, I never saw heroes who cried like I did, forgot things easily, or fell in love with other princesses. Growing up, I realized that my queerness, body, and mental health weren’t obstacles, but facets of my identity worth embracing. This shift in perspective, along with the stories and sights around me, inspired me to celebrate life through art. I believe storytelling can change lives, and through my art, I want to create a space where all children, no matter their background or struggles, can see their stories reflected. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible. In freshman year, a scheduling glitch enrolled me in journalism, where the writing felt formulaic, and my paintbrushes turned into paragraphs. As I climbed the ranks to feature editor, even winning state journalism awards, I found news writing increasingly monotonous. The formula that once was seamless felt repetitive and unimaginative. My anxiety heightened, and searching for solace, I turned back to my favorite children’s books, realizing that a creative field better suited me. Taking up Mrs. Cassandra Stackis’s painting class in my junior year reignited my passion. Her detailed critiques and playful spirit taught me the joy of taking time on each piece. Alongside her student teacher, Mr. Kruse, whose gentle insights grounded me, I grew confident in my dream of becoming an illustrator. Their guidance shaped me as both an artist and a person, and I hope to carry their legacies with me into college. Sadly, Mrs. Stackis moved to Wyoming because of her husband’s work. The impact she has left on the school feels like she never left. Both experiences changed me as an artist and person, and I cannot wait to carry on their legacies and lessons into college. The field of illustration has a diverse yet limited job sphere. Most either enter the animation industry or are freelancers, and I’m opting to be a freelance illustrator because of the current struggling climate of the animation industry. While being a freelance illustrator might mean living paycheck to paycheck, I would rather be starving and fulfilled than wealthy and unfulfilled. Even with my supportive family and friends, I will live three hours away from home and might struggle with homesickness. My journey has taught me that true strength comes from embracing our unique stories, no matter how unconventional they seem. With the support of this scholarship, I’ll not only deepen my skills and grow as an artist but also continue creating spaces where all children can feel valued, represented, and inspired. Through my illustrations, I aim to remind children of their worth and the beauty of embracing who they truly are.

Growing up, I was known as the perfect poster child: diligent, quiet, and never a distraction. Beneath the surface, I struggled with my memory and anxiety. My foggy memory was dismissed as forgetfulness, and my emotional reactions as a “sensitive” trait. It was not until high school that I understood these as signs of something deeper. I was often labeled as a sensitive, overanalyzing kid, but it was not until I faced the challenge of driver’s ed that I began to understand the full scope of my anxiety. After an instructor gently suggested, ‘Maybe driving isn’t for you,’ I found myself shaking, unable to breathe properly, and envisioning worst-case scenarios. Sitting on the curb, feeling like a failure, I told my mom how driving triggered an overwhelming panic. This led me to therapy, where I was diagnosed with anxiety and began learning to manage it. My journey of handling my mental health condition with treatment, support, and time not only helped me get my license a year later; it also taught me empathy. Now, I can relate to anyone who feels out of place or overwhelmed by things they cannot control, similar to how I struggled as a freshman and still navigate today. In my work at Falling Waters Kids Connection, an afterschool daycare, I draw on this empathy daily. When a first-grader named Hannah cried seven times on a zoo trip, the other staff grew frustrated, but I saw myself in her. Kneeling to her level, I talked her through her worries, understanding how to comfort her. This ability to connect with emotions will help me build trust and create art that resonates deeply with others. My memory lapses continued, making simple tasks challenging. Easily forgetting directions, names, or instructions made me feel like a burden on my family and friends, who often had to remind me of things. Thankfully, I had a strong support system of people around me to remind me and fix my careless mistakes. Soon after I fully coped and understood my anxiety, my memory and poor listening skills seemed more obvious issues and harder to manage. Later, I learned that these traits described inattentive ADHD, which I was then diagnosed with after my psychiatrist’s evaluation. Initially, I was in denial, but as I accepted this diagnosis, I began to see how my neurodivergent traits were integral to my identity as an artist and future illustrator. My ADHD fuels my creativity, ability to hyperfocus, and tendency to think out of the box, traits that are essential for creating art. I am completing projects more efficiently, and my love for visual storytelling has grown stronger through treatment. I aim to use these strengths to become a children’s book illustrator, using art to tell stories that reflect diverse, complex experiences, including those shaped by neurodivergence. I’m excited to pursue art at the University of Kansas, where I’ll continue developing my skills, resilience, and empathy. Understanding and embracing my neurodivergence has shaped me into a resilient, empathetic, and creative person. These traits, once obstacles, now empower me to connect deeply with others and find innovative solutions, especially in my work with children. My inattentive ADHD is not a limitation but a strength that pushes me to think innovatively, support those who feel out of place, and continue building resilience in the face of challenges. I am excited to contribute this perspective to my college community, using my creativity and empathy to foster understanding and inspire others to embrace their differences. In doing so, I know I’ll continue growing and making a meaningful impact.

"How about this one?" Four words, a single question, changed my world. My mom asks as she holds up an intricately drawn picture book to my small, curious eyes. The eager three-foot me sprang onto her lap, entranced by her stories. It wasn't reading; it was an adventure. The dry, papery aroma of the pages, the soothing heat of my mother's arm, and the rhythmic sound of her voice brought vivid images to my imagination. It was as if being ushered into a world where fantasy was the order of the day, a place inhabited by fantastical beings and fanciful stories. As I matured, she guided me lovingly through the labyrinth of written words, learning to read the squiggly lines as I traced them with my finger. Still, my heart always gravitated toward the pictures. I liked how the illustrator brought abstract concepts down to earth with concrete, visual narratives. Their deeply textured scenes and figures, big round eyes, and energetic stance inspired my creative fire, leaving many crayoned walls and finger-paint catastrophes in its wake. Despite the mess of whatever masterpiece I'd created, my family and mother encouraged and applauded my artistic pursuit, framing my "interpretations" of their walls. They were the reasons I had the heart to continue to nurture my artistic career and eventually aspire to become a children's book illustrator. My art continued well into high school, a time of self-discovery and artistic growth. That is where I met my best friend, a soulmate. She was lively, and we had actually attended the same elementary school for years, but our paths never really crossed until then. We hit it off like a house on fire when I first conversed with her. We were both artists; she painted realism, creating life on canvas with meticulous attention to detail. I was drawn to a cartoony style, exaggerating features and emotions for expressive power. Moreover, my dearest friend had a wonderful passion for teaching, aspiring to be a high school art teacher as I was trying to make plans for my future. Despite our varying styles, we would spend hours brainstorming, sketching, and critiquing each other's work. It wasn't feedback for the sake of feedback; it was idea-bouncing, working off strengths and weaknesses, and learning through the process. When I messed up on a landscape sketch once, fading colors and detail lost, she leaned in behind me and said to make it more vibrant. "The details are getting lost in the muddiness," she said. With her help, I was much more pleased with the finished work, the landscape full of life. Without her comments, tests, and innovative ideas, my art would not be as successful as it is, and conversely. Art can never actually exist alone. Every work of media, every inspiring sight, and every telling story that I see inspires me. Each of these works has been crafted laboriously over centuries with the collaboration of ideas, mediums, or forms. This realization has solidified my understanding that collaboration is more than sharing ideas; it's about building a productive environment where all members feel valued and encouraged. I've learned to value opposing views and how each member brings something unique to a project. Hereafter, I hope to continue such collaborative efforts and create art that will inspire others just as I have been inspired. I aspire to be a part of the collaborative process of building the stories that inspire the next generation.

