Dyslexia has shaped how I learn and how I see myself within the world. I also navigate life as an autistic person with sensory processing differences, which affects how I experience my surroundings, from noise and lighting to social interaction. From an early age, I understood that traditional approaches to reading, writing, testing, and learning environments did not fully support the way my brain works. What may appear effortless to others often requires intense focus, intentional preparation, and recovery time for me. Growing up neurodivergent taught me resilience early. I learned how to advocate for accommodations, how to ask for help even when it felt uncomfortable, and how to listen to my body and brain when overstimulation made it hard to function. Sensory overload, communication differences, and rigid expectations in school settings often made learning exhausting rather than engaging. Still, these experiences strengthened my problem solving skills, self awareness, and empathy. I became someone who notices patterns others overlook, thinks deeply before responding, and approaches challenges creatively. Over time, I stopped seeing my disabilities only as obstacles and began to recognize them as lenses that shape how I understand the world. Navigating life with dyslexia, sensory processing differences, and autism has made me acutely aware of how inaccessible many systems are. Education often prioritizes speed, conformity, and social ease over understanding and flexibility. Students who learn or communicate differently are frequently underestimated or misunderstood, not because they lack ability, but because the system was not designed with them in mind. Experiencing this firsthand has fueled my motivation to pursue higher education in an environment that values interdisciplinary thinking, accessibility, and critical questioning. Higher education represents more than academic advancement for me. It is a pathway to impact. I plan to use my education to advocate for underserved and disabled communities, particularly neurodivergent students who are also marginalized by race, gender, or socioeconomic status. Having spent years navigating accommodation systems and learning how to self advocate, I want to help make those processes more transparent, humane, and equitable for others. Too many students struggle in silence simply because they do not have the language or support to ask for what they need. My experiences have also shaped my commitment to community centered work. Being autistic and disabled has taught me the power of shared understanding and collective care. I know how transformative it can be to feel believed, accommodated, and respected rather than treated as a problem to be fixed. Through my education, I hope to engage in advocacy, mentorship, and policy work that centers disabled voices and prioritizes access from the start. My neurodivergence has shaped my journey, but it has also clarified my purpose. With the support of this scholarship, I will continue to turn lived experience into meaningful change and use my education to uplift communities that are too often overlooked.

Living with dyslexia has shaped how I move through the world, how I learn, and how I understand myself. Alongside dyslexia, I also navigate life with sensory processing differences and autism, which affect how I experience sound, light, texture, and social environments. From an early age, I realized that my brain does not always cooperate with traditional systems of reading, writing, and testing, or with spaces that assume everyone processes information the same way. Tasks that seem effortless for others often require intense concentration, planning, and recovery for me. Growing up neurodivergent taught me resilience early. I learned how to advocate for accommodations, how to ask for help even when it felt uncomfortable, and how to listen to my body and brain when overstimulation made it hard to function. Sensory overload, communication differences, and rigid expectations in school settings often made learning exhausting rather than engaging. Still, these experiences strengthened my problem solving skills, self awareness, and empathy. I became someone who notices patterns others overlook, thinks deeply before responding, and approaches challenges creatively. Over time, I stopped seeing my disabilities only as obstacles and began to recognize them as lenses that shape how I understand the world. Navigating life with dyslexia, sensory processing differences, and autism has made me acutely aware of how inaccessible many systems are. Education often prioritizes speed, conformity, and social ease over understanding and flexibility. Students who learn or communicate differently are frequently underestimated or misunderstood, not because they lack ability, but because the system was not designed with them in mind. Experiencing this firsthand has fueled my motivation to pursue higher education in an environment that values interdisciplinary thinking, accessibility, and critical questioning. Higher education represents more than academic advancement for me. It is a pathway to impact. I plan to use my education to advocate for underserved and disabled communities, particularly neurodivergent students who are also marginalized by race, gender, or socioeconomic status. Having spent years navigating accommodation systems and learning how to self advocate, I want to help make those processes more transparent, humane, and equitable for others. Too many students struggle in silence simply because they do not have the language or support to ask for what they need. My experiences have also shaped my commitment to community centered work. Being autistic and disabled has taught me the power of shared understanding and collective care. I know how transformative it can be to feel believed, accommodated, and respected rather than treated as a problem to be fixed. Through my education, I hope to engage in advocacy, mentorship, and policy work that centers disabled voices and prioritizes access from the start. I am a strong candidate for this scholarship because I understand perseverance not as an abstract concept, but as a daily practice. I have learned how to succeed in systems that were not built for me, and I am committed to helping rebuild those systems so that others do not have to navigate the same barriers alone. My neurodivergence has shaped my journey, but it has also clarified my purpose. With the support of this scholarship, I will continue to turn lived experience into meaningful change and use my education to uplift communities that are too often overlooked.

