Mrs. Marion Makins lived by three pillars: education, community service, and faith. Though she was a lifelong member of Beulah Baptist Church, and I am Catholic, I recognize her legacy in the values we share: faith, service, and uplifting others. I carry these values in my name as well. I was named after St. Paul, a man who transformed from persecutor to apostle and who endured suffering yet never stopped preaching hope. St. Paul wrote, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" (Philippians 4:13). That verse has carried me through my darkest days with anxiety and depression. It reminds me that perseverance is not the absence of struggle; it is faith in action. I am a psychology major specializing in Industrial-Organizational (I/O) psychology, pursuing a career in human resources. Service takes many forms, and one of the most impactful is building workplaces that protect employees struggling with mental health challenges. Service means showing up consistently, not for recognition, but because someone's well-being depends on it. My Catholic faith calls me to be my brother's and sister's keeper and to comfort the afflicted. Like St. Paul, who wrote of the body of Christ working in unity, I believe every person has a role in lifting others. As Vice President of Campus Relations and Philanthropy for Alpha Gamma Delta, I organize service events connecting my sorority to local nonprofits addressing mental health and food insecurity. As Vice President of Philanthropy for PsyClub, I facilitate conversations about suicide prevention and depression awareness. I have earned awards through Model Arab League Competitions, developing skills in cross-cultural communication and conflict resolution. I also carry my own experience with anxiety and depression into every act of service. As a genderfluid, asexual, Mexican, and Puerto Rican Catholic woman, I know what it feels like to need help and fear asking for it. Like St. Paul, who spoke openly of his "thorn in the flesh" (2 Corinthians 12:7-9), I have learned that weakness is not something to hide; it is something through which strength shines. After college, I plan to work in human resources in Georgia, whether in rural areas, the suburbs, or surrounding communities. I will use my education to implement mental health leave policies that treat psychological well-being as seriously as physical health. Train managers to recognize signs of burnout, anxiety, and depression. Advocate for LGBTQIA+-affirming and culturally competent mental health benefits, and create Employee Resource Groups where marginalized employees find community without fear of stigma St. Paul spent his life writing letters of hope from prison cells. He never gave up, not because his circumstances were easy, but because his purpose was greater than his pain. Mrs. Makins dedicated her life to uplifting others through education, community service, and faith. I intend to follow both of their examples. Service is not a side project. It is the through line of my career, rooted in the belief that every person deserves dignity, compassion, and the chance to thrive. I am honored to carry forward the legacy of a woman of faith and the namesake of an apostle. With the support of this scholarship, education truly changes lives.

Elijah was a non-binary student who lost their life to suicide. I never knew them, but in some ways, I feel like I do. Because I am genderfluid. I am asexual. I am a Mexican and Puerto Rican student battling anxiety and depression. And I know what it's like to carry a weight so heavy that some days, getting out of bed feels like a battle. I know what it's like to smile at friends while your mind whispers that you aren't enough. I know what it's like to feel like your own identity is something the world wasn't built for, to check boxes that don't fit, to explain yourself over and over, and to wonder if being honest about who you are will cost you relationships, opportunities, or safety. I know what it's like to feel alone in a crowded room, convinced that no one would understand if you told the truth. And yet, I am still here. Not because I was the strongest or the bravest, but because a few people refused to let me disappear into my own silence. Mental health has impacted every part of my life. It has shaped my grades, my relationships, and my sense of self. For years, I believed that struggling meant I was broken. My depression told me I was a burden. My anxiety told me I was failing. And being genderfluid and asexual in a world that often doesn't recognize either identity added another layer of isolation. I asked myself: If people can barely understand what it means to be genderfluid, how could they ever understand my depression? If they think asexuality is just a phase, will they also think my anxiety is something I'll "grow out of"? My cultural background added even more silence. In many Latinx households, mental health isn't something you talk about openly. You pray. You push through. You don't air your struggles outside the family. And queerness? That can be even harder to name. So I didn't. I suffered quietly while leading my sorority as vice president of campus relations and philanthropy for Alpha Gamma Delta, knowing that some spaces celebrated me while others would never fully see me. I smiled through panic attacks while serving as vice president of philanthropy for PsyClub. I won awards in Model Arab League competitions while fighting an internal war no one could see. Then I realized something: Elijah's story didn't have to be mine. And it doesn't have to be yours. Perseverance, for me, hasn't been about being fearless. It's been about being honest, first with myself, then with others. When I finally told my mom, a single mother who raised me, now watching me attend college, that I was struggling with my mental health and my identity, she didn't have all the answers. She didn't always understand the words "genderfluid" or "asexual." But she stayed. She listened. She said, "I don't fully get it, but I love you." That one act of staying changed everything. Elijah deserved to be seen. Heard. Held. Every student does. I am persevering out loud now, as a genderfluid, asexual, Mexican-Puerto Rican woman who battles anxiety and depression, because staying quiet almost cost me everything. If this scholarship helps me keep going, I will spend my career helping others do the same.

