Words stick to young minds like slime in carpet; despite trying to clean it, there will always be stain left over. My parents verbally abused me, despite not even being around majority of the time. My grandma (bless her soul), was the one raising four kids all on her own: me, my brother, and both of my cousins. She took on the role of parent once more, but all she wanted was to be a grandma. Mom and Dad were always at work; ignoring the festering issues between each other, and ignoring the kids they decided to have together. When my parents were home, it was to berate us or yell at us for something that never really mattered. Grandma was the one who raised us all, despite what Mom and Dad remember. She did her best throughout it all, and she will always be my rock. However, depression doesn't wait for anyone. I was a vibrant kid, who never let things affect her. Middle school taught me that my sparkle could be dimmed further. I hung out with kids who encouraged having mental health issues, and it turned into more than the "standard" depression and anxiety. I wore dark hoodies and jeans in Florida summer heat every day, hiding my cuts and burns from the world. I let my clothes swamp me to prevent others from gauging my real size. The school encouraged my eating disorder; Grandma couldn't afford $12 each time a kid needed to eat a lunch. Money was already sacred, and every dollar mattered in saving. I stopped eating lunch, then dinner, and then as a whole. And no one noticed, or cared to notice. I dropped 40lbs in two months, as if it was natural for a 12-year-old to do that. The first time I tried to take my life was during 2020, at the peak of Covid. I learned that my uncle was a terrible person and tried to do terrible things to my brother and his own kids. I couldn't tell anyone because the rest of the family already knew, and kept him around us kids despite his actions. Learning this had ultimately sent me over the edge, and I decided it was time to go. I was home alone and attempted with Ibuprofen. I woke up the next day numb and exhausted. I was alive, and no one knew about it until years later. Mental illness never truly leaves unless if you force it to go. I healed throughout high school, except with my disordered eating. I regained the weight I lost, but it stayed around for too long. Every year in August, I fall into old, terrible habits. Halloween candy doesn't get eaten, I despise Thanksgiving, and the holiday season (and birthday) involves too many sweets. Food and me have never gotten along. The most recent time I attempted to take my life was last year, my first semester of my freshman year of college. I was absolutely alone. My emotions were extremely sporadic and I couldn't keep one for too long. I wasn't making friends in my sorority, I couldn't stay motivated for class, I starved myself for days and worked out consistently every, single, day. I would go on walks for hours and find myself on the parking garage rooftop. I even went as far as to add new scars onto my old ones, after being four years clean. The night I decided to end it, the campus police stopped me on the rooftop and asked me if I was okay. I lied and said yes, but they stayed. They asked me questions, kept me company, and walked me back to my dorm building after an hour or so. I don't even remember what we talked about, but I knew the fear of being caught weighed more on my mind than anything else. I didn't need anyone to know I tried to attempt again. I was "healed". After both attempts, I hold those in my life closer. No one, until now, knows about my second attempt. I'm ashamed of it, honestly. Bu because of it, I hugged my friends more, I confided in my boyfriend more, and I admire the beauty of nature around me. I'm not close with my family anymore, they only stick around when it's convenient for them. All except my brother, because him and I are stuck together. After the second attempt, I realized that I needed to get help. I made proper goals for the first time in my life: to get out there and make friends, get professional help, and to live. I was only surviving since I was young, and now I want to live. I want to see where life could take me if I tried. I have met my future bridesmaids in my sorority, I have a therapist (who has been so incredibly helpful), I'm actively searching for psychiatrist to get a proper diagnosis, and I've been living to the best of my abilities. I'm extremely proud of how far I've come since that last year. I'm soon-to-be one year clean too! It's been a rough road, but was it all really my fault? Did I do something to deserve all of this pain and suffering? Do I even deserve to be happy? There's still that nasty stain left in my carpet from all the slime. I see glitter specs, the smell is still kinda there, and it's still an off-color in the carpet. The vacuum is working hard, and I'm still trying to scrub it away. The slime stain will never fully go away. Mental health shouldn't ever define a person of who they are. I'm coming to terms with that --the stain can stay. It's a part of me, but that stain will never define who I am.

In order to become an Eagle Scout, a person has to plan, design, fundraise, organize, and create an entire project for their community. A person must also go through at least 2 years of Boy Scouts, and should have a history of volunteering, too. In order to receive the Silver Award, a girl and a friend must plan, design, fundraise, advocate, organize, and complete an entire project for her community or an issue bothering her in her world. The girls must have completed one separate community projects on top of the Silver Award project as well. It's advised for the girl to be apart of Girl Scouts for 3 years, and also have knowledge of what the Silver Award is meant to be. I did 7 years of Boy Scouts and earned my Eagle Award. I did 13 years of Girl Scouts and earned my Silver Award. My Eagle Project was about giving back to our community center, the same place both my Girl Scout Troop and my Boy Scout Troop met at. This center humbly allowed us to meet there for years, and I had noticed they were lacking games more "physical" games. They had a basketball hoop (from a previous Scout's Eagle Project), and shuffle board courts. I decided to plan and create a Bocce Ball court for its members, which is simply a bigger and more fun version of "keep away" with different colored and sized balls. The community center deserved a new game for its patrons, and I believed this game was the perfect addition. My Silver Award project was about giving back to a raccoon rehabilitation shelter. They'd donated toys to a previous Girl Scout project, and I believed they deserved to be repaid. My friend and I built three different raccoon houses together (per the shelters request), and we also received donations of raccoon feed to donate to the shelter. With this, we also created flyers about what to do and who to call when someone finds an injured raccoon. It was hard work, but so much fun! We even got to meet a few of the raccoons! In between my years of scouting, I participated in numerous coastal cleanups and the Great American cleanups. Keeping our coastlines clean has always been important to me, especially living in Florida. I grew up in a very "dirty" county; poverty and homelessness is one of the most prevalent issues. Because of this, our county always had trash everywhere. Involving myself in these cleanups, I was able to fish out trash that most people wouldn't even bother grabbing. Plastic in the mangrove roots, dirty clothes buried in the mud, even tires stuck in the dirt, I helped clean it up with the help of family, troops, and friends. We cleaned up over 30 bags of trash, plus 10 buckets full of glass and other dangerous trash, each and every year. All forms of service and leadership are important, especially when growing up. Through my years of volunteering and leadership opportunities, leadership has taught me how to be compassionate, understanding, and a listener. Without a team and hearing their ideas, I wouldn't have succeeded in my leadership position. People were able to see how I operated as I led and cleaned my community. These experiences shaped me to become the woman I am today. The attached photo is my troop and I posing before we filled the Bocce Ball court with sand. Even as I'm at university, I continue to volunteer across my campus to help keep our coasts clean and help raise funds for my sorority's philanthropy.

