1) No (Planning to apply) 2) Likely 3) $31,000 4) Mother: Completed some college; former janitor (currently unemployed due to work injuries) As the youngest of seven, I've learned a lot of things. Like dipping dinner rolls in apple juice. Or using a standard multiplication algorithm. And understanding different kinds of cuddles. And not to throw a tennis ball as hard as you can at one brother when the other brother (who wears glasses) is nearby, when you have bad aim. But that's beside the point. The point is, a lot of me is made up of the memories and lessons I shared with my family. I started my musical journey because my siblings each played an instrument. I was encouraged to read more because I constantly heard about my sister's infatuation with books. Even now, as a non-sports fan, I find myself reeling from how Spain could not score a single goal against the 40-year-old Cape Verde goalkeeper, all because of my family. The influence of loved ones can be amazing, but it isn't always so. Being the youngest means I have an entire team to rely on for support, but sometimes, it also means dealing with a lot of different opinions about success. I still remember the day my oldest brother counseled me on a career. He told me to choose a pathway with little schooling and high pay. After I told him I wanted to be a psychotherapist, he let out a disapproving, frustrated sigh, saying, "You're going to end up crazy. I know a lot of friends stronger than you who've chosen that path, and they can't handle it." I had dozens of these conversations, each with different perspectives on what my success was supposed to look like. I'd be discouraged, reprimanded, debated, and so on. I knew that their advice came from a place of concern; they had experienced limitations too great to overcome. At the same time, though, I wanted to shout back that I, too, knew how hard life could be. And as bad or even guilty as I felt to go against the advice they had given me, the only one who was going to have to live with the results of my decisions would be me. So, as the youngest, I decided that while I would listen to their advice, my decisions would be mine. I know that I am not the only person who has experienced this kind of tug-of-war, and not just in terms of careers. I see children watching their parents fight and end up adopting new habits and behaviors to tailor to the happiness of those around them. One of my closest friends as a child nearly gave up on her passion for singing because of the voices around her and the circumstances she was facing. Many don't understand that health isn't just physical; it's also about emotional and mental well-being. I am aware of what my siblings have told me. But I have overcome the limitations that others are facing, so I am determined to encourage under-represented communities facing mental health barriers to take the risks they have been told not to take, to let their unique voices contribute to the conversations in which society has silenced them. As a psychotherapist, I will act as a bridge, helping people learn how to improve their lives from within. I will create spaces for others to find their unique voices.

As the youngest of seven, I've learned a lot of things. Like dipping dinner rolls in apple juice. Or using a standard multiplication algorithm. And understanding different kinds of cuddles. And not to throw a tennis ball as hard as you can at one brother when the other brother (who wears glasses) is nearby, when you have bad aim. But that's besides the point. The point is, a lot of me is made up of the memories and lessons I shared with my family. I started my musical journey because my siblings each played an instrument. I was encouraged to read more because I constantly heard about my sister's infatuation with books. Even now, as a person who is decidedly not a sports fan, I find myself reeling from how Spain could not make a single goal against the 40-year-old Cape Verde goalkeeper, all because of my family. The influence your loved ones have over you can be amazing, but it isn't always so. Being the youngest means I have an entire team to rely on for support, but sometimes, it also means dealing with a lot of differing opinions about success. I still remember the day my oldest brother counseled me on choosing a career. He told me to choose a pathway with little schooling and high pay. After I told him I wanted to be a psychotherapist, he let out a disapproving, frustrated sigh, saying, "You're going to end up crazy. I know a lot of friends stronger than you who've chosen that path, and they can't handle it." I had dozens of these conversations, each with differing perspectives on what my success was supposed to look like. I'd be discouraged, reprimanded, debated, and so on. I knew that their advice came from a place of concern; they had experienced limitations too great to overcome. At the same time, though, I wanted to shout back that I, too, had experience and knowledge about how hard life could be. And as bad or even guilty as I felt to go against the advice they had given me, the only one who was going to have to live with the results of my decisions would be me. So, as the youngest, I decided that while I would listen to their advice, I would make sure that my decisions would be defined by me. I know that I am not the only first-generation student who has experienced this kind of tug-of-war. Friends have come to me, telling me that they couldn't study because their family dismissed their aspirations of higher education and denied them support. Or, they're constantly fluctuating on their decisions and increasingly agitated about the future because of so many dictating their path. As I embark on my own journey, I want to leave behind an example that shows others like them that there are other options possible for them. I want to gain as much knowledge as I can about the systems I will be using and the ones that will be most useful to them so that I can come back to my community and share with them the information that might unlock new doors for them. I have discovered so many unique voices in this world that have been lost in the mass. I have decided to create opportunities where these voices can raise their voice as they have desired and contribute as their individual perspectives see fit.