For much of my early education, I lived with medical conditions that were undiagnosed and poorly understood, which deeply affected how I experienced school. I often left school early because my symptoms became unmanageable. At times, I would lose my hearing for short periods, making it difficult to follow lessons or conversations. Eating was another challenge. Because of how my body reacted, I frequently avoided food, not out of choice, but out of fear of triggering nausea, dizziness, or fatigue. These experiences made school unpredictable and exhausting, setting me apart from my peers in ways I did not yet have the language to explain. Without a diagnosis, my symptoms were frequently minimized or misattributed to stress or anxiety. As a result, I learned to push through discomfort rather than ask for support, internalizing the idea that struggling was a personal failure rather than a sign that something was wrong. Even after eventually receiving a diagnosis of Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, the effects of years spent undiagnosed lingered in my body. Chronic fatigue, sensory disruptions, and difficulty regulating basic functions did not disappear overnight. Switching to an online learning environment after my diagnosis allowed me to manage my health more effectively, but it also revealed how much damage had already been done by years without proper accommodations or understanding. Now, as I prepare for college, I am confronting the long-term consequences of being undiagnosed throughout my formative years. I must think intentionally about the accommodations I will need to succeed in a new academic environment, from flexible attendance policies to access to assistive devices and medical care. Self-advocacy is no longer optional; it is a necessary skill I continue to develop. Balancing these responsibilities while transitioning to college requires significant time, energy, and financial resources. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to focus fully on my academics and on advocating for myself in college without the constant pressure of financial strain. It would help cover the cost of my education while easing the burden of paying for necessary medications, medical appointments, and assistive devices that allow me to function day to day. With that support, I can direct my energy toward learning, growth, and meaningful participation in my academic community, rather than choosing between my health and my education. With this stability, I will be able to fully pursue my academic passions without my health acting as a barrier to my ambition. I plan to major in mathematics, drawn to its emphasis on persistence, structure, and problem solving, skills I have refined through years of managing uncertainty in my own body. My minors in Gender and Sexuality Studies and Philosophy reflect my desire to critically examine systems, ethics, and inequities, particularly those that determine whose needs are recognized and whose are overlooked. This scholarship would give me the freedom to engage deeply with my coursework, seek mentorship, and advocate for myself in college with confidence. More than financial support, it would provide the foundation I need to transform my experiences into purpose and to enter higher education prepared to learn, contribute, and thrive.

Growing up with chronic medical conditions shaped nearly every part of my daily life, from how I experienced school to how I learned to understand my own limits. Frequent migraines, persistent nausea, dizziness, and sudden waves of fatigue made consistency difficult. On many days, simply staying upright in class required concentration, let alone participating in discussions or keeping pace with coursework. Repeated absences for medical appointments and tests often yielded few answers, and my symptoms were frequently dismissed as stress or anxiety. This lack of clarity left me feeling invisible within systems that were supposed to support me, both in healthcare and in education. Living with uncertainty forced me to develop resilience and self-awareness at an early age. I became attuned to patterns in my body, noticing what triggered symptoms and how small adjustments could make a difference. Over time, I learned to advocate for myself, asking more precise questions and pushing for explanations when something did not feel right. Receiving a diagnosis of Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome was a turning point, not because it solved everything, but because it validated my experiences and gave me a framework to understand them. With that understanding, I made intentional choices about how I learned. Transitioning to an online learning environment allowed me to manage my health while still challenging myself academically, and it taught me that success does not require fitting into systems that were not built with bodies like mine in mind. Managing my health has deeply influenced how I approach learning and problem-solving. Navigating chronic illness requires analyzing variables, testing solutions, and adjusting strategies when conditions change, a process that mirrors mathematical thinking. This is one reason I am drawn to mathematics as a major. Math rewards persistence and creative reasoning, and it has taught me that complex problems often demand patience rather than quick answers. My minors in Gender and Sexuality Studies and Philosophy further reflect how my experiences have pushed me to question systems, examine ethics, and think critically about whose needs are prioritized and whose are overlooked. Together, these disciplines allow me to connect abstract reasoning with real-world structures and inequities. Looking ahead, I hope all of these experiences accumulate into a career as a mathematics professor. I want to teach in a way that recognizes students as whole people, not just as test scores or attendance records. Having navigated the challenges of securing accommodations myself, I aim to actively help students access the accommodations and flexibility they deserve, rather than placing the burden solely on them to advocate for their education alone. By combining my passion for mathematics with my commitment to equity, accessibility, and thoughtful inquiry, I hope to help build academic spaces where students with disabilities can fully engage, succeed, and feel seen.