I always stood out without meaning to. I think my "awkward" thing was always being the loud one, no matter what room I entered. "Too loud" is not essentially a bad thing. Being too loud in the bathroom can help someone feel less awkward (believe me, the silence is worse when trying to unwrap a pad). Being too loud during group work can help other groups feel less ashamed about being off-topic. Being too loud can help a friend ask out her crush, or push yourself into asking your own crush. But it was always awkward, especially when I couldn't control how loud my voice was. It is like I was born with a boombox: my voice always ends up overpowering others. I was naturally "too loud." I can't whisper for the life of me, secrets are never safe with me, and my phone calls never ended up being as private as I wanted. My mom would always yell at me to shut up because I was disrupting the entire house. My dad always had to yell at me to stop talking, because it was all I ever seemed to do. Those instances always dimmed that sparkle I had, but I got over it. Being "too loud" never meant being an inconvenience. I was never too loud in a library. I would never wake the baby when sleeping. I was never the one talking during the movie in the theatre. I know how to be quiet, especially if it was going to inconvenience those who are trying to keep the environment quiet. There are reasons and times to be quiet, and I always understood that. My loudness has protected myself and others from dangerous situations. My loudness has helped others discover that it's okay to be a little louder, too. My loudness has never been an inconvenience, not for me or those who get to know me. Strangers look at me sideways sometimes, but I'd like to think my loudness disrupted whatever negativity they were thinking earlier that day. If I could bring at least one person comfort with my loudness, that was enough. I've grown to accept I am always going to be "too loud. If I wasn't loud enough, who would support those who couldn't speak up for themselves? If I wasn't loud enough, who would speak up for those who couldn't? If I wasn't loud enough, my siblings wouldn't be comfortable talking to me when Mom becomes a little too mean, or when Dad becomes a little too angry, or when Grandma becomes a little too political. If I wasn't loud enough, my loudness wouldn't have turned into boldness and bravery. Being loud will always make someone stand out. For me, it's my character. It's being bold, it's being extraverted, it's being able to take risks and say "yes", even when that little voice has doubts. My loudness has pushed myself to take on things I never thought I could, and I'd like to think it has pushed those close to me, too. I do not apologize for being loud and taking up space anymore, because I'm not going to be ashamed of who I am. If being "too loud" is a negative, then why do I always feel best when I am loud? Dimming my loudness is not in my vocabulary. Well, unless if I'm in a serious situation, then I suppose it can be dimmed. I may be too loud, but baby cries are louder, and I could never wish for more loudness in the moment of peace.

My step-dad was diagnosed with esophageal cancer in 2021. At first, it didn't mean anything. He had issues eating, so what? He was fine: still continued to drive across the USA in his semi-trucks. I didn't think much of it at the time; he was doing diets to "naturally" get rid of it. It was my junior/senior year, 2024-2025, when my step-dad came home due to his cancer getting worse. He was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer: they found in his liver, too. He was never around, and suddenly he was around during my final and most stressful years of high school. He couldn't eat anything solid, he couldn't walk, and he was always in a terrible mood. He would yell at my siblings and I when we didn't take the trash out or sweep. All the little things kept piling up, and he would snap at every little thing. He would snap at me for not being home or coming home late, but I didn't want to be home to see his frail, struggling figure. My mom was affected the worst, working three jobs and supporting three kids all in high school. We didn't have money to begin with, and the incoming hospital bills and treatments didn't make it better. We barely had food; we barely had a family. I went to school and stayed after school in my clubs to distract myself. I locked myself in my room to study instead of seeing my step-dad. I stayed out late with friends or stayed at friend's houses to get away from my dying step-dad. I had this sense of realization in me: I knew my step-dad was going to die soon. I was never close with him, and of course I felt terrible for thinking that, but it was a truth I had to face sooner than later. He didn't show up to any of my events because he couldn't get out of bed. He didn't show up to my senior shows in theatre, or my award ceremonies, or anything that had importance to me. He showed up to graduation, but that was it. I didn't care for graduation, but I was still grateful he could make it. After I graduated, he became cancer free. All the surgeries, all the treatments, he was free. We were ecstatic! He couldn't work just yet, but he was working towards getting an at-home job. Mom was happier, my siblings were happier, the family was so much happier. Spirits were uplifted, and I was relieved. My family was no longer suffering, and that's what matters. Then, in October of 2025, he was diagnosed again with cancer. They found more tumors in his esophagus. I was told this over text while I was at college, as I was with my own mental health. My mom didn't call to tell me the news, she texted me in the middle of class. His cancer was back, and I couldn't imagine how my family was struggling with the news again. Despite how little connection I have with my family, I still care for them. It's heartbreaking, but today, I strive to live for him. Struggling with my own eating disorder, I'm learning to eat for him. There's people who CAN'T eat, and I'm learning to eat for those who can't. I've learned that the world doesn't surround me, and that I can make things better. Those who struggle with cancer don't choose that life. They didn't choose to react a certain way, and empathy and kindness is all they need to get through the dark, rough days.