From my earliest memories, fairy tales sparked my imagination and left me wanting more. After reading favorites like “Puff the Magic Dragon,” I’d ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day. Yet, as much as I loved these tales, I never saw heroes who cried like I did, forgot things easily, or fell in love with other princesses. Growing up, I realized that my queerness, body, and mental health weren’t obstacles but facets of my identity worth embracing. This shift in perspective, along with the stories and sights around me, inspired me to celebrate life through art. I believe that storytelling can change lives, and through my art, I want to create a space where all children, no matter their background or struggles, can see their stories reflected. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible. In freshman year, a scheduling glitch enrolled me in journalism, where the writing felt formulaic, and my paintbrushes turned into paragraphs. As I climbed the ranks to feature editor, even winning state journalism awards, I found news writing increasingly monotonous. The formula that once was seamless felt repetitive and unimaginative. My anxiety heightened, and searching for solace, I turned back to my favorite children’s books, realizing that a creative field better suited me. Taking up Mrs. Cassandra Stackis’s painting class in my junior year reignited my passion. Her detailed critiques and playful spirit taught me the joy of taking time on each piece. Alongside her student teacher, Mr. Kruse, whose gentle insights grounded me, I grew confident in my dream of becoming an illustrator. Their guidance shaped me as both an artist and a person, and I hope to carry their legacies with me into college. Sadly, Mrs. Stackis moved to Wyoming because of her husband’s work. The impact she has left on the school feels like she never left. Both experiences changed me as an artist and person and I cannot wait to carry on their legacies and lessons into college. The field of illustration has a diverse yet limited job sphere. Most either enter the animation industry or are freelancers, and I’m opting to be a freelance illustrator because of the current struggling climate of the animation industry. While being a freelance illustrator might mean living paycheck to paycheck, I would rather be starving and fulfilled than wealthy and unfulfilled. Even with my supportive family and friends, I will live three hours away from home and might struggle with homesickness. My journey has taught me that true strength comes from embracing our unique stories, no matter how unconventional they seem. With the support of this scholarship, I’ll not only deepen my skills and grow as an artist but also continue creating spaces where all children can feel valued, represented, and inspired. Through my illustrations, I aim to remind children of their worth and the beauty of embracing who they truly are.

Change is never easy. As a senior in high school who will move out of state for college, the stress of leaving home looms over my head. I feel too young and immature to live on my own and selfishly want to keep relying on my parents' support and love. I used the common trope of giants and babies growing to a colossal state, like Momotaro, the Japanese folktale, to put these feelings into my work. Experimenting with 3d watercolor sculptures, I constructed a paper house with a gigantic sleeping baby who’s growing too large for the house to handle. Even that, going into the real world and planning for college makes me feel small. It gets stressful thinking of going through such adult experiences while feeling like a child. All together, this is my most complex work that took three weeks of work to paint and sculpt. I also added a pom-pom to the baby's nightcap, as making pom-poms was one of my favorite hobbies as a kid. Additionally, it was the most emotionally taxing to create because I felt so attached to the subject matter. Throughout my final school year, I have felt just as helpless and unprepared as the child and find it vulnerable to submit a piece so personal.

My family couldn’t be seen as anything other than nuclear. I have two married parents, a younger sister, and a supportive extended family. Other than a long history of mental health issues and substance abuse, my family hasn’t had many disputes. When I was younger, my dad struggled with depression, chronic back pain, and unmedicated ADHD, so he self-medicated with alcohol. It once got so bad that he left the house for 5 months, going to rehab and reinventing himself. Thankfully, my mom carried most of the emotional weight, and I was too young to understand the weight of our situation. Eventually, he moved back in, recovered from alcoholism, and sobered up for more than a decade. I was often labeled as a sensitive, overanalyzing kid, but it was not until I faced the challenge of driver’s ed that I began to understand the full scope of my anxiety. After an instructor gently suggested, ‘Maybe driving isn’t for you,’ I found myself shaking, unable to breathe properly, and envisioning worst-case scenarios. Sitting on the curb, feeling like a failure, I told my mom how driving triggered an overwhelming panic. This led me to therapy, where I was diagnosed with anxiety and began learning to manage it. After I fully coped and understood my anxiety, my memory lapses, loose focus, and poor listening skills seemed more obvious and harder to manage. Later, I learned that these traits described inattentive ADHD, which I was then diagnosed with after my psychiatrist’s evaluation. Thankfully, I had a strong support system, including my mom, who was with me every step of the way. Through my journey with anxiety and ADHD, I gained a new perspective on mental health that strengthened my bond with my dad and helped me empathize with others facing similar challenges. The resilience I developed deepened my understanding of the importance of support and self-acceptance, especially for those who may feel different. My journey with mental health not only brought me closer to my dad but also helped me develop empathy for others facing similar challenges. These mental health challenges, along with my passion for art, have become the foundation of my commitment to creating a space where others feel seen and understood. As a child, I coped with stories. After reading my favorites, I would ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day because I couldn’t get enough of those stories. Being around children at home and in my work environment has deepened my understanding of how storytelling and creativity can shape young minds. As much as I loved fairytales, they were missing something important—someone like me. No princesses fell in love with each other, which left me feeling like my own love was something to hide. This gap shaped my mission as an artist: to create stories where all children, regardless of who they are, feel seen and celebrated. Being queer in a conservative state like Nebraska is like walking a tightrope, constantly balancing between staying true to myself and avoiding backlash from parents. Growing up, I realized that my queerness, body, and mental health weren’t obstacles but facets of my identity worth embracing. This shift in perspective, along with the stories and sights around me, inspired me to celebrate life through art. I believe that storytelling can change lives, and through my art, I want to create a space where all children, no matter their background or struggles, can see their stories reflected. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure that the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible.

My family couldn’t be seen as anything other than nuclear. I have two married parents, a younger sister, and a supportive extended family. Other than a long history of mental health issues and substance abuse, my family hasn’t had many disputes. When I was younger, my dad struggled with depression, chronic back pain, and unmedicated ADHD, so he self-medicated with alcohol. It once got so bad that he left the house for 5 months, going to rehab and reinventing himself. Thankfully, my mom carried most of the emotional weight, and I was too young to understand the weight of our situation. Eventually, he moved back in, recovered from alcoholism, and sobered up for more than a decade. I was often labeled as a sensitive, overanalyzing kid, but it was not until I faced the challenge of driver’s ed that I began to understand the full scope of my anxiety. After an instructor gently suggested, ‘Maybe driving isn’t for you,’ I found myself shaking, unable to breathe properly, and envisioning worst-case scenarios. Sitting on the curb, feeling like a failure, I told my mom how driving triggered an overwhelming panic. This led me to therapy, where I was diagnosed with anxiety and began learning to manage it. After I fully coped and understood my anxiety, my memory lapses, loose focus, and poor listening skills seemed more obvious and harder to manage. Later, I learned that these traits described inattentive ADHD, which I was then diagnosed with after my psychiatrist’s evaluation. Thankfully, I had a strong support system, including my mom, who was with me every step of the way. Through my journey with anxiety and ADHD, I gained a new perspective on mental health that strengthened my bond with my dad and helped me empathize with others facing similar challenges. The resilience I developed deepened my understanding of the importance of support and self-acceptance, especially for those who may feel different. My journey with mental health not only brought me closer to my dad but also helped me develop empathy for others facing similar challenges. These mental health challenges, along with my passion for art, have become the foundation of my commitment to creating a space where others feel seen and understood. From my earliest memories, fairy tales sparked my imagination and made me want more. After reading my favorites, I would ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day because I couldn’t get enough of those stories. Being around children at home and in my work environment has deepened my understanding of how storytelling and creativity can shape young minds. As much as I loved fairytales, they were missing something important—someone like me. No princesses fell in love with each other, which left me feeling like my own love was something to hide. This gap shaped my mission as an artist: to create stories where all children, regardless of who they are, feel seen and celebrated. Being queer in a conservative state like Nebraska is like walking a tightrope, constantly balancing between staying true to myself and avoiding backlash from parents. Growing up, I realized that my queerness, body, and mental health weren’t obstacles but facets of my identity worth embracing. This shift in perspective, along with the stories and sights around me, inspired me to celebrate life through art. I believe that storytelling can change lives, and through my art, I want to create a space where all children, no matter their background or struggles, can see their stories reflected. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure that the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible.

What's the harm in some light-hearted teasing? As older sisters, we must pick on our younger siblings. It is written in the stars and has been our duty since time began. Our jabs and jibes help lighten the usual tense, pointless fights we start with one another. Whether physical scuffles or not depends on the severity. I even have a faded white scar that my sister made by scratching me. Nonetheless, our harmless jokes with one another keep our relationship thriving and life unpredictable. When my younger sister was 3, we were at a pool, and she squealed at a frog who decided to take a dip with us. As a schemer, I dared her to kiss the frog and told her she would become a princess, like in the fairy tale. She always copied me in my interests and hobbies, so she had a hefty knowledge of fairy tales like me, despite being unable to read. Without a second thought, glad to appease me, she held that poor creature up and planted a fat one on its little lips. The amphibian hopped away and left my sister horrified. She admitted that it felt slimy, and to make things worse, I told her with a solemn expression on my face that she was going to get warts. Some say her screams can still be heard to this day. So, the moral of the story is that I'm not a good older sister. Despite that, she later forgave me, and we still joke about it. As an aspiring children's book illustrator, I like to memorialize my experiences in my art. I decided to honor our anecdote with an illustration. For a few years, I have been writing a story for a middle-grade novel about two children exploring different fairy tale worlds. Drawing from my experiences, I thought I would start with a retelling of The Princess and the Frog, including a scene mirroring the one from my childhood. One of the main characters, Alex (on the left), holds out a frog and dares his best friend, Minnie (on the right), to kiss it. The young girl then recoils in disgust and repulsion, much like my sister after hearing about her potential fate. Art is a form of storytelling; I can't keep myself serious, even when creating. Adding personal jokes and scenes keeps the tone light and relatable. When my sister peer read my first draft of the story, her face scrunched in recollection, asking, "Did you really reference the time you made me kiss that frog?" I turned back to her and replied with a quirked smirk, "You know it!"