When I watched Wicked, I didn’t just see a story about good and evil or friendship and power. I saw myself split across two characters I had always thought were opposites: Glinda and Elphaba. After watching Wicked: Part One, I realized that the tension between them mirrors a tension I’ve carried within myself for years and that I no longer need to choose one side over the other. In Glinda, I see the part of me that values connection, presentation, and being understood. Like her, I am aware of how I come across to others, and I enjoy expressing myself through fashion, using style as a way to communicate confidence and creativity. I also love leading and bringing people together, such as when I organized discussions in Book Club where members could share their thoughts on books and connect over stories. Sometimes we even joke about how Wicked was a book before it became a musical, proving that some stories just refuse to stay in one form. There is a warmth in Glinda that I recognize in myself: a desire to belong, to be liked, and to create harmony. For a long time, I felt guilty about this side of me, as if caring about approval or appearance made me shallow or inauthentic. But Glinda taught me that kindness, charm, and social awareness are not weaknesses. They are tools that, when used thoughtfully, can open doors for others as well as for yourself In Elphaba, I see my convictions. She represents the part of me that questions systems, notices injustice even when it would be easier not to, and is willing to stand alone rather than stay silent. For example, as a founding member of Aevidum, I have spoken up in school meetings to advocate for mental health awareness, even when it felt uncomfortable or when others hesitated to challenge the status quo. I have also organized discussions in my Gender and Sexuality Alliance to push for more inclusive policies, like expanding safe spaces for LGBTQ+ students. Elphaba’s passion, resilience, and her refusal to shrink resonate deeply with me. I’ve often been told, directly or indirectly, that this side of me is “too much.” Watching Elphaba, I understood that being different, outspoken, or uncompromising does not make you wrong. Sometimes, it makes you necessary. What Wicked helped me realize is that I don’t have to split myself in two. I can carry Glinda’s empathy and Elphaba’s courage at the same time. Moving into my future, whether in academics, leadership, or advocacy, I plan to let these sides work together. I want to challenge injustice without losing compassion and to lead with both conviction and care. Embracing both Glinda and Elphaba means embracing my full self and that balance is what will guide me forward.

I am a fan of Sabrina Carpenter because she embraces her sexuality with confidence and intention in an industry that often expects women to be quiet, modest, and easily digestible. I have been a fan since 2022, when I first connected deeply with her album Emails I Can’t Send. That project felt raw and self aware, especially in the way it explored heartbreak, agency, and the consequences of speaking honestly as a woman. From that moment on, following her career has felt like watching someone grow more assured in her voice rather than softening it for comfort. Sabrina may be short, but she never makes herself small, choosing confidence and autonomy over conformity. As someone who plans to study Gender and Sexuality Studies, watching her challenge expectations around women’s sexuality has been deeply impactful. Her career shows that self expression is often treated as transgressive when it comes from women, and that choosing confidence can itself be a form of resistance. Her music captures this balance between vulnerability and power in ways that feel intentional and sharp. Songs like Busy Woman and Fast Times celebrate independence and self possession, while Feather turns emotional detachment into something playful rather than apologetic. At the same time, Lie to Girls and Dumb & Poetic critique the ways women are taught to romanticize harm or accept less than they deserve. Listening to her music feels like being in conversation with someone who understands the contradictions of womanhood and is unafraid to name them. Her humor is just as important to me as her music. Whether she is poking fun at dating dynamics in Read Your Mind, reclaiming power after betrayal in Vicious, or offering biting social commentary in Thumbs, she blends wit with critique effortlessly. Even her stage presence, from self aware jokes to confidently owning her height, reinforces the idea that women do not need to minimize themselves to be taken seriously. Sabrina Carpenter has shown me that femininity, sexuality, and intellect are not contradictions. They can coexist loudly, humorously, and unapologetically. Her career reinforces why I want to study Gender and Sexuality Studies, to better understand how cultural expectations are constructed and how they can be challenged. She reminds me that being fully yourself is not just empowering, it is political.

In the vibrant world of TikTok, I stumbled upon a drag queen posing a deceptively complex question: “How many holes are in a straw?” The comment section exploded with answers ranging from zero to infinity. Curious, I waited for a follow-up video, which explained that a straw has one hole, topologically. That moment introduced me to topology, the branch of mathematics that studies shapes by their essential properties rather than rigid measurements. Suddenly, math was no longer just equations on a page. It was imaginative, flexible, and deeply conceptual. I realized then that STEM, and specifically mathematics, could be a space for curiosity, creativity, and self discovery, and I wanted to be part of it. Topology teaches that a doughnut, a straw, and a wedding ring are fundamentally the same. No matter how much they bend or stretch, their defining features remain. That idea mirrors how I understand myself. I know this to be true about who I am: I am resilient and continuous, able to adapt without losing my essence. Mathematics gave me language for that truth and a reason to pursue it seriously. STEM challenges me to think abstractly, question assumptions, and find meaning beneath surface level differences. It rewards curiosity and persistence, qualities that have shaped both my academic path and my identity. As a Black and queer student, navigating STEM spaces has not always felt welcoming. Too often, people of color are expected to assimilate, to simplify themselves, or to prove they belong. At times, it feels like society is trying to tear or glue parts of me into something more acceptable. Yet, just as topology preserves a shape’s core properties, my identity remains intact. The history, culture, and strength passed through generations form the unbreakable features of who I am. These experiences fuel my determination to stay in STEM and to reshape it into a field where more people can see themselves reflected. I find inspiration in mathematicians of color who refused to shrink in spaces that were not built for them. Katherine Johnson transformed aerospace engineering with her calculations while navigating both racism and sexism. Edray Goins advances mathematical research while actively advocating for diversity and mentorship in the field. Figures like Sofya Kovalevskaya and Marjorie Rice remind me that mathematics has always been expanded by those excluded from traditional pathways. Their work shows me that impact in STEM is not only about discovery, but also about access, visibility, and transformation. I am pursuing a degree in Mathematics because I want to contribute both intellectually and culturally. I hope to create spaces where students of color feel encouraged to ask unconventional questions, to see beauty in abstraction, and to trust their own ways of thinking. Whether through research, teaching, or advocacy, I want to challenge the idea that STEM is rigid or exclusive. Like topology, I want the field to value what endures rather than what conforms. When I see a doughnut, a straw, or a wedding ring, I see more than shapes. I see persistence, connection, and possibility. STEM taught me that complexity is not something to fear, but something to explore. As a person of color in mathematics, I plan to bring my full, authentic self into the field and to help reshape it into one that is as flexible, resilient, and whole as the concepts that first drew me in.