I was always weird as a kid. I had niche interests that people adore now. I was always bigger than most of my classmates, but I told myself it meant that I had more love to give to others. I never cared what kids thought of me, because I was happy. I was such a happy kid, despite having nothing and coming from nothing. But then I became a middle schooler, and realized just how different I was. I hated how I looked, I hated how I acted, I hated my interests. In short, I hated myself. And this hatred for myself hasn't stopped. I desired to be skinny, like the models and my classmates. It started with being food insecure; being unable to afford the $2 school lunch every day with 3 other siblings who needed to eat too. I sacrificed my lunch, then my breakfast, and then slowly my dinner. I would eat enough just to keep me alive. Naturally, I developed an eating disorder. This eating disorder fluctuates every August through December, every year. For five months, I restrict. I can't stand the sight of food during the holidays, to the point it makes me nauseous by just sniffing it. I currently fight this battle every year, but I am receiving the help I need now. In middle school, I struggled badly with depression too. I hated myself, to the point of self harm. I hid from my family, from my friends, from everyone. No one knew, and no one noticed. I kept up the "good kid" act, never using substances, never sneaking out, and kept my straight A's. But eventually, I attempted suicide. It was with Ibuprofen, and I spat it all out because I knew what I was doing was stupid. My family never knew or found out, not until recently when I started college. I resented my family for never noticing, and while I'm not close to my family currently, I can't resent them if I didn't let them notice. I started college in Fall 2025. I moved hours away from home, and isolated myself. My roommates always invited me out, but I would always refuse. I wanted my hometown friends and boyfriend. The reoccurring restricting had gotten the worse it ever had been- I started working out to the point of almost passing out. I would fast for days at a time and I refused to go into hobbies that made me who I am. I joined a sorority, to see if I could make friends, but due to my self-isolation, I didn't make any. My depression got worse. My anxiety was through the roof. Suicidal ideation crept through my thoughts, and more often than not I would find myself up on the rooftops of parking garages for hours, thinking and wondering. I would snap at everyone, especially my boyfriend. I'd get unconventionally angry at him for the smallest things, and I never meant it. I started researching symptoms of everything, and while it could've been my fear of change, it was probably so much worse. But now, in Spring 2026, I've been working on myself. I'm finally receiving therapy, and I am currently working towards getting diagnoses towards my mental health. I've been diagnosed as a concern with my eating habits, and while that should scare me, it doesn't. I'm finally getting help for issues I've had for 6+ years. And I want to be better for those I love. I still lash out without meaning, I still struggle with food, I still struggle with making friends, but I'm getting better. I'm so much better than I was. I will continue to get better too. Slowly, I'm getting back into old hobbies and interests that make me, me. I love drawing, I love reading, I love watching anime, and I love learning languages. I'm studying Linguistics: the study of languages, and I love it. I love learning how languages form and what I can do to expand it. I'm working on my TESOL certificate to teach abroad. In the future, I'm going to get my teaching certificate too. I adore kids, and I want to be an educator for those who aren't in a good space at home or in their minds. I want, and will, be better. As much as I find comfort in my suffering, I can't continue to live this way. I want to find comfort in myself, my body, my mind, and my soul. I can't stay suffering forever, and recognizing that was the first step on my path to recovery. I am my past, but I am also my present and future. There is hope, and there is a future for me. Kid me would be so incredibly proud, and I'm proud of her too.

In 2020, the worldwide pandemic shut down the entire world. I was 13 and living through the weirdest period of my life: middle school. While people were fighting for their lives from the virus, I was fighting through the pain of losing a man who I couldn't actually trust. I had this uncle named Kurt. He was my rock and stone throughout my life. He was witty, hilarious, and great with kids. He would take us on these walks to the corner store every week, where we'd pick out a juice and talk to the homeless. I was never afraid of the homeless, because they were human just like me. I was taught that by him. I looked up to him as if he were the greatest human alive. Spoiler alert: he wasn't. It was this random April night, in the middle of the pandemic. It was 2AM and I was awake reading a book. I heard the front door open, then the bathroom door, then the sound of vomiting. I heard Kurt talking to himself and crashing noises inside the bathroom. My bedroom was next to the bathroom, and the walls were thin. I turned off my light, because I didn't want to be caught awake at this hour. I kept listening, and he kept talking. Then there was another mans voice chiming in. Then another. There were two strangers inside of my house, with Kurt. My grandma was asleep next door to me, sleeping through the sounds of hyena laughter or crashing or vomiting. I couldn't sleep. I smelt the weed through the door. I had crept out of bed and locked my door, just in case. I'm glad I did, because someone tried to get inside my room. Whether it was Kurt, or the two strange men, someone wanted inside my room. I was a young teen, so the worst possibilities were sprouting through my head. It wasn't until three hours later, my dad woke up and kicked the three of them out. I didn't sleep that night. I told Dad and Grandma hours later what had happened. Both Dad and Grandma confessed he was doing shrooms, and smoking weed, and snorting cocaine, and drinking alcohol. The man I had idolized my entire life, wasn't actually a good guy. He had always acted funny, but it was because of the drugs. For some reason, my grandma kept him around. She kept him around kids who were able to be influence by him. When I'd learned about the terrible things he had done, because he'd done even worse things than drugs and alcohol, he died from an overdose. He died physically, and in my heart. I felt the grief, but more importantly the anger a teenage girl can only harvest. He could've harmed our family. And now, he was no longer around. I've learned that I'm a very angry person, and that drugs and alcohol are something that shouldn't be glorified. Addiction is real, addiction is serious. I'm currently 19, a freshman in college, where my education is going towards teaching children in other countries, especially those countries where drugs are more accessible than here in the USA. I want to teach children that they can make a difference, despite what they're surrounded by. It has been 6 years since then. I'm seeking therapy for this anger I've had, and I don't have any influences. Not since him, and I haven't sought out another person since him. I've tried finding new influences, but none have stuck. I can't hate him forever, but my heart sure will try to.