Growing up, I was known as the perfect poster child: diligent, quiet, and never a distraction. Beneath the surface, I struggled with my memory and anxiety. My foggy memory was dismissed as forgetfulness, and my emotional reactions as a “sensitive” trait. It was not until high school that I understood these as signs of something deeper. I was often labeled as a sensitive, overanalyzing kid, but it was not until I faced the challenge of driver’s ed that I began to understand the full scope of my anxiety. After an instructor gently suggested, ‘Maybe driving isn’t for you,’ I found myself shaking, unable to breathe properly, and envisioning worst-case scenarios. Sitting on the curb, feeling like a failure, I told my mom how driving triggered an overwhelming panic. This led me to therapy, where I was diagnosed with anxiety and began learning to manage it. My journey of handling my mental health condition with treatment, support, and time did not only help me get my license a year later; it also taught me empathy. Now, I can relate to anyone who feels out of place or overwhelmed by things they cannot control, similar to how I struggled as a freshman and still navigate today. In my work at Falling Waters Kids Connection, an afterschool daycare, I draw on this empathy daily. When a first-grader named Hannah cried seven times on a zoo trip, the other staff grew frustrated, but I saw myself in her. Kneeling to her level, I talked her through her worries, understanding how to comfort her. This ability to connect with emotions will help me build trust and create art that resonates deeply with others. My memory lapses continued, making simple tasks challenging. Easily forgetting directions, names, or instructions made me feel like a burden on my family and friends, who often had to remind me of things. Thankfully, I had a strong support system of people around me to remind me and fix my careless mistakes. Soon after I fully coped and understood my anxiety, my memory and poor listening skills seemed more obvious issues and harder to manage. Later, I learned that these traits described inattentive ADHD, which I was then diagnosed with after my psychiatrist’s evaluation. Initially, I was in denial, but as I accepted this diagnosis, I began to see how my neurodivergent traits were integral to my identity as an artist and future illustrator. My ADHD fuels my creativity, ability to hyperfocus, and tendency to think out of the box, traits that are essential for creating art. I am completing projects more efficiently, and my love for visual storytelling has grown stronger through treatment. I aim to use these strengths to become a children’s book illustrator, using art to tell stories that reflect diverse, complex experiences, including those shaped by neurodivergence. I’m excited to pursue art at the University of Kansas, where I’ll continue developing my skills, resilience, and empathy. Understanding and embracing my neurodivergence has shaped me into a resilient, empathetic, and creative person. These traits, once obstacles, now empower me to connect deeply with others and find innovative solutions, especially in my work with children. My inattentive ADHD is not a limitation but a strength that pushes me to think innovatively, support those who feel out of place, and continue building resilience in the face of challenges. I am excited to contribute this perspective to my college community, using my creativity and empathy to foster understanding and inspire others to embrace their differences. In doing so, I know I’ll continue growing and making a meaningful impact.

I understand that not all readers are good writers, but all good writers must be readers. How can one write without understanding the authors that preceded them? Growing up, I always wanted to branch out, read higher than my level, or find the books that grew dusty from sitting on the cramped shelves of my school’s library. Along with my introverted and anxious nature, escaping into an imaginary world was my way to cope. Even throughout middle school, I perused the classics section, resulting in my reading of the Iliad and Odyssey in seventh grade. Oddly, I felt disappointed after finally experiencing these seemingly unattainable novels that have been loved throughout the centuries. Not that the content was sluggish or dull, but my expectations weren’t met by puzzling together the unfamiliar words and phrases. I realized that intellectual appreciation wasn't enough; I needed emotional connection. Starting high school, I joined journalism, an outlet for writing for the community. I enjoyed being part of a larger team of like-minded creatives, but the structures and concrete rules of publication grew tiresome. While valuable, the rigid structure of journalism stifled the emotional depth I craved in storytelling. This frustration with rigid structures led me back to my first love: children's books. The same ones where I discovered my passion for art and how much storytelling illustrations could hold. Finding inspiration and comfort in picture books, I aimed to be an illustrator. Frustrated with my experience in journalism I thought I would leave the hard part to the professionals who weren’t burnt out of their medium. It wasn't until my junior year that I truly understood the power of writing to connect, thanks to the class, British Literature. We began with analyzing the usual cliché heroic storylines popularized by Anglo-Saxon bards. Then, the class read Jane Eyre, and instead of the typical bland class books about people I couldn’t care less about, this was different. The coming-of-age story about a lower-class governess struggling with discrimination from all sides blew me away. No more brooding gothic male leads or high-class aristocratic snobs, instead I found someone I could relate to. As a queer teenager, Jane’s experience of feeling out of place and having a complicated view of relationships felt familiar. Her strength and determination through adversity furthered her as a powerful role model. For the first time, I felt the same euphoria and motivation from books that picture books did for me when I was younger. I found that Charlotte Brontë used words and characters to connect to her audience and as a tool to make people feel seen. Through this, I strove to work towards my dream, a fantastical children’s book series that explores perspectives of characters not often explored through the medium, allowing an outlet for underrepresented readers. My journey has shown me that writing is more than just words on a page; it's a way to build bridges of understanding and create a sense of belonging. I am eager to continue exploring the transformative power of storytelling, one word at a time.

Among those adaptations that ring most true with me is the version of Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings. I was deeply enchanted with Tolkien's vividly populated story as a child, every page being the door to a world of wonder, history, and adventure all contained in our imagination. I can well remember how each chapter invited me to envision grand vistas, mythic creatures, and epic conflicts, all of which ignited my imagination and allowed me to create my vision of Middle-earth in my mind. When I transitioned from reading the books to viewing the films, I was struck by how readily Jackson's vision seized the essence and spirit of Tolkien's work. The films brought the huge, written story into breathtaking shape—every sweeping shot of New Zealand's diverse landscapes calling up the huge landscape of Middle-earth, every thoughtful set and costume making several cultures and histories live in the story. This visual faithfulness did not only recreate moments; it extended the story with added emotional richness and background that my imagination could only half realize through the books. What is special about this adaptation to me is how it brought together the lonely, solitary activity of reading and the shared pleasure of cinema. The films preserved the rich character dynamics and moral subtleties of the novels but also supplemented them with depth through powerful performances, poignant musical motifs, and engaged camerawork. Through scenes of inner reflection or confrontation, imagery, and soundscapes augmented my understanding of the characters' inner lives and the weight of their journeys. Not to mention, the gorgeous New Zealand landscapes and ambiance that made the fantasy feel real. This double exposure—first with words and then with images and sounds—became a more complicated, layered experience that both intellectually and emotionally resonated. Moreover, reading Tolkien's book again after viewing the films gave me further insights and revived my appreciation of his story. I noticed subtleties and themes I had all too easily overlooked in the first place, enjoying that the adaptation was more than an interpretation, but a supportive expansion of the original tale. I can imagine the same scenes I watched but with more detail and care given to the descriptions. Peter Jackson's The Lord of the Rings is therefore a tribute to the excellence that can be wrought when a faithful but imaginative adaptation can respect the source and transform how we take in a popular story. Lastly, this adaptation is not just a film—it is a union of two art forms that have enriched my life in different, yet intimately connected, ways.