Being part of the disabled community has fundamentally changed how I see the world, myself, and the systems I move through. For a long time, I understood school as a place I was meant to fit into seamlessly. When I could not, I assumed the problem was me. While attending in person school, chronic nausea and migraines often kept me from fully participating. Conversations felt exhausting and isolating. Even when I tried to engage with my peers, I felt disconnected, as though everyone else was operating on a frequency I could not reach. I wanted answers, but repeated medical appointments left me without clarity. My symptoms were frequently dismissed as anxiety or stress, explanations that felt incomplete and deeply frustrating. Without a diagnosis or validation, I began to feel invisible within both the classroom and the healthcare system. Everything shifted when I found the online disabled community. For the first time, I encountered people who spoke openly about symptoms that mirrored my own. Through shared stories and educational posts, I learned about Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome and recognized patterns that aligned closely with my experiences. More importantly, I gained language. I learned how to describe what my body was doing, how to ask informed questions, and how to advocate for myself without apology. When I brought this knowledge to my doctor, he agreed that POTS was very likely. After testing, that suspicion was confirmed. After COVID, this same community gave me the courage to advocate for my educational needs as well. When schools pushed to return fully in person, I had to confront the reality that doing so would compromise my health and well being. Through the stories and support of other disabled students, I learned that choosing an online learning environment was not giving up or taking an easier path. It was a valid and responsible decision. With that encouragement, I advocated for myself to remain online, a choice that allowed me to prioritize my health while continuing to grow academically. This experience has shaped my educational journey in profound ways. Navigating school while managing a chronic condition has required adaptability, self advocacy, and persistence. It has also taught me to value alternative learning spaces that challenge traditional definitions of success. Online education gave me the flexibility to engage fully with my coursework, rather than spending my energy simply trying to endure the school day. Looking ahead, I want to give back to the community that gave me so much. I plan to share my own story, the strategies that help me manage my symptoms, and the lessons I have learned about self advocacy. Even small acts of openness can help someone else feel less alone or find the words they need to be heard. As I enter college, I look forward to finding an in person disabled community where I can both receive support and actively contribute. I hope to engage in on the ground advocacy work, whether through student organizations, accessibility initiatives, or peer support, helping to make campuses more inclusive for disabled students. In my future academic and professional endeavors, I aim to center accessibility, inclusion, and compassion, not as accommodations, but as necessities. Being part of the disabled community has taught me that resilience is not about pushing through pain in silence. It is about listening, learning, and lifting one another up. That perspective will guide me wherever I go next.

Islanders, it’s time to put your relationships to the ultimate test! Welcome to The Compatibility Lab. Sparks aren’t enough. You will have to prove how well you really know your partner. This challenge will push you beyond flirting and chemistry while testing your values, instincts, and communication skills and of course stirring up plenty of drama along the way! The Villa is transformed into a “lab” with multiple stations around the garden. Each couple wears matching wristbands, and even single Islanders participate through observation rounds. The challenge has three rounds. In Round 1, Blind Choices, partners are separated and answer multiple-choice questions about their relationship, such as their love language, how they handle conflict, and their biggest turn-offs. They then predict how their partner answered. The results are revealed as percentages, showing how in sync they are. In Round 2, Real-Time Reactions, couples reunite and face hypothetical relationship scenarios without seeing each other’s answers. Non-matching responses must be explained, often revealing assumptions, insecurities, or hidden truths. This round encourages honest communication and sparks natural drama. In Round 3, The Swap Test, Islanders temporarily pair with someone they are not coupled with and answer the same questions after discussing them together. If the swap pair scores higher than a real couple, it is announced publicly, creating potential tension, jealousy, or strategic moves. At the end, each Islander receives a sealed envelope with their highest and lowest compatibility matches in the Villa and one surprising insight about themselves. They choose whether to share this information with their partner or keep it private, adding another layer of suspense. The highest-scoring couple wins a luxury date and the power to send one Islander on a special date of their choosing, while the lowest-scoring couple must spend the night in the “Reflection Zone,” a quiet, isolated space for serious conversation. This challenge balances fun, strategy, and emotional depth. It tests compatibility, sparks conversation, and naturally creates drama, all while encouraging Islanders to reflect on what really matters in their relationships.