I have always been creative, reading whenever I had the chance. I carried a book with me everywhere I went. What if I got bored in class? What if I have free time? I treated books as if they were my lifeline- without one I'd die (of boredom)! My all time favorite book growing up is "Dork Diaries" by Rachel Renee Russel. I saw myself in main character, Nikki, with everything she was going through during middle school. She was my definition of girlhood: having her best friends with her throughout every minor inconvenience, having a crush she adored, and she continued to be her authentic self throughout all the books. Nikki is an incredibly silly, and real, character. She takes action when things get too rough, or she comes up with creative ways to get herself out of sticky situations. She taught me that it's okay to be yourself, and others will love you for staying authentic. From following Nikki's diaries, she's caused me to want to stay true to my creative self. Despite me being a Linguistics major, I still continue to pursue art as a hobby and will continue to do so until I can no longer hold a pen. In middle school, I adored reading James Patterson's book series "Maximum Ride". The series follows Max and her flock, humans with bird wings that allows them to fly, throughout their journey of figuring out why they were created and to overthrow and unjust government. I loved Max because of her bravery to lead her friends throughout everything they went through. I learned how to stand up for others, and that it is okay to speak your mind. Being honest may lead to unprecedented matters, but it can also get someone out of big trouble. As I followed the groups adventures, I wanted to stay adventurous like them, not in the running-from-the-government kind of adventure, but in the way where I can explore the world. I chose to major in Linguistics because I want to connect with others from all across the world with their language. I want to learn more about others languages and cultures, making the goal for myself to travel the world when I can. I want to see the world and see how it works, just like how Max and her friends were able to. High school was the most fun time for reading. I read books I would have never thought of touching when I was younger. Reading classics like "Animal Farm" and "Fahrenheit 451" taught me how corrupt systems can become when leadership is in the wrong hands. "Fahrenheit 451" was a book that opened my eyes to how books are becoming banned in the USA. Books are being banned across schools in the USA for silly things, like the need to protect the environment (The Lorax) or how children go through school shootings weekly (19 Minutes). With books being banned, I've made it my personal goal to read as many banned books I can get my hands on. They're being banned for a "reason", and usually they're reasons that will help people open their eyes to what is going on in the real world. Now that I'm a college student, I have to read textbooks instead of more fun books. Studies have never stopped me from reading, and I'll continue to read books when I have free time. I'm currently reading a light-hearted story titled "The Kamogawa Food Detectives", and is teaching me how to love food once again. Reading will always be apart of my life and soul. Thank you.

I am a kid whose parent's repressed mental health issues. They never understood mental health or why it even exists. They never understood until I tried to take my life during the Covid Pandemic, right under their noses. They never understood until I stopped eating my meals and resenting Thanksgiving, right under their noses. Mental health has always been important to me. I have experienced a lot, and so have my peers and family. I have always been a helping hand for my friends and peers whenever things started to get too tough for them. It was always a joke when they called me the "therapist" friend, but I held that title proud. Everyone deserves someone to talk to and to relate to when things start to get hard, especially in their mind. I never had someone to talk to, so I let others talk to me, because no one deserves to suffer alone. My mental health has gotten better, but sometimes slipping back into that dark place and crawling to stay out is difficult. I always check in on my friend's, asking them how their day was and if everything has been okay. College can be a crazy transition, so I try my best to reach out to my friend's who are having a rough time with it. If I am unable to help them, I recommend their student counseling resources at their college. I have limits too. I am studying Linguistics, the study of languages and how they form. I will be earning my ESL Certificate and minoring in Education, to teach English as a second language in other countries. I want to be able to reach out to other cultures and help them with their mental health as well. I want to teach children that it's okay to reach out for help, in their language and in mine, even if it's for problems that seem silly to them. Reaching out is always the first step, and not every child has someone to reach out to. I want to be that person they can reach out to. I will always be there for others, regardless if I get anything out of it. It's okay to ask for help, especially when things become difficult. It's hard to learn, but it's important. If I never reached out after I attempted, I wouldn't be writing this scholarship now. Thank you.

"When am I gonna stop being great for my age and just start being good?" - teenage dream I was a girl who was academically ahead of everyone else. I was involved in everything in elementary and middle school. I had the best grades in the school, and if I wasn't the best, my mom made sure I was. There was this one time, it was back in fifth grade, when my report card for quarter one of the school year was all C's and one B. I never had anything "average" before. I couldn't show anyone, or else I'm no longer the best. I wanted to stay the best, or else I was no one. My mom needed me to be the best, or else I wasn't her daughter. She saw my grades, and was livid. She made a parent-teacher conference with my two fifth-grade teachers. I begged her not to, that it wasn't their fault that I became average. Or that I stopped being good for my age. She made the conference anyway, ignoring my pleads and cries. She told my teachers that during that conference- and I had to sit through the entire thing- that I was not average. I was her daughter, and thus I couldn't be average. I wasn't deserving of C's. What should've been an ego boost became a warning: always be better than others, or else you're a bad kid. So I strived for the best. I received some of the best grades in my school. I made sure my report cards always had majority A's. I wasn't allowed to have C's, or I'd be grounded. B's were also frowned upon, but accepted as long as if most of my grades were A's. I needed a high GPA for high school. I needed to take all the AP's/IB's offered. I needed to stay ahead. I had to stay great for my age, or I was nothing. This specific lyric from Olivia Rodrigo's song "teenage dream" captures how many students, like myself, grow up needing to be the best for their parents. This lyric expresses how those "smart for your age" adolescences are never told they're just amazing in general. It also raises questions in adolescents, such as "Why aren't I good enough?" or other self-deprecating questions similar. So many adolescents are stuck with a mindset that causes academic burnout and resentment towards their parents. It's difficult trying to keep up with parent's expectations, especially the expectations they had of your younger, brighter self. All kids are bright. All kids are incredibly smart. Some are academically smart, and they should be able to expand their curiosity without becoming incredibly burnt-out when they're older. All kids are good. While kids can be great for their age, all kids are good. Adolescents should be able to pursue their passions without the academic stress of pleasing their teachers and parents with the best grades in their class. For me, I only re-discovered my passion of arts and theatre in my senior year of high school after I realized the only person I should be pleasing is myself. It's my life, and I only have one of them. No adolescent should be living for others; everyone should be living for themselves. It's no one's life, except your own.