Arnetha Venetta Austin Bishop believed that mental health services should be available to all, not just those with privilege, resources, or the "right" background. She understood that marginalized communities, especially BIPOC and LGBTQIA+ individuals, face unique barriers when trying to access care. As a Mexican-Puerto Rican woman who battles anxiety and depression, I am living proof of why her vision matters. I am applying for this scholarship because I share her commitment to breaking down those barriers. I am a psychology major specializing in Industrial-Organizational (I/O) psychology, and I plan to pursue a career in human resources. You might wonder what HR has to do with mental health services. The answer is everything. Most adults spend the majority of their waking hours at work. For marginalized individuals, who already face systemic discrimination, microaggressions, and cultural stigma around mental health, an unsupportive workplace can be devastating. A workplace that understands trauma, offers mental health days, and trains managers to respond with empathy can be life-saving. I know this because I live it. Growing up Mexican and Puerto Rican, I heard messages from within my own comunidad that therapy was "para los ricos" or "para los débiles." That depression was a lack of faith. That you don't air your struggles outside the family. Those beliefs kept me silent for years while I fought anxiety alone. I also watched friends in the LGBTQIA+ community struggle to find affirming providers who understood their intersecting identities as Latinx, queer, and struggling. Arnetha believed that mental health services should be available to all. I believe that starts by respecting and addressing cultural differences. After college, I plan to make a positive impact within marginalized communities by bridging the gap between workplace culture and mental health access. Specifically, I want to partner with Latinx-owned businesses and nonprofits to implement trauma-informed HR policies that respect cultural values like familismo while still encouraging professional mental health support. I also want to advocate for bilingual and culturally competent mental health benefits so Spanish-speaking employees don't have to navigate care in a second language. I want to train managers to recognize how systemic oppression, immigration stress, and intergenerational trauma show up as burnout, anxiety, and depression and respond with support, not punishment. And creating Employee Resource Groups for BIPOC and LGBTQIA+ employees to build community and access mental health resources without fear of judgment. My experience with mental health has shaped everything I believe. I believe that silence isn't strength; vulnerability is. I believe that activism can happen in HR departments as much as on protest lines. And I believe that my Mexican and Puerto Rican roots give me a responsibility to fight for my community. Currently, as Vice President of Campus Relations and Philanthropy for Alpha Gamma Delta and Vice President of Philanthropy for PsyClub, I work to destigmatize mental health conversations among college students, especially within multicultural spaces. Through my Model Arab League awards, I learned to listen across cultural lines, a skill essential for serving diverse communities. Arnetha fought for access. As a Latina future HR leader, I will continue that fight by ensuring that marginalized employees, especially those from my own communities, don't have to choose between their job, their culture, and their mental health. That is my promise. That is my purpose.