I keep coming back to the idea of building a school or learning space that does not divide knowledge into neat categories. In this place, math, literature, philosophy, and history would exist in conversation with one another, shaping how students understand the world and their place in it. Students would be pushed to ask “why” before rushing toward an answer, and curiosity would be treated as something to practice, not something you either have or do not. Learning would be about growth, revision, and exploration, not about being perfect or fast. I am excited by the idea because it mirrors how I actually learn and think. It also feels almost impossible. Schools are shaped by rigid systems, limited funding, and constant pressure to standardize students and outcomes. Still, no matter how unrealistic it seems, I cannot stop imagining what education could look like if it were built around connection, flexibility, and care rather than compliance. This dream grew out of my own experience as a student who never quite fit into traditional classrooms. For a long time, learning felt like something I had to perform rather than experience honestly. Growing up dyslexic, I often faked understanding just to fit the box I was expected to stay in. I learned how to compensate, how to stay quiet, and how to appear capable even when I was struggling. Eventually, I realized that the issue was never my curiosity or my intelligence. It was the structure of learning itself. Too often, being “good” at school means being fast, polished, and correct the first time, leaving little room for slow thinking, messy questions, or different ways of learning. As I got older, I discovered a genuine love of reading through audiobooks, which showed me how much easier and more joyful learning could be when methods matched the learner. If I had been encouraged earlier to experiment with how I learned, much of that struggle could have turned into excitement instead. In my dream school, learning differences would not be treated as flaws to correct. They would be understood as part of how students think and process information. Classrooms would be flexible, discussion based, and built around trust. Students would be encouraged to revise their thinking, not just their answers. Grades would exist, but they wouldn’t be the point. Reflection, collaboration, and persistence would matter more than memorization. I know this dream is unrealistic in many ways. Schools are bound by funding, accreditation, and slow-moving systems, and I am still a student learning how to navigate institutions rather than reshape them. At times, the scale of this dream feels overwhelming. Still, change begins with imagination. Moving toward it will require patience, courage, deep study across disciplines, and most importantly small steps and communities that believe in collective growth. Above all, it will require holding onto my belief that learning should feel human. My pie in the sky dream is not just about building a school. It is about building a different relationship to knowledge. One rooted in care, flexibility, and intellectual freedom. Even if I never create this place exactly as I imagine it, I want my life’s work to move education closer to that vision. That commitment is what keeps the dream alive.

Growing up with undiagnosed dyslexia, reading was a challenge that often left me feeling frustrated and isolated. I became a quiet master of disguise, pretending to read in class, overcompensating in subjects that came easier, or sneaking away from overstimulating environments. School felt like a maze I was not designed to navigate, and I struggled to find my place among my peers. Everything changed when I discovered audiobooks. Suddenly, stories that had once been inaccessible became immersive experiences. The words, once stumbling blocks, now came alive in my ears, and I found joy in reading for the first time. This transformation inspired me to help others discover the same joy I had found. As an officer in my book club, I share my journey openly, encouraging peers who struggle with reading to explore new ways of engaging with stories. I organize discussions, suggest books, and introduce members to genres they have never considered. I love watching their faces light up when they discover something they genuinely enjoy. Some have tried audiobooks for the first time and found that, like me, it opened doors to a world of literature they never thought they could access. Leading the club has taught me how to guide others, foster a welcoming environment, and celebrate small victories along the way. My involvement with Book Buddies, a program I co-founded allowing high schooler to read to and improve literacy in elementary students, has extended this impact. Reading to second graders and seeing their excitement grow, watching them begin to love reading for themselves, has been incredibly rewarding. Hosting the welcome table at the Abington Library’s annual Summer Reading Kickoff allowed me to support literacy over the summer months, when reading engagement typically drops. I helped guide families and kids toward books that matched their interests, creating a bridge between struggling readers and the joy of storytelling. These experiences have taught me that perseverance and positive impact are deeply connected. The challenges I faced in reading pushed me to find innovative solutions for myself, and sharing those strategies with others has amplified their impact. My persistence, first in overcoming my own struggles and now in helping others, has resulted in tangible successes. A younger student might discover a love for graphic novels, a second grader may finish their first chapter book, or a peer could realize that audiobooks are a valid way to experience literature. Each of these moments reinforces that the effort I invested in my own growth can empower others on their journeys. Looking back, my struggles with reading were not just obstacles but opportunities to cultivate empathy, resourcefulness, and a commitment to helping others. Every book I read, every child I inspire through Book Buddies or my book club, and every library event I support is a small but meaningful way to make the world more accessible for those who face challenges similar to mine. My perseverance has not only transformed my life but continues to help others discover the power of reading, turning personal struggle into shared success.