As an avid reader of classics, I jumped to this scholarship prompt and analyzed one of my favorite medieval epic poems, “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” translated by A.S. Kline. As one of the last poems in the Arthurian canon, the underlying meanings and symbolic themes have been contested for centuries, especially considering the poem's anonymous authorship. The destiny of our titular hero is debated on whether he was truly redeemed, whether in the royal court’s eyes or the lords or if he is a cowardly farce of a knight. In most knightly romances, popularized with King Arthur and other tales of the time, these women were either portrayed as pure, idealized statuettes with no agency or as evil, mystical seductresses who used the protagonist in their wicked scheme. This essay argues that “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight” deconstructs medieval gender norms by challenging the passive female and hypermasculine male archetypes. Through the contradictory performances of masculinity by Gawain and the active, subversive roles of Lady Bertilak and other female figures, the poem reveals the fluidity and fragility of gender identity. At a Christmas banquet, the Green Knight appears offering a game. Arthur’s younger cousin, Gawain, perks up and accepts the challenge, beheading the man with his ornate axe. Gawain's acceptance of the Green Knight's challenge demonstrates his courage and a nascent sense of duty towards his king and court. Afterward, the Green Knight warns the young man to visit him in one year at the Green Chapel to receive the same fate. While green traditionally symbolizes life, fertility, and the nurturing aspects of nature, the Green Knight’s portrayal twists these associations. His wild, unpredictable nature challenges the conventional pairing of femininity with nurture and passivity, instead suggesting that what is “natural” can be both potent and dangerous—a critique of the binary between civilized masculinity and untamed femininity. Before he sets foot on his journey, the court dresses Gawain in armor with red accents, to juxtapose the Green Knight’s green, but his gear foreshadows his fatal flaw. When the Green Knight appeared at the feast, the author notes that he wore no protective gear, which shows how prepared he felt towards his battle with Gawain and his supernatural nature. Wearing countless layers of protection shows the young hero's fear and acknowledgment of his possible fate. Despite the poem’s obvious medieval setting, modern theories on gender apply to the characters and how they interact with their settings. Gawain carefully performs his masculinity, donning a haughty, regal air that masks his inner vulnerability. At House Hausdesert, when the servants remove his armor, he is stripped of physical protection and the façade that upholds his chivalric identity. This act exposes the precarious nature of his constructed masculinity, forcing him to oscillate between vulnerability and bravado depending on his audience. Throughout the poem, Gawain is tested through various trials to prove his knightly virtues and heroic traits, all through the lens of holiday games. During the three days, the lady of the house visits Gawain in his room, early in the morning to seduce him. He must uphold his chivalric code by resisting temptation while he demonstrates respect for his host. While debating, she requests a compromise, a kiss. Lady Bertilak’s actions radically invert the conventional courtly romance. Rather than assuming a passive role, she actively initiates their romance, using her assertiveness to undermine the traditional power dynamics that the knight pursues. Her boldness not only challenges the archetype of the submissive female but also exposes the limitations of Gawain’s rigid, performative masculinity, as he struggles to maintain honor in the face of his vulnerability. After a couple of days, Lady Bertilak kisses Gawain while he sleeps, a violation of the boundaries that he heavily stressed previously. This action illustrates the amount of power she has over him, especially as he is vulnerable. Then she emphasizes the importance of love tokens, in turn, he refuses until Lady Bertilak uses his fear of death to her advantage and admits that her green girdle prevents the wearer from getting hurt, even by fatal wounds. This event represents his fatal flaw within the story, as he finally disregards one of the knightly virtues he lives through by accepting a gift from his host without giving one in return, as he never tells the Lord of the girdle. By this, he goes against the knight’s inherent generosity, thereby disrespecting his code. Whether or not its power is true is never revealed, but one thing rings apparent. Lady Bertilak is the dominant person within their power dynamic. And to add to this the author juxtaposes the temptation sequences with Lord Bertilak's hunting trips, which intentionally reflect her as a predator and Gawain as the prey. After his host returns with his takings, Gawain upholds his end of the deal and kisses him. Gawain is described as clasping his neck and kissing him gently, the same word used to describe how Lady Bertilak kissed him. In this position, Gawain is passive in their relationship. Medieval society often condemned deviations from heteronormative expectations, however, the poem’s ambiguous treatment of intimacy, such as Gawain’s acceptance of Lady Bertilak’s girdle, resists categorization as either sinful or purely romantic. Instead, these moments reveal the malleable constructs of gender and desire, suggesting that they can be subverted or blurred in personal identity. After his “punishment,” the revelation that Lady Bertilak was part of Morgan Le Faye’s larger scheme forces Gawain into an identity crisis. His bitter outburst against women portraying as temptresses who defile virtuous men reveals his internalized misogyny and the strain of upholding his rigid masculinity. By choosing to keep the girdle as a mark of shame, Gawain acknowledges his failure to reconcile his internal vulnerabilities with the external expectations of knightly honor, underscoring the toxic impact of rigid gender norms. The typical thoughts of gender are questioned throughout “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” whether through a medieval or modern lens, opening the conversation about societal expectations and character archetypes. Tropes such as chivalrous knights and passive female love interests are subverted to show the fragility of gender roles and constructs.

The health bar decreased to dangerous levels, our dear trusted steed, Epona, grew haggard, and it wasn't even the third phase of the boss fight then. Stressing out over boss fights is one of my family's pastimes. During this specific day, my dad and I struggled to finish the Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, which I watched him trek through for months. As my current obsession, I bit at my nails and gasped at every attack given or dodge achieved. After an hour of dying and retrying, even Link looked tired, finally, we scraped by and I watched the bittersweet final cutscene in tears. Little did I know, this was one of the only childhood memories I had with my dad. My dad grew up with chronic back pain and a rough upbringing. With his back and family preventing him from getting out and being with friends, he stayed home alone often, finding solace in solitude. During his twelfth birthday, he got a Sega Genesis console and found an escape through video games. When his mentally unstable mother would forget him after her shock therapy treatment, he would instead turn into a whip-wielding vampire killer. This escapism would follow him into adulthood, along with, other, less-healthy habits. He met my mom at a bar they both worked at, at the time, their drinking habits were typical of young, dumb college students, but after they got married, things delved deeper. With age, his back grew worse, to the point where he couldn't do anything but lay in bed, so he used cheap beer to soothe his aching muscles. Years later, I was born, and my dad was the happiest he ever has been, but a lingering pain still pulsed and reminded him of his affliction. With another kid born and work demanding more often, my dad already phased in and out of my life. My imaginative and childhood brain overlooked his absence, accepting it as something all children go through. Whenever he was with me, however, I was in awe. My dad was so unlike my mother, so unfamiliar and filled with infectious fits of laughter. Even at a young age, we bonded over games. Whether he was playing the Pokémon Trading Card Game with me or offering guidance in a Zelda puzzle, it was our way of communicating. My younger sister had similar experiences, but her personality aligned closer to mom than dad and I, so they didn't hit as hard. The day after our victory against Ganondorf, our parents sat us down and announced that Dad would be moving out. At the time, I didn't realize the extent of this news and only suggested that I take his side of my parent's bed. It took a couple of weeks for me to recognize that my parents might get divorced. I kept asking my mom and she assured me everything was alright, but the redness under her eyes said otherwise. Only now, I realize the extent of what my mother went through, raising us while supporting her recovering husband from the sidelines. Thankfully, it only took a year for my dad to fully recover from his addiction and move back in with us. To this day, we still play with and against each other sometimes. Video games have always been a form of communication and they helped us repair our relationship. Sure I might always lose, but now, I don't have to worry about him leaving my life again.

“Hello, my name is ____ and I’m your new art teacher,” the newest blond young hire said as I furiously scribbled in my sketchbook. There was always another new art teacher throughout elementary and middle school, each with their own style and expectations. With that, I kept to myself and occasionally drew cute animals. The start of high school was no different, with some art classes sprinkled in. The teachers kept to themselves and I was hesitant to put in substantial effort, but other than that, I was a journalist. My paint strokes became paragraphs, and my portraits turned into photographs, but as the years passed, news writing drained my creative spirit. I longed for something more tactile and expressive, and Photoshop and graphic design reignited that spark. They reawakened my love for creative mediums. Previously unopened watercolor palettes became stained by consistent use, cheap sketchbooks were ruined by the number of things I glued and painted in, and I was creating more art than ever. I signed up for painting with Mrs. Stackis as my new calling. Mrs. Stackis was new, she would circle the room and give detailed suggestions and critiques on everyone’s work. She experimented alongside her students all the while with lipstick in her teeth. We shared a love for children’s books and she supported my dream of being an illustrator. At the same time, she had a student teacher, Mr. Kruse. He was shy and anxiety-riddled, yet extremely talented and knowledgeable. Mr. Kruse would meander and occasionally put in his input on a painting, but otherwise, he silently observed as we worked. With multiple eyes and opinions on my work, every piece felt like a collaboration. Taking longer than a week usually made me feel sluggish, but Mrs. Stackis pushed me to take my time and put in the most effort possible. She would even invite us to weekend art club workshops, where people would throw on the wheel, paint, and hang out. Sometimes her son, Sabie, would come over and we would giggle about Beyblades and Fortnite. Then, while distracted by my artistic euphoria a rumor spread: Mrs. Stackis had to resign and move to Wyoming. At first, I was in denial, but after checking the school board minutes, it broke me. The first time I touched a paintbrush after weeks of feeling lost, it felt heavy, like I was not just painting but trying to find my way again. It was a collective heartbreak for me and everyone who knew her. How could she leave when I had just started my journey? Does she know how empty the school will feel without her? While worrying about my future art endeavors, Mr. Kruse was hired in Mrs. Stackis’s stead. At least there was one constant guiding me out of high school. As the year began, Mr. Kruse grew into his role. The reserved man I once knew blossomed into a confident and motivated teacher. Her influence is apparent and shines through his lessons and interactions. The impact she has left on the school feels like she never left. Both have changed me as an artist and person and I cannot wait to carry on their legacies into college. By bringing Mrs. Stackis’s passion and Mr. Kruse’s variety to my future artworks I will share their effect on me with others. I hope to inspire my future readers the way they inspired me, showing that art is more than just technique—it is about exploration, perseverance, and passion.