What have you learned about mental health during your high school years and how will you apply it in the years-to-come? High school was a time when mental health was being preached as extremely important, having 3-day lectures on why "you shouldn't drink to feel something!" and "talk to someone if you're feeling this way!" I learned that mental health was being treated as a boring presentation that made the classroom giggle if they never experienced agonizing thoughts of wanting to harm yourself or forcing yourself to throw up to be smaller. It felt ridiculous- I was learning all of this too late. My name is Pearl Schmidt and I graduated this past May, 2025. I'm currently attending Florida Atlantic University while studying linguistics. My passion for mental health started in elementary school, when I won my school's TedX competition three years in a row for different topics: bullying, homelessness, and LGBTQ+. I knew from an early age that mental health wasn't something to joke about, and that it could lead to drastic consequences. I shouldn't have known about the consequences of having untreated mental health could have. I was 10, I was bullied badly, and my mental health was declining. I didn't even know what the word "mental health" was until middle school, when I realized what I was going through wasn't normal. I wasn't normal, and that drastically affects you as a kid. I was young, harming myself because I couldn't take the mental pain anymore. I've seen what mental health has done to others. When I was battling my mental health and transition to a new school, my old classmate, Sadie, took her life in 8th grade. My uncle has dealt with the ongoing drug and alcohol abuse, causing verbal abuse to his children, inviting strangers into our home during the late hours, and creepy words that he probably shouldn't have said to a 13-year-old girl. The scars that litter my friend's wrists and thighs, and on my own body, made me open my eyes to our uneducated and messed-up world. Not getting the proper education made me realize how important it is to inform middle schoolers about mental health. These people and I, we didn't know how to seek help. My friend's who were suffering came to me, and I helped them. They didn't trust adults; why would they know what we were going through? We only had each other, but I only had myself. That mentality sticks with you when you grow up. Throughout my four years of high school, those boring lectures never taught me anything. However, in my senior year of high school, we had a guest speaker named Kevin Brooks. I ragged on him, thinking it was another boring lecture. But, it wasn't. He lost someone to a car accident he caused, and his friend to overdose. His story struck me, hard. I cried during the presentation. I cried for his story, for my classmate's story, and for everyone who couldn't wiggle their toes anymore due to their fight lost against mental health. Brooks' speech made the biggest impact on me, more than the lectures did. I didn't learn something too late. In fact, I learnt that mental health should be taught in fun, but informative ways. Kids need someone to reach out to when they're struggling. I'm applying my experience by being someone kids are able to reach out to, no matter the language. No one should be afraid to seek help. Mental health is important, and I value what I learned from Brooks: to just wiggle your toes.

I was always different as a kid. There was something, odd, about me. Kids would look at me and whisper about how I was "always drawing" or "always had a book in my hand." They never wanted to get to know the real me, about why I was the way I was. Now, I have that chance to explain why I am the way I am. The books I carried as a kid weren't traditional kids books. It was either an English to Spanish dictionary or manga. No in-between either, by the way. I loved Spanish as a kid. I grew up in Florida, and in every class I had there was always a few girls who spoke primarily Spanish and little English. I wanted to be that girl who helped them understand what was going in class. Knowing another language besides English fascinated me. I carried that translation dictionary with me like it was my own child- my pride and joy. It made me happy when I could understand some words the girls speaking Spanish were saying. More so, reading manga made me so happy. I loved the artwork and how the books were backwards too. This love for manga turned into a love for Japanese culture and art. I started recreating anime characters in my composition notebook in school, practicing every day in hopes of getting better and impressing my teachers (they were never THAT impressed with it, but 10 year-old me believed it). Regardless of practicing my drawing skills or trying to translate for others in elementary, the kids never spoke to me on a friendly basis. It was to always to comment on me. On what I wear. On how my hair doesn't suit me. On how I was bigger than the other kids. The only time kids spoke to me was when they needed help on an assignment. I was lucky enough to understand the material quickly and complete it with perfect marks, no matter the subject. I was gifted. They spoke to me for answers, and not for help. I wanted to teach and help, not be a human robot of answers for them. So I stopped talking. I didn't engage with others for a while. I became hyper-aware of every move I made, every word I spoke. I became scared to be myself. For years, this cycle of being hyper-aware of everything I did caused hinderance in my love for learning. It caused me to study for every little thing. Every vocab word. Every algebraic problem. I couldn't stop studying. I wanted and NEEDED to be perfect. Senior year hit, and I took on more than I could chew. I burnt myself quicker than the flame could be lit. I was in a slump. I was stuck in this slump. I didn't know how to rescue myself without feeling bad that I was "lazing around on my studies." So I did what I knew best, I drew. I drew for my AP Art class, and for myself. I found my passion again in that class. It wasn't just in that class either, in my Spanish class too. I took four years, but my fourth year helped me rediscover my love for languages. I was so incredibly passionate about learning languages that I am now majoring in linguistics to help others learning English, all while studying their culture and language. I'm still odd. I've learned that it's okay to be yourself. You SHOULD be yourself, unapologetically too. I know Sloane would believe this, and thank you for considering me for this scholarship.

To be blunt, I don't look like someone who is underprivileged or underserved. I'm a white woman with both her parents still alive. However, books should never be judged by their covers. I grew up with less than what everyone else had. I shopped at the nearby Dollar Tree for socks and toys. My barbies were never on brand. My mom saved her money for my brother and I to have some sort of clothes for the new school year, but it was never guaranteed. I received clothes from my uncle for school; hand-me-downs as most call it. My shoes were never on brand like the other kids. In fact, the kids praised me when I had finally gotten my first pair of good shoes in the 5th grade. I remember the pats on the backs when I walked in with them on my first day. They were from the thrift, somehow in good condition. It was embarrassing to be praised for something that would be ruined in the next few months anyway. School lunch wasn't an option for food either. My mom complained every day about how expensive my lunch was to pay for: $2 for every single lunch, every single day. I stopped eating. I refused to let my family be burned like that. There were four other kids, excluding me, who needed lunch too in my family. I thought my family was paying $10 every day for lunch for them. My siblings needed to grow big and strong and eat their meals. I didn't. Kids don't deserve to think like that. My act of selflessness led to an eating disorder that would continue to last up to now. I wasn't privileged to have money for meals for school. I wasn't privileged to have the "right" kind of clothes for elementary. No kid deserves to have that treatment, regardless of money. There are families who have it worse than I ever did. I want to be a beacon of hope for those kids. I want to show kids how it is okay to not have enough and still be secure with themselves. Every single person is different, underprivileged or overprivileged. In Fall 2025 at Florida Atlantic University, I will be studying Linguistics and hopefully majoring in Early Childhood Education too. I want to be able to teach kids who are more underprivileged than I ever was. I want to be apart of their communities and help them out the best I can with my personal experience and knowledge. Every kid deserves to have a full stomach and proper education, no matter the language barrier or social status. I want to be the hope these kids deserve. I want to be someone who I didn't have back in my childhood. Kids deserve someone like that, and I hope to be that person in their world.