I first understood the importance of queer spaces through my work with Q-Crew at my local library. These programs were more than meetings; they were lifelines. Growing up Black, queer, and neurodivergent, I often scanned classrooms, clubs, and online spaces for signs of safety and belonging. Being part of Q-Crew, the Abington Library's club for LGBTQ+ teens and allies, showed me that safety is not automatic, especially when programs like Rainbow Connections, the K–5 queer group, were questioned and challenged. This made me realize that these spaces aren't guarantied and need to be actively protected. This realization sparked my journey in advocacy for queer youth. I helped organize a Q-Crew meeting with a state representative, developing topic points that addressed the unique challenges queer youth face and advocated for supportive policies. As an officer of my school's Gender and Sexuality Alliance, I revised our policy on protecting queer students' identities, assisted with implementing students' name changes in directories. I coordinated events like PrideFest, where I set up safe spaces, shared resources, and supported teens and families. These experiences taught me that creating and maintaining safe spaces requires continuous effort and active advocacy, a mission I hope to dedicate my life to. My goal is to become a professor who combines research and mentorship to make a positive impact. I hope to teach innovative classes exploring the intersection of gender and sexuality studies with mathematics, showing how these fields can inform and enrich each other. My classroom will be inclusive, emphasizing empathy, diversity, and collaboration, and my mentorship will empower students to become informed advocates and leaders addressing the challenges faced by marginalized communities. One project I hope to develop applies mathematics to the social networks of queer youth. Using network theory and topological modeling, I aim to map where LGBTQIA+ students feel safe in clubs, classrooms, clinics, online spaces, and mutual-aid hubs. By identifying the nodes that connect people and the gaps where isolation occurs, we can guide peer navigators and partner organizations to strengthen support systems. Partnering with schools and community organizations, this data can help create adaptive, sustainable networks. Combining mathematics with gender and sexuality studies equips me to both understand these networks and help implement solutions that make a tangible difference. These goals grew from reflecting on my own experiences. I remember walking into classrooms and noticing the relief of seeing a supportive teacher or an affirming poster. Those small signals mattered deeply, much like the lifelines I found through Q-Crew. Watching children light up when they saw themselves reflected at PrideFest reminded me that visibility alone is not enough. Meaningful support requires structure, attention, and care. Just as I have advocated for and built safe spaces in my community, I am committed to continuing this work in my career and research, creating environments where every queer individual feels seen, safe, and connected.

A doughnut, a straw, and a wedding ring may look different, but topologically, they are the same. One can be reshaped into the other without tearing or gluing. Topology teaches that it is not rigid details but the fundamental properties, the holes, that define a shape. I see a mirror of myself in that idea. My identity is like a topological shape, resilient and continuous, able to stretch and adapt, but never losing its essence despite the pressures around me. I usually introduce myself as Black and queer, a shorthand that makes sense quickly, but the full story is more nuanced. I am biracial and bisexual. Living in this in-between space shapes how I move through the world. Society often tries to fold my identity into narrow categories, but I remain continuous, adaptable, and whole. My Black and queer identities are the holes in my shape, unalterable spaces that define me. They give me perspective, resilience, and the ability to navigate spaces that often overlook or simplify people like me. Growing up as a first-generation student has added another layer to this identity. My parents have always supported me, even though they did not have experience navigating higher education. Their guidance and example of perseverance have taught me how to stretch, bend, and adapt without losing myself. They have shaped the ways I approach challenges, whether academic or personal, and have instilled in me a drive to honor their sacrifices through my own growth. In the classroom, I am drawn to algebraic topology. Studying the ways shapes connect, twist, and persist has given me a language for thinking about identity, culture, and connection. A doughnut remains a doughnut no matter how it bends, and my identity remains whole through challenges. Algebraic topology shows me that the essence of a shape, like the essence of a person, is preserved through change. That understanding drives my curiosity, fuels my resilience, and shapes the way I approach the world. Being in this in-between space allows me to see connections others might miss, to navigate difference with curiosity and care, and to approach complexity without trying to simplify it. I bring that perspective to every classroom, every discussion, and every community I join. It has shaped the way I think, the way I interact with others, and the way I see myself in the world. Just like the shapes I study, I remain continuous, adaptable, and whole, ready to bend, stretch, and connect while staying true to who I am. This combination of resilience, curiosity, and the ability to navigate complex spaces. I am motivated not just by personal achievement, but by a desire to explore the intersections of identity, culture, and knowledge. Whether in the classroom, among my peers, or in my community, I bring a perspective that values connection, adaptability, and integrity. I hope to continue learning, creating, and contributing in ways that reflect both who I am and the people and histories that have shaped me.

Growing up, I saw how mental health struggles can ripple through a family. Loved ones quietly navigated depression, and at the same time, I was dealing with my own anxiety. Experiencing this firsthand gave me a new perspective. I learned that mental health challenges are not a personal failing but a part of life, and that support, understanding, and patience can make all the difference. These experiences shaped the way I see the world and the people in it. They also shaped the way I connect with others. I became someone who listens closely, notices the little signs that someone might be struggling, and tries to create a space where people feel safe to share. I realized that even small conversations, moments of understanding, or just being there for someone can have a bigger impact than I ever imagined. My experiences taught me that relationships grow stronger when we show empathy and care, and that supporting others is both powerful and meaningful. Turning these experiences into action became a natural next step. I earned my QPR certification to learn how to recognize warning signs of suicide and offer support to those in crisis. This gave me real tools to help peers, and it strengthened my belief that awareness and advocacy can truly save lives. My work with Aevidum has allowed me to take that personal understanding and turn it into community impact. As a student ambassador at Reach Cyber Charter School, I helped organize campaigns that encourage open conversations about mental health, reduce stigma, and connect students with support resources. Every campaign, event, and conversation felt like a way to create the kind of community I had always wished for. Now, as a member of the Aevidum Youth Advisory Board, I contribute student perspectives to advocacy efforts, help create youth-informed programming, and work on Social Media and Virtual Campaign Committees. In these roles, I design initiatives to support online learners and build inclusive, affirming spaces where everyone can feel seen and heard. These experiences have shaped my values and inspired my future goals. I want to continue advocating for mental health, creating programs that empower others, and fostering spaces where support is accessible and stigma is dismantled. I hope to combine my personal experiences with my skills in leadership, communication, and creativity to make a real difference in the lives of young people. Through witnessing family struggles, facing my own anxiety, and committing to advocacy, I’ve learned that empathy, understanding, and action are inseparable. Mental health experiences have influenced how I think, how I connect with others, and how I want to impact the world. They have guided my beliefs, strengthened my relationships, and inspired my career aspirations. I want to help ensure that no one has to face mental health challenges alone and that every person knows they deserve support and affirmation.