Being around children at home and in my work environment deepened my understanding of how storytelling and creativity can shape young minds. Each artistic endeavor, from finger painting to guiding the children I work with, has solidified my belief that creativity is essential for a child's emotional and intellectual development. At my afterschool daycare job, kids surround me with drawing requests and tips on their coloring page doodles. As much as I loved fairytales, they were missing something important—someone like me. No princesses fell in love with each other, which left me feeling like my own love was something to hide. This gap shaped my mission as an artist: to create stories where all children, regardless of who they are, feel seen and celebrated. Being queer in a conservative state like Nebraska is like walking a tightrope, constantly balancing between staying true to myself and avoiding backlash from parents. I am not the only employee who faces this issue, many other coworkers of mine identify as queer and we got to know each other on our shared experiences. One of them, Noah, would never outwardly profess the fact that he was a gay man, but if a child asked he responded honestly. He convinced me to be true to myself because there was no point in hiding and lying to a kid. The first time a child asked me, "Do you have a boyfriend?" I answered truthfully, "No, I have a girlfriend," it felt liberating. I answered them honestly and showed them that different kinds of love exist and that they all deserve respect. Along with garnering young fans and friends, my work experience has helped me respond to clients’ requests and critiques. However, watching a child’s face light up after I finish their sketch is the best part of the process. Every piece of media, sight, and story I hear inspires me to celebrate life by creating art. As an artist and writer, I want to create worlds where children see themselves: whether from different cultures, backgrounds, or sexualities. My goal is to create art that entertains, but more importantly, tells every child that who they are is something to be proud of. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible.

From my earliest memories, fairytales sparked my imagination and left me wanting more. After reading favorites like “Puff the Magic Dragon” I’d ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day. Yet as much as I loved these tales, I never saw heroes who cried like I did, forgot things easily, or fell in love with other princesses. Growing up, I realized that my queerness, body, and mental health weren’t obstacles, but facets of my identity worth embracing. This shift in perspective, along with the stories and sights around me, inspired me to celebrate life through art. I believe storytelling can change lives, and through my art, I want to create a space where all children, no matter their background or struggles, can see their stories reflected. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible. In freshman year, a scheduling glitch enrolled me in journalism, where the writing felt formulaic, and my paintbrushes turned into paragraphs. As I climbed the ranks to feature editor, even winning state journalism awards, I found news writing increasingly monotonous. The formula that once was seamless, felt repetitive and unimaginative. My anxiety heightened, and searching for solace, I turned back to my favorite children’s books, realizing that a creative field better suited me. Taking up Mrs. Cassandra Stackis’s painting class junior year reignited my passion. Her detailed critiques and playful spirit taught me the joy of taking time on each piece. Alongside her student teacher, Mr. Kruse, whose gentle insights grounded me, I grew confident in my dream of becoming an illustrator. Their guidance shaped me as both an artist and a person, and I hope to carry their legacies with me into college. Sadly, Mrs. Stackis moved to Wyoming because of her husband’s work. The impact she has left on the school feels like she never left. Both experiences changed me as an artist and person and I cannot wait to carry on their legacies and lessons into college. The field of illustration has a diverse yet limited job sphere. Most either enter the animation industry or are freelancers, and I’m opting to be a freelance illustrator because of the current struggling climate of the animation industry. While being a freelance illustrator might mean living paycheck to paycheck, I would rather be starving and fulfilled than wealthy and unfulfilled. Even with my supportive family and friends, I will live three hours away from home and might struggle with homesickness. My journey has taught me that true strength comes from embracing our unique stories, no matter how unconventional they seem. With the support of this scholarship, I’ll not only deepen my skills and grow as an artist but also continue creating spaces where all children can feel valued, represented, and inspired. Through my illustrations, I aim to remind children of their worth and the beauty of embracing who they truly are.

From my earliest memories, fairytales sparked my imagination and left me wanting more. After reading favorites like “Puff the Magic Dragon” I’d ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day. Yet as much as I loved these tales, I never saw heroes who cried like I did, forgot things easily, or fell in love with other princesses. Growing up, I realized that my queerness, body, and mental health weren’t obstacles, but facets of my identity worth embracing. This shift in perspective, along with the stories and sights around me, inspired me to celebrate life through art. I believe storytelling can change lives, and through my art, I want to create a space where all children, no matter their background or struggles, can see their stories reflected. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible. In freshman year, a scheduling glitch enrolled me in journalism, where the writing felt formulaic, and my paintbrushes turned into paragraphs. As I climbed the ranks to feature editor, even winning state journalism awards, I found news writing increasingly monotonous. The formula that once was seamless, felt repetitive and unimaginative. My anxiety heightened, and searching for solace, I turned back to my favorite children’s books, realizing that a creative field better suited me. Taking up Mrs. Cassandra Stackis’s painting class junior year reignited my passion. Her detailed critiques and playful spirit taught me the joy of taking time on each piece. Alongside her student teacher, Mr. Kruse, whose gentle insights grounded me, I grew confident in my dream of becoming an illustrator. Their guidance shaped me as both an artist and a person, and I hope to carry their legacies with me into college. Sadly, Mrs. Stackis moved to Wyoming because of her husband’s work. The impact she has left on the school feels like she never left. Both experiences changed me as an artist and person and I cannot wait to carry on their legacies and lessons into college. The field of illustration has a diverse yet limited job sphere. Most either enter the animation industry or are freelancers, and I’m opting to be a freelance illustrator because of the current struggling climate of the animation industry. While being a freelance illustrator might mean living paycheck to paycheck, I would rather be starving and fulfilled than wealthy and unfulfilled. Even with my supportive family and friends, I will live three hours away from home and might struggle with homesickness. My journey has taught me that true strength comes from embracing our unique stories, no matter how unconventional they seem. With the support of this scholarship, I’ll not only deepen my skills and grow as an artist but also continue creating spaces where all children can feel valued, represented, and inspired. Through my illustrations, I aim to remind children of their worth and the beauty of embracing who they truly are.

From my earliest memories, fairytales sparked my imagination and left me wanting more. After reading favorites like “Puff the Magic Dragon” I’d ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day. Yet as much as I loved these tales, I never saw heroes who cried like I did, forgot things easily, or fell in love with other princesses. Growing up, I realized that my queerness, body, and mental health weren’t obstacles, but facets of my identity worth embracing. This shift in perspective, along with the stories and sights around me, inspired me to celebrate life through art. I believe storytelling can change lives, and through my art, I want to create a space where all children, no matter their background or struggles, can see their stories reflected. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible. In freshman year, a scheduling glitch enrolled me in journalism, where the writing felt formulaic, and my paintbrushes turned into paragraphs. As I climbed the ranks to feature editor, even winning state journalism awards, I found news writing increasingly monotonous. The formula that once was seamless, felt repetitive and unimaginative. My anxiety heightened, and searching for solace, I turned back to my favorite children’s books, realizing that a creative field better suited me. Taking up Mrs. Cassandra Stackis’s painting class junior year reignited my passion. Her detailed critiques and playful spirit taught me the joy of taking time on each piece. Alongside her student teacher, Mr. Kruse, whose gentle insights grounded me, I grew confident in my dream of becoming an illustrator. Their guidance shaped me as both an artist and a person, and I hope to carry their legacies with me into college. Sadly, Mrs. Stackis moved to Wyoming because of her husband’s work. The impact she has left on the school feels like she never left. Both experiences changed me as an artist and person and I cannot wait to carry on their legacies and lessons into college. The field of illustration has a diverse yet limited job sphere. Most either enter the animation industry or are freelancers, and I’m opting to be a freelance illustrator because of the current struggling climate of the animation industry. While being a freelance illustrator might mean living paycheck to paycheck, I would rather be starving and fulfilled than wealthy and unfulfilled. Even with my supportive family and friends, I will live three hours away from home and might struggle with homesickness. My journey has taught me that true strength comes from embracing our unique stories, no matter how unconventional they seem. With the support of this scholarship, I’ll not only deepen my skills and grow as an artist but also continue creating spaces where all children can feel valued, represented, and inspired. Through my illustrations, I aim to remind children of their worth and the beauty of embracing who they truly are.