I was younger than expected when I realized that I disliked the idea of sex. I shouldn't have even known what sex was at the ripe age of 10! And yet here I was, declaring that I would never partake in such actions when I'm older because it was weird. I declared this to my entire class, two years later, in the sixth grade, for a TedX project. I, somehow, won with my LGBTQ+ speech for my entire school because I admitted I was asexual. I don't think those teachers knew what I was talking about! In my TedX presentation for districts, I ended up coming out as bisexual instead. It felt weird admitting to my parents that I wasn't okay with the idea of sex so young, albeit mentioning it to my class. I decided to let them know (on stage) that I like women along with men. When I came out on that stage, I let my entire family in on my bisexuality. After my presentation, the first person who came up to me was a man who told me I was brave. I remember his words to this day: "You are so incredibly brave for going onto that stage and speaking about what you're passionate about. I'm glad there's more young people out there comfortable in their own skin. I wish I was. Also, I'm bisexual too!" When I came out, I was able to let a stranger in who couldn't be themselves. My family was skeptical, but overall supportive. My dad was confused for the longest time until he gave up trying to understand it all. My mom still supports me until this day, as she's also bisexual! It was the oddest bonding moment we've ever had, but I'm not complaining. Three years later, I thought I was okay with coming out to my current boyfriend at the time (now ex) as asexual. I kept that part of me hidden from everyone. I thought that with time, I would grow to like sex. I ended up telling him because we were starting to do more sexual activities together and I was becoming more uncomfortable each time. News flash: he HATED it. He hated me being asexual because it wouldn't satisfy his sexual desires (we were 15). He also hated my bisexuality (he claimed to be bisexual, too) because he assumed I was going to cheat on him with my girl best friend. We broke up a few months later, and I kept my best friend. When I let him in, I felt more shunned than the sun behind storm clouds. If I couldn't let the man who I trusted with this secret, who could I let in? I realized later that he was just a boy with opinions that didn't matter. I am bisexual and I am asexual. I represent the women who are scared of coming out as bisexual because they're primarily interested in men. I represent the women who are afraid of telling their partners they're afraid they'll leave them because they don't want sex. And most importantly, I represent my worried, past self because this is who I am. I'm okay with liking women and men. I'm okay with not having sexual desires. I let in those who deserve to know the real me, and they all support me of who I am. Even my current boyfriend, who's also pansexual, supports me unconditionally. When I came out, I let others in. I learned that I'm okay with my sexualities; my experiences didn't define me. My experiences weren't perfect, but they were real.

Empowerment, by operant definition, is the granting of the power, right, or authority to perform various acts or duties. It is to essentially help others feel more confident in whatever action they are trying to perform. For example, a friend gives her friend empowerment to perform on stage, allowing the friend to confidently perform her solo on that stage. She empowered another person, and not for the sake of her own benefit, but for the benefit of others. I have never liked the idea of empowerment, because I never knew what it meant as a kid. I was someone who did not like being told what to do. The "you're doing amazing!" by Mom was never empowering, but was telling me how I should be feeling. I did not like that. I wanted to feel my feelings, not the feelings I was being told to feel. The "you can do it!" by my friends was never empowering, but was telling me what I can and cannot do, as if they understood my capabilities more than myself. They were MY feelings and MY capabilities, who were others to tell me the capacity I should be feeling or should be doing? It was child-like stubbornness. I did not want others to tell me how I feel, because it was not their feelings, but my own. I did not want others to tell me how I can do things, because it was not their actions to perform, but my own. I know I can do it, I did not need empowerment from someone who was not in my shoes or in my body. My stubbornness eventually went away after years of learning what it truly was, and I slowly accepted being empowered. Mom was someone who empowered others all the time, but I was the teenager who viewed it as her being a millennial (there's that stubbornness again), so I never perceived it as empowering others. Mom is someone who always lifts others up, regardless if it was her biggest enemy or a stranger on the road. She makes it her mission to empower someone every day. A compliment goes a long way. She has always advocated for women, regardless if she knew them or not. She is someone I am inspired to be, in that sense at least. If you asked me years ago what empowerment meant to me, I would've said bossing me around. When being asked now, I will tell you that empowering is showing kindness, even to your worst enemy. "Empowerment" and "empathy" are similar sounding, so I view them as the same. If I want to empower someone, I think about how it would make them feel. Would they feel like they are being bossed around, like I did? Or would they feel appreciated, like I do? Empowerment is so incredibly important, especially with us women in modern day. I show leadership for my fellow girls in both Scouts of BSA and in Girl Scouts, being one of the few women earning my Eagle Scout Award and soon my Gold Award. Even in my workplace, I'm a camp counselor at an all-girls summer camp. Every day, I choose to empower others because I understand what it is like to confuse lifting others up and them bossing me around. The examples from Mom and my friends show me the inspiration as to what it is like to be properly empowered, and I am truly grateful for everything they do for me. I have felt empowered to write this, and I hope you are to read it. Thank you.