Money should never be the reason a student stops dreaming. But for many of us, the cost of higher education feels like a locked door. I'm applying for Trees for Tuition because I refuse to let that door stay closed for me. More importantly, I want to spend my career opening doors for others. I am a psychology major specializing in industrial-organizational (I/O) psychology, and after college, I plan to work in human resources. But not the kind of HR that just hands out paperwork and enforces policies. I want to build workplaces where people feel safe, seen, and supported, especially when it comes to mental health. Here's why that matters to me. I battle with anxiety and depression. I know what it's like to show up to class, lead meetings, and smile at events while fighting an internal war that no one else can see. And I know I'm not alone. Across Georgia, thousands of people, no matter the age, are struggling in silence because they're afraid to speak up. Stigma doesn't just hurt individuals; it hurts entire communities. After college, I plan to make my community a better place by transforming how local businesses and organizations approach employee well-being. I want to implement mental health days as standard paid leave in Atlanta-based companies and train managers to recognize signs of burnout, anxiety, and depression. I also want to create employee resource groups for mental health support and advocate for free or low-cost counseling through workplace benefits. But I'm not waiting until graduation to start. Right now, as Vice President of Campus Relations and Philanthropy for Alpha Gamma Delta, I organize service events that connect my sorority to local Gainesville nonprofits supporting mental health and food insecurity. As Vice President of Philanthropy for my university's PsyClub, I help host conversations about psychology's role in community healing. Through my awards in Model Arab League competitions, I learned how to listen across differences and find common ground, skills I use every day when talking to students who feel hopeless. After college, I plan to stay connected to the communities that raised me. I grew up in Gwinnett County, in the metro Atlanta area, and that foundation shaped my drive to serve others. Now I attend college in Gainesville, where I've seen how mental health resources can be even harder to access in smaller towns. Whether I'm working in Gwinnett, Gainesville, or anywhere in between, I want to help bridge that gap, bringing mental health advocacy to both the suburbs and rural North Georgia. This region gave me my start, and I owe it everything. I want to work with local HR departments, nonprofits, and small businesses to build a culture where asking for help isn't seen as weakness. Where a bad mental health day isn't punished. Where no one feels as alone as I once did. Trees for Tuition believes in lifting each other up. That's exactly what I plan to do, not someday but right now. I just need a little help climbing so I can reach back and pull others up behind me.

I know what it feels like to smile when your chest feels heavy. To laugh with friends while your mind whispers that you aren't enough. To be told you're doing "so much better" while still battling a storm that no one else can see. Matthew “Mattie” Wilmoth lived that same contradiction. And on June 16th, 2022, the silence around his pain became unbearable. I am passionate about psychology because I refuse to let silence win, for Mattie, or for myself. I am a psychology major specializing in industrial-organizational (I/O) psychology, but my interest in mental health didn't start in a classroom. It started in my own bedroom, late at night, when anxiety convinced me I was falling apart and depression told me no one would understand. For years, I fought alone because I believed the stigma: that struggling meant I was broken, that asking for help meant I was weak. I was wrong. But Mattie's story proves that even when people do seek help, stigma still finds ways to isolate them. He was interested in psychology. He reached out. And still, he suffered in silence. That is why I want to dedicate my career to building environments where silence isn't the only option. Most people think of therapy when they hear "psychology." But I believe the workplace is one of the most overlooked battlegrounds for mental health. Adults spend one-third of their lives at work. For someone like Mattie, or like me, an unsupportive boss, a toxic team, or a culture that punishes vulnerability can push them further into isolation. That's where industrial-organizational psychology and Human Resources come in. As Vice President of Campus Relations and Philanthropy for Alpha Gamma Delta, I've organized mental health awareness events and worked to destigmatize conversations about anxiety and depression among my sisters. As Vice President of Philanthropy for PsyClub, I've helped students see that psychology isn't just about diagnosing disorders; it's about understanding people. And in Model Arab League competitions, where I've received awards for diplomacy, I learned that listening without judgment can save more than negotiations; it can save lives. Because here's what I know from my own battle: one person asking, "Are you really okay?" and staying long enough to hear the answer can change everything. This scholarship would help me pursue HR certifications and continue my advocacy work without the added financial stress that often worsens my own mental health. But more importantly, it would let me carry Mattie's name as a reminder. He loved psychology. He wanted to help people. And I believe that if more of us in this field talk openly about our own struggles, fewer people will feel like they have to fight alone. I'm not applying as someone who has "overcome" anxiety or depression. I'm still in the fight, some days harder than others. But I'm still here. And I want to spend my career making sure that others, like Mattie, stay here too.