Growing up, I was the perfect poster child: diligent, quiet, and never a distraction. Yet, beneath that surface, I struggled with one persistent issue: my memory. Simple tasks, like taking out the trash or sorting through laundry left my mind moments after hearing about them. In school, I mastered the form of short-term memorization, but retaining that information was a different story. My memory lapses continued, making simple tasks challenging. Easily forgetting directions, names, or instructions made me feel like a burden on my family and friends, who often had to remind me of things. Thankfully, I had a strong support system of people around me to remind me and fix my careless mistakes. Soon after I fully coped and understood my anxiety, my memory, and poor listening skills seemed more obvious an issue and harder to manage. Later, I learned that these traits described inattentive ADHD, which I was then diagnosed with after my psychiatrist’s evaluation. Initially, I was in denial, but as I accepted this diagnosis, I began to see how my neurodivergent traits were integral to my identity as an artist and future illustrator. My ADHD fuels my creativity, ability to hyperfocus, and tendency to think out of the box, traits that are essential for creating art. I am completing projects more efficiently, and my love for visual storytelling has grown stronger through treatment. I aim to use these strengths to become a children’s book illustrator, using art to tell stories that reflect diverse, complex experiences, including those shaped by neurodivergence. I’m excited to pursue art education in college, where I’ll continue developing my skills, resilience, and empathy. Understanding and embracing my inattentive ADHD has shaped me into a resilient, empathetic, and creative person. These traits, once obstacles, now empower me to connect deeply with others and find innovative solutions, especially in my work with children. My inattentive ADHD is not a limitation, but a strength that pushes me to think innovatively, support those who feel out of place, and continue building resilience in the face of challenges. I am excited to contribute this perspective to my college community, using my creativity and empathy to foster understanding and inspire others to embrace their differences. In doing so, I know I’ll continue growing and making a meaningful impact. With the support of this scholarship, will help me grow throughout college and help me help others in doing so.

Every story and sight inspires me to celebrate life through art as a creative, I want to construct worlds where children see themselves, whether through different cultures, identities, or abilities. With this scholarship and through my art, I'll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling alien from others. Growing up, I was known as the perfect poster child: diligent, quiet, and never a distraction. Beneath the surface, I struggled with my memory and anxiety. My foggy memory was dismissed as forgetfulness, and my emotional reactions, as a “sensitive” trait. To cope with these struggles, I turned to art. Whether doodling off the margins of worksheets, painting flowers in watercolor, or giving out personal drawings to friends, I loved drawing and creating ever since I was young. It was not until high school that I understood these as signs of something deeper. My memory lapses continued, making simple tasks challenging. Easily forgetting directions, names, or instructions made me feel like a burden on my family and friends, who often had to remind me of things. Thankfully, I had a strong support system of people around me to remind me and fix my careless mistakes. Soon after I fully coped and understood my anxiety, my memory, and poor listening skills seemed more obvious an issue and harder to manage. Later, I learned that these traits described inattentive ADHD, which I was then diagnosed with after my psychiatrist’s evaluation. Initially, I was in denial, but as I accepted this diagnosis, I began to see how my neurodivergent traits were integral to my identity as an artist and future illustrator. My ADHD fuels my creativity, ability to hyperfocus, and tendency to think out of the box, traits that are essential for creating art. I am completing projects more efficiently, and my love for visual storytelling has grown stronger through treatment. I aim to use these strengths to become a children’s book illustrator, using art to tell stories that reflect diverse, complex experiences, including those shaped by neurodivergence. I’m excited to pursue illustration in college, where I’ll continue developing my skills, resilience, and empathy. Understanding and embracing my neurodivergence has shaped me into a resilient, empathetic, and creative person. These traits, once obstacles, now empower me to connect deeply with others and find innovative solutions, especially in my work with children. The start of high school was no different, with some art classes sprinkled in. The teachers kept to themselves and I was hesitant to put in substantial effort, but other than that, I was a journalist. My paint strokes became paragraphs, and my portraits turned into photographs, but as the years passed, news writing drained my creative spirit. I longed for something more tactile and expressive, and Photoshop and graphic design reignited that spark. They reawakened my love for creative mediums. Previously unopened watercolor palettes became stained by consistent use, cheap sketchbooks were ruined by the number of things I glued and painted in, and I was creating more art than ever. I signed up for painting to support my new calling and with a supportive teacher's help, I found my dream. I hope to help inspire children the way picture books did to me while allowing them to feel seen and represented. My experiences taught me that developing and sharing artwork is important for the artistic community, but also to help others feel seen and heard. I hope to inspire my future readers the way they inspired me, art is more than just technique—it is about exploration, perseverance, and passion.

Growing up, I was known as the perfect poster child: diligent, quiet, and never a distraction. Beneath the surface, I struggled with my memory and anxiety. My foggy memory was dismissed as forgetfulness, and my emotional reactions, as a “sensitive” trait. It was not until high school that I understood these as signs of something deeper. I was often labeled as a sensitive, overanalyzing kid, but it was not until I faced the challenge of driver’s ed that I began to understand the full scope of my anxiety. After an instructor gently suggested, ‘Maybe driving isn’t for you,’ I found myself shaking, unable to breathe properly, and envisioning worst-case scenarios. Sitting on the curb, feeling like a failure, I told my mom how driving triggered an overwhelming panic. This led me to therapy, where I was diagnosed with anxiety and began learning to manage it. My journey of handling my mental health condition with treatment, support, and time did not only help me get my license a year later; it also taught me empathy. Now, I can relate to anyone who feels out of place or overwhelmed by things they cannot control, similar to how I struggled as a freshman and still navigate today. In my work at Falling Waters Kids Connection, an afterschool daycare, I draw on this empathy daily. When a first-grader named Hannah cried seven times on a zoo trip, the other staff grew frustrated, but I saw myself in her. Kneeling to her level, I talked her through her worries, understanding how to comfort her. This ability to connect with emotions will help me build trust and create art that resonates deeply with others. My memory lapses continued, making simple tasks challenging. Easily forgetting directions, names, or instructions made me feel like a burden on my family and friends, who often had to remind me of things. Thankfully, I had a strong support system of people around me to remind me and fix my careless mistakes. Soon after I fully coped and understood my anxiety, my memory, and poor listening skills seemed more obvious an issue and harder to manage. Later, I learned that these traits described inattentive ADHD, which I was then diagnosed with after my psychiatrist’s evaluation. Initially, I was in denial, but as I accepted this diagnosis, I began to see how my neurodivergent traits were integral to my identity as an artist and future illustrator. My ADHD fuels my creativity, ability to hyperfocus, and tendency to think out of the box, traits that are essential for creating art. I am completing projects more efficiently, and my love for visual storytelling has grown stronger through treatment. I aim to use these strengths to become a children’s book illustrator, using art to tell stories that reflect diverse, complex experiences, including those shaped by neurodivergence. I’m excited to pursue art education in college, where I’ll continue developing my skills, resilience, and empathy. Understanding and embracing my neurodivergence has shaped me into a resilient, empathetic, and creative person. These traits, once obstacles, now empower me to connect deeply with others and find innovative solutions, especially in my work with children. My inattentive ADHD is not a limitation, but a strength that pushes me to think innovatively, support those who feel out of place, and continue building resilience in the face of challenges. I am excited to contribute this perspective to my college community, using my creativity and empathy to foster understanding and inspire others to embrace their differences. In doing so, I know I’ll continue growing and making a meaningful impact.