I have always loved finding patterns where others see chaos, but Math in Drag by Kyne Santos showed me that math could do more than make sense of numbers. In the final chapter, Santos compares realness in drag to realness in mathematics, showing that both are about claiming authenticity on your own terms. Suddenly math felt alive, personal, and a little rebellious. I wanted to study it not just for theorems but for what it could reveal about the world and the spaces we inhabit. This curiosity has led me to topology, where abstract concepts of shape and connectivity can be applied to social networks and systems. I am fascinated by the idea of using network topology to study how queer spaces form, evolve, and sustain themselves. I want to examine these networks logically, identifying ways to make queer communities more accessible and resilient. Math becomes a tool to imagine better systems and policies, to transform ideas into action, and to make structures in both theory and society stronger and more fair. Books like Math in Drag have shaped not only my interests but also my approach to learning. They showed me that STEM and social justice are not separate paths but can inform each other, and that rigorous thinking can coexist with creativity and care. Through this lens, research is not just an academic pursuit. It is a way to make meaningful change. The Code Breakers and Changemakers Scholarship would allow me to focus fully on this work. This support would free me and allow me to dedicate myself to undergraduate research and maintain high academic performance without worrying about covering expenses. Immersed in research now, I can gain the depth of experience necessary to enter a PhD program directly after college. There, I would continue exploring algebraic topology alongside questions of identity, equity, and philosophy, preparing to contribute to both the academic community and the broader world. Ultimately, I hope to build a career where mathematics, research, and social impact intersect. I want to teach, study, and develop models that illuminate how communities form and thrive. I want my work to reflect the same principle Santos celebrates, the freedom to define realness on our own terms and use that clarity to make life more equitable and meaningful for others. With the support of this scholarship, I can focus entirely on cultivating the knowledge, experience, and skills to turn abstract structures into real-world change.

When I was younger, mornings were always a challenge. Getting dressed for school could send me into sensory overload; the scratch tags, the tightness of collars, or the tickling of sock seams not sitting right. By the time I got to school, the bright lights, constant chatter, and crowded hallways often left me drained. I’d get migraines that no amount of medicine could fix because they were caused by overstimulation. At the time, my family and I didn’t know why these things were so hard for me. We just thought I was “sensitive,” and that I’d grow out of it. It wasn’t until I was older that we finally learned the reason: I’m autistic. Understanding that helped everything make sense. The way I planned out every detail, how I got overwhelmed in loud environments, and why I sometimes needed extra time to recharge. But even with that understanding, things didn’t instantly become easier. For years, I tried to mask: to hide my stimming, force myself through social exhaustion, and act like everything was fine. I thought fitting in was more important than being myself. As I’ve grown, I’ve learned that masking doesn’t make me stronger, acceptance does. My autism isn’t something to hide or fix; it’s part of what makes me who I am. It gives me empathy, creativity, and a unique way of seeing the world. Now, I’m proud to be open about it. As the leader of my school’s Mental Health Awareness Club, Aevidum, I work to destigmatize mental health and developmental disabilities. We create safe spaces for students to learn, share, and celebrate what makes them different and just like our slogan where they know we’ve got their back. I’ve grown from a kid overwhelmed by my senses into someone who embraces them, and who uses that understanding to help others do the same.

The first time I attended the Abington Township Library was for their queer club, Q-Crew. We were doing an affirming photoshoot with a queer photographer, and when they asked who wanted to go first everyone waited a second… and then two, then three, and so I offered to go and take photos first. In the beginning, I felt a surge of nervous excitement, but stepping forward filled me with a sense of pride in taking initiative. The photographer and I walked around the outside of the library, taking photos in front of greenery and the library's brick structure. When we walked back to the group, nobody wanted to follow and take photos, so I decided to be the token cheerleader, following everyone around as they took their photos and hyping them up. After that experience, I made many connections with the people that attend Q-Crew, continuing to cheer them on in their everyday life pursuits. Q-Crew isn’t the only activity I participate in at my local library, I am also an active volunteer at my library. For our big events, I often host the welcome tables, requiring me to speak to and assist hundreds of people. PrideFest is one of the big events at which I hosted the welcome table. I directed fellow volunteers to their stations, welcomed guests with open arms, and handed out goodies like pride flags, pins, and stickers so everyone felt included in the festivities. I enjoy setting the tone for the event, putting on a bubbly and welcoming personality to ensure everyone feels like they belong. As I handed out pride flags and stickers, the bright smiles and joyful laughter around me reinforced the sense of belonging the other volunteers and I were creating. When hosting welcome tables, you don't only welcome the guests, but you also get to welcome and direct the other volunteers. In my role as teen volunteer coordinator I often find myself doing just that. At the Summer Reading Kick-Off the library hosted, I helped direct the teen volunteers to their stations, made sure they knew where the food and drinks were, and that they knew they could take a break from the heat inside. I also got to help the kids who were shy come out of their shells when volunteering by assisting them until they got comfortable with the environment, tailoring my approach to their strengths. One of the most rewarding moments was when the shy volunteer who was assigned the welcome table with me began speaking to guests after my encouragement. As I reflect on my experiences with Q-Crew, Ab-Tab, and my volunteer work at the library, I realize the immense impact such events can have on a community. I hope to see more spaces where individuals feel celebrated and accepted for who they are. By fostering inclusivity and encouraging participation, these gatherings serve as a catalyst for building a community characterized by understanding and empathy. I aspire to contribute to a world where everyone, regardless of their background, feels empowered to step forward, just as I did during that initial photoshoot. Through my continued efforts, I aim to create an environment where everyone is not only welcomed but also inspired to support and uplift one another.