In 2015, my parents broke the news that they were divorcing. I didn't understand what that all meant as an eight-year-old, I was just excited to have two Christmas's and two birthdays. My brother definitely did not understand either, being a year younger. I think he was just excited about two Christmas's too. The divorce didn't impact me straight away. Mom still lived two minutes away in a rundown townhouse, and I still saw both of my parents equally, every other week. It wasn't until my mom said we're moving in with this man and his daughter that I realized my life wasn't the same as many other kids my age. In middle school, one week I was walking to school and the other week I was taking the bus. It confused the staff at school and my friends. "Why can't you just take one mode of transportation?" they asked. "My parents are divorced," I would reply back. Then I got these looks- looks of pity. I was the girl with divorced parents who couldn't take one way to school because my parents didn't love each other enough. The man and daughter we moved in with became my now stepdad and stepsister in 2019. I was doing great until my mom decided to move 45-minutes away from home. It isn't a huge commute, but my life now has to change. I had to move schools to a completely new area in the middle of my 8th grade year. New neighbors, new friend, new school. I hated change. I begged my mom to not move. I had a life at school and in my town, why selfishly move my brother, my stepsister, and me from the lives we've known most of our lives? The move happened anyway. I only see my dad on weekends now. No one talks about how difficult it is to make plans with friends without feeling guilty for cutting into your other parent's time. The guilt seeps in when you realize you haven't seen your dad in almost a month because you want to hang out with your friends. Then there's the resentment towards your mom because you're constantly seeing her. It comes in phases; I'm annoyed at my mom for a month then the next month I'm annoyed at dad. Neither know how to communicate or talk to each other like civil human beings, either. It's almost embarrassing in a way; my parents didn't know how to love each other, so I have to be impacted by it. Anytime there's a celebration for my brother or me, they can't be within six feet of one another without giving dirty looks. I didn't see this until I was way older; the sneers, the glares, or the pure dislike of one each other. Why would someone have kids, then divorce? It impacts their kids' lives. It feels selfish to get a divorce, almost. Sometimes, I can't help but think it's my fault because I'm the oldest child. I was the reason they got married, but they never even loved each other in the first place. It's a terrible thought, truly. I've stopped thinking like that now that I'm about to graduate. I have my own life to live, and it's not my problem that my parents don't love each other. That's their lives, and I'm about to live mine.

I wish I could've been my first bully. Elementary kids were always mean; they knew more about me than I knew about myself. An active imagination was frowned upon by my classmates. I loved drawing in this notebook of mine. I drew in class, at recess, and at lunch. A few kids would ask me what I was drawing, and I'd proudly show them all the details. There was this other girl in my class who loved to draw, too. She seemed kind, so I asked her if we could be friends and draw together. She accepted sweetly with a glint in her eye. I knew everyone in my elementary, whether they knew me or not. I strove to be kind to everyone, despite what was going on in my personal life. This girl was the opposite. She ridiculed my drawings, made snide comments on my looks, and quite literally stoles things from me. She guilt-tripped me into giving her things, because she was going through a lot. I was blind to it all. She was just so sweet. One day at recess, I was drawing in my notebook when it was randomly snatched. Every time I recall this moment; it felt like some fever dream or a movie scene. It was the same girl who I wanted to be friends with, and the same girl who has my drawing notebook. I tried to grab it, but she instead gave it to the only two boys who were taller than me back then. They threw it between each other, as if it were some funny game. No one helped me. I felt stares on my figure as I desperately tried to get my notebook back. It was a funny joke; I was the punchline. I was still kind to everyone, even after that. I understand what it's like to be bullied. Later that year, I went to districts for my TEDx presentation on bullying. I wasn't afraid to speak up on what was occurring around my school and in my community. Whenever I see kids making fun of others, I always step in to help. I do not want another kid to go through what I went through. Kids will approach me in parks, and I'll happily join in their games because there is nothing worse than being made fun of for asking to play. Having just one friend will make a huge difference in a life. My community is important to me. I'm volunteering whenever I can, whenever I have free time. This community has done so much for me, so it is only right for me to give back to it.   As a kid who never had a lot growing up (and still doesn't have a lot now), I do not have much financial aid. My parents are divorced, and despite having four parents, there still isn't enough financially for me to pursue a higher education. My mom has to pay for her husband's medical bills and chemo treatment, as he has Stage 4 Esophageal Cancer. My dad is a blue-collar worker, and his wife is constantly paying for her own medical needs. I apply to scholarships and grants, so I am able to pay for university. I cannot financially burden my parents more than I already have. Thank you for reading my submission.

Growing up poor created resentment in me. I shared a room with my grandma until I was 10. My shoes were never good enough for my classmates in elementary or middle school. We needed to rely on a food bank to feed 9 people in one small house. Four kids, fives dogs, and five adult's caused conflict in my house. My parents ended up divorcing in my later elementary days. I didn't understand what it meant. Mom lived with her mom for a while as Dad stayed at his mom's. My brother and I switched between the houses. A 30-minute drive every weekend to see Mom in a different, beat-up house. I hoped the divorce would make us have more money. I hated being poor. I hated not having things all the other kids had. I developed a distaste for being poor. Money hungry me resented my family for being poor. I wished I was rich. I wanted nothing more than to have money. But not once did I say any of this out loud. How could I be selfish when I understood that there were other kids who were suffering worse than I? I was always taught to eat all my meals because some kids can't eat at all. I was always grateful for every gift I received. I couldn't be selfish. It isn't in my nature. I believed I wasn't happy as a kid because I was poor. Now that I'm graduating later this year, kid me was further from the truth. I was the happiest kid on Earth, regardless of my societal class and income. I am rich in family and friends. I do not know why I was in such denial. My family was doing their absolute best to provide for us. Jack Terry is a strong individual. He proved to others that despite his adversity, he could still be successful in life without those traits defining his character. He lived the life he wanted to, and I'm inspired by that. I want to study linguistics or theatre as my higher education. For linguistics, I want to communicate with others. A lot of people decide that one language is enough to pass through life, but it isn't. There are so many cultures and languages here in America that need help trying to communicate. If I'm able to properly communicate with those groups, I can help others in ways others weren't able to help me. For theatre, I want to perform for others. Entertainment is a huge industry for kids and adults alike. To be able to provide some sort of entertainment to distract them from the adversities occurring at home would fulfill me. Adversity is something that doesn't define anyone. What someone makes of themselves after overcoming adversity is what defines them. Being able to grow without being held back by the past defines a strong, good-natured character. Thank you for reading my submission.