From my earliest memories, fairytales sparked my imagination and left me wanting more. After reading favorites like “Puff the Magic Dragon” I’d ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day. Yet as much as I loved these tales, I never saw heroes who cried like I did, forgot things easily, or fell in love with other princesses. Growing up, I realized that my queerness, body, and mental health weren’t obstacles, but facets of my identity worth embracing. This shift in perspective, along with the stories and sights around me, inspired me to celebrate life through art. I believe storytelling can change lives, and through my art, I want to create a space where all children, no matter their background or struggles, can see their stories reflected. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible. In freshman year, a scheduling glitch enrolled me in journalism, where the writing felt formulaic, and my paintbrushes turned into paragraphs. As I climbed the ranks to feature editor, even winning state journalism awards, I found news writing increasingly monotonous. The formula that once was seamless, felt repetitive and unimaginative. My anxiety heightened, and searching for solace, I turned back to my favorite children’s books, realizing that a creative field better suited me. Taking up Mrs. Cassandra Stackis’s painting class junior year reignited my passion. Her detailed critiques and playful spirit taught me the joy of taking time on each piece. Alongside her student teacher, Mr. Kruse, whose gentle insights grounded me, I grew confident in my dream of becoming an illustrator. Their guidance shaped me as both an artist and a person, and I hope to carry their legacies with me into college. Sadly, Mrs. Stackis moved to Wyoming because of her husband’s work. The impact she has left on the school feels like she never left. Both experiences changed me as an artist and person and I cannot wait to carry on their legacies and lessons into college. The field of illustration has a diverse yet limited job sphere. Most either enter the animation industry or are freelancers, and I’m opting to be a freelance illustrator because of the current struggling climate of the animation industry. While being a freelance illustrator might mean living paycheck to paycheck, I would rather be starving and fulfilled than wealthy and unfulfilled. Even with my supportive family and friends, I will live three hours away from home and might struggle with homesickness. My journey has taught me that true strength comes from embracing our unique stories, no matter how unconventional they seem. With the support of this scholarship, I’ll not only deepen my skills and grow as an artist but also continue creating spaces where all children can feel valued, represented, and inspired. Through my illustrations, I aim to remind children of their worth and the beauty of embracing who they truly are.

Every story and sight inspires me to celebrate life through art as a creative, I want to construct worlds where children see themselves, whether through different cultures, identities, or abilities. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling alien from others. Growing up, I was known as the perfect poster child: diligent, quiet, and never a distraction. Beneath the surface, I struggled with my memory and anxiety. My foggy memory was dismissed as forgetfulness, and my emotional reactions, as a “sensitive” trait. It was not until high school that I understood these as signs of something deeper. My memory lapses continued, making simple tasks challenging. Easily forgetting directions, names, or instructions made me feel like a burden on my family and friends, who often had to remind me of things. Thankfully, I had a strong support system of people around me to remind me and fix my careless mistakes. Soon after I fully coped and understood my anxiety, my memory, and poor listening skills seemed more obvious an issue and harder to manage. Later, I learned that these traits described inattentive ADHD, which I was then diagnosed with after my psychiatrist’s evaluation. Initially, I was in denial, but as I accepted this diagnosis, I began to see how my neurodivergent traits were integral to my identity as an artist and future illustrator. My ADHD fuels my creativity, ability to hyperfocus, and tendency to think out of the box, traits that are essential for creating art. I am completing projects more efficiently, and my love for visual storytelling has grown stronger through treatment. I aim to use these strengths to become a children’s book illustrator, using art to tell stories that reflect diverse, complex experiences, including those shaped by neurodivergence. I’m excited to pursue art education in college, where I’ll continue developing my skills, resilience, and empathy. Understanding and embracing my neurodivergence has shaped me into a resilient, empathetic, and creative person. These traits, once obstacles, now empower me to connect deeply with others and find innovative solutions, especially in my work with children. My inattentive ADHD is not a limitation, but a strength that pushes me to think innovatively, support those who feel out of place, and continue building resilience in the face of challenges. I am excited to contribute this perspective to my college community, using my creativity and empathy to foster understanding and inspire others to embrace their differences. In doing so, I know I’ll continue growing and making a meaningful impact.

Growing up, I was known as the perfect poster child: diligent, quiet, and never a distraction. Beneath the surface, I struggled with my memory and anxiety. My foggy memory was dismissed as forgetfulness, and my emotional reactions, as a “sensitive” trait. It was not until high school that I understood these as signs of something deeper. I was often labeled as a sensitive, overanalyzing kid, but it was not until I faced the challenge of driver’s ed that I began to understand the full scope of my anxiety. After an instructor gently suggested, ‘Maybe driving isn’t for you,’ I found myself shaking, unable to breathe properly, and envisioning worst-case scenarios. Sitting on the curb, feeling like a failure, I told my mom how driving triggered an overwhelming panic. This led me to therapy, where I was diagnosed with anxiety and began learning to manage it. My journey of handling my mental health condition with treatment, support, and time did not only help me get my license a year later; it also taught me empathy. Now, I can relate to anyone who feels out of place or overwhelmed by things they cannot control, similar to how I struggled as a freshman and still navigate today. In my work at Falling Waters Kids Connection, an afterschool daycare, I draw on this empathy daily. When a first-grader named Hannah cried seven times on a zoo trip, the other staff grew frustrated, but I saw myself in her. Kneeling to her level, I talked her through her worries, understanding how to comfort her. This ability to connect with emotions will help me build trust and create art that resonates deeply with others. My memory lapses continued, making simple tasks challenging. Easily forgetting directions, names, or instructions made me feel like a burden on my family and friends, who often had to remind me of things. Thankfully, I had a strong support system of people around me to remind me and fix my careless mistakes. Soon after I fully coped and understood my anxiety, my memory, and poor listening skills seemed more obvious an issue and harder to manage. Later, I learned that these traits described inattentive ADHD, which I was then diagnosed with after my psychiatrist’s evaluation. Initially, I was in denial, but as I accepted this diagnosis, I began to see how my neurodivergent traits were integral to my identity as an artist and future illustrator. My ADHD fuels my creativity, ability to hyperfocus, and tendency to think out of the box, traits that are essential for creating art. I am completing projects more efficiently through treatment, and my love for visual storytelling has grown stronger. I aim to use these strengths to become a children’s book illustrator, using art to tell stories that reflect diverse, complex experiences, including those shaped by neurodivergence. I’m excited to pursue art education in college, where I’ll continue developing my skills, resilience, and empathy. Understanding and embracing my neurodivergence has shaped me into a resilient, empathetic, and creative person. These traits, once obstacles, now empower me to connect deeply with others and find creative solutions, especially in my work with children. My anxiety and inattentive ADHD are not limitations, but strengths that push me to think innovatively, support those who feel out of place, and continue building resilience in the face of challenges. I am excited to contribute this perspective to my college community, using my creativity and empathy to foster understanding and inspire others to embrace their differences. In doing so, I know I’ll continue growing and making a meaningful impact.

From my earliest memories, fairytales sparked my imagination and made me want more. After reading my favorites, "Puff the Magic Dragon" or "Peter Rabbit" I would ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day because I couldn’t get enough of those stories. Being around children at home and in my work environment has deepened my understanding of how storytelling and creativity can shape young minds. Each artistic endeavor, from finger painting to guiding the children I work with, has solidified my belief that creativity is essential for a child's emotional and intellectual development. At my afterschool daycare job, kids surround me with drawing requests and tips on their coloring page doodles. As much as I loved fairytales, they were missing something important—someone like me. No princesses fell in love with each other, which left me feeling like my own love was something to hide. This gap shaped my mission as an artist: to create stories where all children, regardless of who they are, feel seen and celebrated. Being queer in a conservative state like Nebraska is like walking a tightrope, constantly balancing between staying true to myself and avoiding backlash from parents. I am not the only employee who faces this issue, many other coworkers of mine identify as queer and we got to know each other on our shared experiences. One of them, Noah, would never outwardly profess the fact that he was a gay man, but if a child asked he responded honestly. He convinced me to be true to myself because there was no point in hiding and lying to a kid. The first time a child asked me, "Do you have a boyfriend?" I answered truthfully, "No, I have a girlfriend," it felt liberating. I answered them honestly and showed them that different kinds of love exist and that they all deserve respect. Along with garnering young fans and friends, my work experience has helped me respond to clients’ requests and critiques. However, watching a child’s face light up after I finish their sketch is the best part of the process. Every piece of media, sight, and story I hear inspires me to celebrate life by creating art. As an artist and writer, I want to create worlds where children see themselves: whether from different cultures, backgrounds, or sexualities. My goal is to design educational programs where a child like me can pick up a storybook or comic and feel the same joy I felt as a child, but this time with the added spark of seeing their true self reflected on the page. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible. My goal is to create art that entertains, but more importantly, tells every child that who they are is something to be proud of. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible. My goal is to create art that entertains, but more importantly, tells every child that who they are is something to be proud of.