In the fifth grade I developed a great love for mathematics, playing the game twenty-four I built my ability to do quick multiplication, division, addition, and substitution like it was a mussel. I loved the challenge of answering as quickly as I could to the point where if you gave me four numbers on a card I could get to 24 in seconds. In the seventh grade I started watching videos on YouTube that covered mathematical topics from the impossible 3x+1 problem to traffic engineering. On those same YouTube channels they cover philosophical problems and topics, I began to discover my love for deep and philosophical thought through those videos. I looked for a combination of the two. That is when I found one of my favorite topics to study. In the effort to uncover the secrets of the vast universe around us we find ourselves at the crossroads between mathematics and philosophy. When the applicable meets the abstract we are met with a glimpse into our universe like no other, one where our natural desire for understanding comes out to play and we want to speak to each other to uncover these mysteries in order to understand human existence just a little bit better. My favorite intersection of the concepts lies in the Philosophy of Mathematics; The debate on whether mathematics was discovered or invented. Many big names in the worlds of philosophy and mathematics have debated this topic, from Plato to Hartry Field. Plato believed that mathematics exists outside of our language, mind, and practice. He believed that the numbers and concepts were set in stone and existed outside of whether we knew of them or not. Platonism in Philosophy of Mathematics is the idea that the concepts within mathematics were discovered and crucial to understanding the universe around us. Mathematical fictionalism, a belief that Hartry Field held, states that all mathematical concepts are but mer fiction and that mathematics is useful in creating order in chaos but not in discovering the mysteries of the universe around us. Field believed that though proven useful in our human endeavors mathematics was not an intrinsic part of our universe. This centuries-long debate will likely go on for many more centuries without a definitive answer. That does not mean it is not a valuable debate and topic though, it gave way to new ideologies in the world of mathematics such as Platonism and fictionalism along with many other ideologies. It added to the number of questions about the universe that one day someone with the right amount of curiosity can solve. It has also resulted in people from all different backgrounds and specialties to come together and think about the nature of our universe. So whether we stumbled upon mathematics like unburied treasure or we crafted it ourselves, I will continue to use the philosophy of mathematics to help broaden our understanding of ourselves and the universe around me by questioning our mind, logic, and the grand universe around us.

My fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Schultz sparked a competitive nature and drive in me that I hadn’t yet realized I possessed. Our class would play the game 24, and while quick computational skills had never been my forte, I suddenly started to see the combinations to win the game appear almost instantaneously when the numbers were revealed. This new skill excited me and made me want to experience this type of personal “win” more often. My obsession with mathematics then started to build. We also used sites like iReady. The expectation was for students to complete one lesson per week, but I enjoyed math so much that I completed three times the required lessons for the year. I was even going outside of iReady to find other sources to learn the concepts for lessons I was trying to complete before the class caught up. I remained virtual after the pandemic. I loved the freedom virtual learning gave me to learn at my own pace and go far beyond the timeline of traditional school curriculum. At Reach, we used IXL for math lessons. My drive to go ahead of the class again guided my learning. I did lessons when I was just sitting at night, out to eat waiting to be served, and even completed lessons while in line for rides at Disney World. I knew that math was my passion. Learning new concepts and finding ways to solve complex problems was exhilarating. I started seeking out more challenging mathematical theories and consuming them at a rapid pace. My Google Search, YouTube Feed and even TikTok started to become curated with theory videos, how-to videos, and deep dives on different math concepts. From this point in seventh grade things began moving rapidly. I moved from seventh grade mathematics to Algebra 1 and all Gifted and Talented courses. By eighth grade I was placed in all high school honors courses and took both Algebra 2 and Geometry. Since finding my passion, mathematics, my educational trajectory has changed drastically. I am on track to graduate high school two years early. I hope to attend Harvard University, specifically because of their Math 55 course - a two-semester freshman undergraduate mathematics course which is said to be “the hardest undergraduate math class in the country." It’s amazing how small moments can change your path in life, or help you find new passions you would never expect.