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." My theatre teacher, Mr. Nelson, had this painted on his wall for forever. I never understood what it meant until I became older. I never intended to join theatre until I watched my middle school perform one day. It was magical. I wanted to be upon that stage, performing like everyone else. I had done TedX's, but those were professional (in elementary school). I sang in elementary too. Theatre couldn't be that different from it. Being in the spotlight was fun, so why not pursue it in an entertainment setting? Art has always been apart of me since I was young. I was a creator. All I craved was creation. Drawing art of my favorite cartoons and shows was a hobby that often consumed me. I started creating stories out of my art. New characters, new stories would erupt from my imagination and become drawn onto paper. A hobby so fun, and so demanding. Self sabotage and the demand of time for my studies halted my love for the arts. Drawing became a chore. Acting stilled. I wad unable to create as my studies increased into high school. In my final year of high school, as I decided to take the most difficult courses offered at my school, I missed my love for the arts. It would always be apart of me, whether I wanted it to be or not. I enjoyed being busy. I took the risk of auditioning for my school's production of White Christmas, despite not knowing anyone in the production. I joined the Advanced Placement (AP) Art class, re-progressing with my art skills. I was casted as an ensemble, and I was proud of that. I grew to know my cast mates, becoming close with them as the show dates crept closer and closer. I missed the feeling of performing. I adore the feeling of performing. Taking this risk allowed me to venture out of my comfort zone into a space where it became my source of comfort after a long day of classes. Theatre isn't just a club, but a home for me. My art class helped me practice my art in ways I would not be able to do on my own. It has helped me cope with the loss of my cat, as he had passed early into my senior year. Being able to freely express myself in art has granted me freedom I never knew I had in the first place. After high school, I want to pursue linguistics or theatre/acting. I love learning languages and I want to know how to speak more than just English. The world is too vast to not want to know more about it; more cultures, more languages, and more nature. It's beautiful, and I want to see it all. Everyone is so different but so unique. I love discovering new things and I strive to learn something new every single day. Thank you for reading my submission.

I always knew I was off as a child. I found all the boys in my classes attractive, as any growing girl would. It was my nature to find boys cute. By the time I hit middle school, I realized that a girl in the grade above me was conventionally attractive. Not in a "OMG your outfit is totes adorbs!", but in a more "Oh. She's genuinely attractive and I want to be with her." I realized that wasn't normal early on. Not many girls talked about liking other girls romantically. It was odd. I was odd. I was a girl who liked both girls and boys. I am bisexual. I ended up secretly dating her for two months. We broke things off because I realized I couldn't be with a woman. She was beautiful, but not the right beautiful for me. I explored reasons why I felt this way. Was I not truly attracted to girls? Am I actually more "normal" than I thought? Google was my absolute best friend during this time. I discovered the asexual spectrum in the community. I wasn't sure if I had completely resonated with any of them, but I understood myself a little better with this spectrum. I had my first serious relationship with a boy for two years. He ridiculed me for not wanting to have sex at my age of 14. In the future, I couldn't see myself in any sort of sexual intimacy because of him. He ridiculed me for being bisexual too, for he believed I wanted to be with any girl who I deemed my friend. He broke it off. I wasn't mad. I moved on with my life, discovering who I was. I am still bisexual. I am still under the asexual umbrella. Every one of my friends is apart of the LGBTQ+ in some way. My current boyfriend is pansexual, and is the absolute best. My best friend is lesbian. My childhood best friend isn't either gender. The LGBTQ+ community surrounds me every day, and I couldn't be more happier. I decided my major because of my love for learning about other languages. I'm so curious about learning languages and interacting with others who may have an issue learning my language. I want to make communication easier between me and another person. If I am able to understand them, it relieves them from the stress of communicating in English. I am dedicated to learning more. Expanding my education is a huge aspect of my character. If I am not learning, I am not living. Thank you for reading my submission.

Loss snatches you up when you least expect it. Starting my senior year, I was ecstatic to be in my final year of school. Nothing was going to stop me from having the "best year of my life", as they say in the coming-of-age high school movies. I have owned plenty of animals in my life- cats and dogs alike. At the beginning of my senior year, I had proudly owned a total of ten pets (four cats and six dogs). They were all unique in their own ways, but none were as unique as my tabby cat, Pumpkin Spice (Spice for short). He was an ambitious kitten. He would also climb on my dresser, knocking everything from it just to reach my bed. He always had to be by me when I was doing school work. Or when I was cooking dinner some nights. Or eating food. Or laying in my bed. Wherever I was, he was to follow in pursuit. This caused issues in my family, as they found him way too clingy or annoying. His sister, Mocha Latte (Mocha for short) was the absolute opposite. She was too shy, attracting everyone who flocked her way. She was talkative and extremely fluffy, too. A beauty, truly. Everyone liked her more than her brother. I was never drawn to the shy cats. My short-haired tabby was perfect. He was a reject, and it made him all sorts of cuter. He was purr-fect, just the way he was. August 31st, 2024, my 2-year old Spice passed away from something unknown. My mom refused to have him checked out by the vet the day before, when I had discovered something wrong with my cat after class. We didn't have money to go to the vet, so I couldn't resent her for long. I have had him since he was born. He was my cat. No one else in my family liked him as much as I did, and he thought the same. He would be there on my worst nights and my best mornings. He cuddled with me when no other animal would. He understood me more than any other animal I have had. As I write this, it has been 4 months since he has passed away. I don't sob when I talk about him anymore. Some nights when I'm alone, grief will strike me like a snake striking at its prey, slowly suffocating it with its coiled body. Every time I think I'm over it, I never truly am. This art piece was created before Spice had passed. It is for my AP Drawing exam come later this year. My art portfolio was to be about cats, but it has now been crafted into the loss of a pet. The art techniques used in this piece are stippling and shading. The materials used in this piece are a black ballpoint pen, graphite pencils, and stumps. Just like how this scholarship is about celebrating the life of art through Catherine, a passed loved one, my art showcases the celebration of life through a passed loved one (just slightly more furry). I hope my art conveys more than what meets the eye. Thank you for reading my submission.