From my earliest memories, fairytales sparked my imagination and made me want more. After reading my favorites, "Puff the Magic Dragon" or "Peter Rabbit" I would ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day because I couldn’t get enough of those stories. Being around children at home and in my work environment has deepened my understanding of how storytelling and creativity can shape young minds. Each artistic endeavor, from finger painting to guiding the children I work with, has solidified my belief that creativity is essential for a child's emotional and intellectual development. At my afterschool daycare job, kids surround me with drawing requests and tips on their coloring page doodles. As much as I loved fairytales, they were missing something important—someone like me. No princesses fell in love with each other, which left me feeling like my own love was something to hide. This gap shaped my mission as an artist: to create stories where all children, regardless of who they are, feel seen and celebrated. Being queer in a conservative state like Nebraska is like walking a tightrope, constantly balancing between staying true to myself and avoiding backlash from parents. I am not the only employee who faces this issue, many other coworkers of mine identify as queer and we got to know each other on our shared experiences. One of them, Noah, would never outwardly profess the fact that he was a gay man, but if a child asked he responded honestly. He convinced me to be true to myself because there was no point in hiding and lying to a kid. The first time a child asked me, "Do you have a boyfriend?" I answered truthfully, "No, I have a girlfriend," it felt liberating. I answered them honestly and showed them that different kinds of love exist and that they all deserve respect. Along with garnering young fans and friends, my work experience has helped me respond to clients’ requests and critiques. However, watching a child’s face light up after I finish their sketch is the best part of the process. Every piece of media, sight, and story I hear inspires me to celebrate life by creating art. As an artist and writer, I want to create worlds where children see themselves: whether from different cultures, backgrounds, or sexualities. My goal is to design educational programs where a child like me can pick up a storybook or comic and feel the same joy I felt as a child, but this time with the added spark of seeing their true self reflected on the page. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible. My goal is to create art that entertains, but more importantly, tells every child that who they are is something to be proud of. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible. My goal is to create art that entertains, but more importantly, tells every child that who they are is something to be proud of.

From my earliest memories, fairytales sparked my imagination and made me want more. After reading my favorites, "Puff the Magic Dragon" or "Peter Rabbit" I would ask Mom to repeat my favorite lines all day because I couldn’t get enough of those stories. Being around children at home and in my work environment has deepened my understanding of how storytelling and creativity can shape young minds. Each artistic endeavor, from finger painting to guiding the children I work with, has solidified my belief that creativity is essential for a child's emotional and intellectual development. At my afterschool daycare job, kids surround me with drawing requests and tips on their coloring page doodles. As much as I loved fairytales, they were missing something important—someone like me. No princesses fell in love with each other, which left me feeling like my own love was something to hide. This gap shaped my mission as an artist: to create stories where all children, regardless of who they are, feel seen and celebrated. Being queer in a conservative state like Nebraska is like walking a tightrope, constantly balancing between staying true to myself and avoiding backlash from parents. I am not the only employee who faces this issue, many other coworkers of mine identify as queer and we got to know each other on our shared experiences. One of them, Noah, would never outwardly profess the fact that he was a gay man, but if a child asked he responded honestly. He convinced me to be true to myself because there was no point in hiding and lying to a kid. The first time a child asked me, "Do you have a boyfriend?" I answered truthfully, "No, I have a girlfriend," it felt liberating. I answered them honestly and showed them that different kinds of love exist and that they all deserve respect. Along with garnering young fans and friends, my work experience has helped me respond to clients’ requests and critiques. However, watching a child’s face light up after I finish their sketch is the best part of the process. Every piece of media, sight, and story I hear inspires me to celebrate life by creating art. As an artist and writer, I want to create worlds where children see themselves: whether from different cultures, backgrounds, or sexualities. My goal is to design educational programs where a child like me can pick up a storybook or comic and feel the same joy I felt as a child, but this time with the added spark of seeing their true self reflected on the page. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible. My goal is to create art that entertains, but more importantly, tells every child that who they are is something to be proud of. With this scholarship, I’ll ensure the next generation doesn’t grow up feeling invisible. My goal is to create art that entertains, but more importantly, tells every child that who they are is something to be proud of.

“You’d have to stop the world to stop the feeling” Ever since I heard the enchanting lyrics, Chappell Roan has not left my brain since. Seemingly becoming a national treasure overnight, her whole album, The Rise and Fall of the Midwestern Princess oozes character and fully establishes her emotional yet relatable style. That, coupled with her singles and performances proves she deserves all the hype. Roan perfectly blends a modern pop sound with her enchanting folk vocals. As a lesbian from the Midwest, it is so refreshing to see an openly queer artist get this much attention. Many old “queer” artists, took to queerbaiting to garner an audience. Like the Russian pop duo t.A.t.U. and Katy Perry, who pandered towards LGBTQ+ audiences, but never were a part of the communities that they portrayed. It felt fake, performative, and silenced actual queer music artists. Chappell Roan rewrote the game for gay representation in music. If only I had seen this representation when I was younger, then I could skip the years of shame and confusion over my sexuality. Now her music empowers herself and other young queer women like me. Her honesty as an artist directly influences not only her listeners' lives but also their creative expression. “Good luck, Babe!” resonated with me due to the song’s haunting melodies and realism. Regrets over relationships are common, between straight and gay couples alike. However, she captures the pining and complicated emotions over a past relationship. The bridge focuses on a married woman lamenting her ex-girlfriend and how she will never forget her love for her. Chappell Roan’s music has changed the way I come across artistic endeavors. Her confidence, themes, and vocal style have convinced me to advocate with my art and portray realistic situations as she does. Her openness as an artist directly influences not only her listeners' lives but also their creative expression.

“Hello, my name is ____ and I’m your new art teacher,” the newest blond young hire said as I furiously scribbled in my sketchbook. There was always another new art teacher throughout elementary and middle school, each with their own style and expectations. With that, I kept to myself and occasionally drew cute animals. The start of high school was no different, with some art classes sprinkled in. The teachers kept to themselves and I was hesitant to put in substantial effort, but other than that, I was a journalist. My paint strokes became paragraphs, and my portraits turned into photographs, but as the years passed, news writing drained my creative spirit. I longed for something more tactile and expressive, and Photoshop and graphic design reignited that spark. They reawakened my love for creative mediums. Previously unopened watercolor palettes became stained by consistent use, cheap sketchbooks were ruined by the number of things I glued and painted in, and I was creating more art than ever. I signed up for painting with Mrs. Stackis as my new calling. Mrs. Stackis was new, she would circle the room and give detailed suggestions and critiques on everyone’s work. She experimented alongside her students all the while with lipstick in her teeth. We shared a love for children’s books and she supported my dream of being an illustrator. At the same time, she had a student teacher, Mr. Kruse. He was shy and anxiety-riddled, yet extremely talented and knowledgeable. Mr. Kruse would meander and occasionally put in his input on a painting, but otherwise, he silently observed as we worked. With multiple eyes and opinions on my work, every piece felt like a collaboration. Taking longer than a week usually made me feel sluggish, but Mrs. Stackis pushed me to take my time and put in the most effort possible. She would even invite us to weekend art club workshops, where people would throw on the wheel, paint, and hang out. Sometimes her son, Sabie, would come over and we would giggle about Beyblades and Fortnite. Then, while distracted by my artistic euphoria a rumor spread: Mrs. Stackis had to resign and move to Wyoming. At first, I was in denial, but after checking the school board minutes, it broke me. The first time I touched a paintbrush after weeks of feeling lost, it felt heavy, like I was not just painting but trying to find my way again. It was a collective heartbreak for me and everyone who knew her. How could she leave when I had just started my journey? Does she know how empty the school will feel without her? While worrying about my future art endeavors, Mr. Kruse was hired in Mrs. Stackis’s stead. At least there was one constant guiding me out of high school. As the year began, Mr. Kruse grew into his role. The reserved man I once knew blossomed into a confident and motivated teacher. Her influence is apparent and shines through his lessons and interactions. The impact she has left on the school feels like she never left. Both have changed me as an artist and person and I cannot wait to carry on their legacies into college. By bringing Mrs. Stackis’s passion and Mr. Kruse’s variety to my future artworks I will share their effect on me with others. I hope to inspire my future readers the way they inspired me, showing that art is more than just technique—it is about exploration, perseverance, and passion.