It's 8:12—no, 8:13 AM—which means I have time to get to my spot. There, in between the fake plant and the fictional author's last name A through B, with the sun shining through, I find a peaceful moment before school starts. It was important to me, almost a necessity, for me to have this moment as a freshman. Not just because I liked books, but because peaceful moments weren't the most common at my house. As the youngest, my family tried to protect me from the majority of problems, but from age 5, I would force myself to shove every last scrap of food because I just knew that throwing food away was a luxury we couldn't afford. I grew up appreciating every little thing, so that I could call it paradise when we ate beans on repeat for weeks to save money, and treat it like an adventure when we had to choose between risking my mom's life or tightening an already tight budget by spending on a hotel when dropping my brother's necessities off at a military base. I need to maintain those peaceful pockets because I've seen firsthand what it does to a person who lacks them. I also grew up hearing so many stories of people who didn't have those blissful moments, so it became very difficult for me to live my life without trying to make someone else's day a little bit brighter. As a kid, I was known as the hugger at church and at school, "the Therapist." At church, I made it my mission to hug strangers and friends who walked through my church's doors. At school, I'd spend my recesses listening to small and severe problems of the girls my age. It was odd, but so many came up to me, teary-eyed, to thank me for creating moments of relief from their stressful lives. I understood that pain loves to hide in the hidden parts of people's lives, so, in high school, I decided that my volunteer club would offer kind, encouraging thoughts just as much as we provided clothes, food, and pet supplies. But as helpful as those actions were to those who received them, there is still so much more to be done. There were people I couldn't help the way they needed. Because what do you say to that friend, who you don't talk to anymore, when you find out their situation has become so unbearable that the only way they feel better is by inflicting pain on themselves? What do you do when a first grader tells you, a class helper, that he feels ignored? Or excluded? Or worse— he doesn't speak; he locks everybody out and cries and cries, and you have no idea why? These are moments when I understand that I need more experience to help. Higher education isn't just getting a degree for higher pay—it's about gaining the skills and knowledge I need to handle situations that would be too severe for any average person. I want to go to college, despite the financial implications, because I've seen firsthand the consequences of not knowing how to find peace amid devastation. I want to go because I want to learn all the ways I can help others find peace in their life. Though my last day was over a week ago, I find myself running through the halls to get to that spot one last time. It'd been a while since I'd last sat in it, but when I did, it felt just as warm as those early mornings. I may not be sure of what's to come—my financial and familial situations remaining unimproved—but I have a goal. As I read a book I picked up from wandering, two things are once again confirmed: 1) I should've read this book a long time ago (I own it), and 2) there are so many people in this world who suffer from the lack of access to methods that could help them relieve a little bit of the stress they feel daily. And even if the world upends my life to prevent me from doing so, I will climb as far as I need to and more because everybody deserves to feel the same warmth and peace and happiness I've felt in my own pockets of peace, regardless of their circumstances.

"Wow" was the most-spoken word of the day by my awe-struck toddling nephew as he tried to capture bubbles with his chubby fingers around the park. "Wow" is the word I use when all the pieces come together, revealing a new perspective on the world to me. Such a short word, but in the moment where those sine and cosine functions finally click, and I begin to see how the amplitude and frequency of those waves can describe sound, geological phenomena, and even a woman's menstrual cycle, the word "wow" says everything about the awe I can't even begin to describe. When I was little, my mom would sit me down at the dinner table for "coffee chats"--long conversations where she would share her wisdom with me. I remember tugging at the red table cover as she explained to me the importance of education and of taking advantage of the opportunities she wasn't able to take herself as a single mother. Years later, I would have to be peeled from studying the dinner table when midnight hit, but not just to keep up a grade point average or to overcome the obstacles that had been barricading my family from higher education. No, I stayed up late making sure that I absorbed all the information I could about everything, because I started to understand that every piece of information, from a literary analysis to the bioluminescence of a jellyfish, was a part of an explanation of how everything around me operates, and why it works the way it does. Many don't understand this fascination I have with education. Others find it useless. Some have even told me so, and have tried to steer me away from it. But, to me, the desire to understand the world is the most important step in making this world a better place. When I leave this Earth, I want to have accomplished one thing: to have used my awe for understanding to give people the peace of being understood. When I say I plan on studying psychology and Family ministry during my college education to become a psychotherapist, I mean that I want to go beyond simply learning about the human psyche and into the application of that knowledge to improving other people's quality of life. I want to be the bridge between a couple where the parties don't understand each other anymore. I want to let the child know that their words are being heard by someone and help them understand the things that confuse and bewilder them. I want to leave this world having watched people grow after exploring why the world demands so much with little compensation. I seek education for the improvement of myself and of my family, but I also seek education to genuinely become the change I want to see in this world. Education offers many promises of a better life, but I believe that its greatest gift is opening our eyes to new prospects, new ways of thinking, which can help us in so many different ways. I'd like to be part of people's journey as they find that value, discover the things that make the world so marvelous. Because I'd like to imagine that, when it's found, it adds the same level of awe that bubbles add to my nephew's life. And, most of all, I'd like to leave behind me people who say, "wow."

What's stuck with me the most as I see my loved ones struggle with substance abuse is how it reaches far beyond the body. It begins by hurting the user, then it breaks apart their family, then their support network, and eventually isolates them from an entire community that they used to be a part of. And the more I watched this domino effect unfold in my family, friends, and other close ones, the more I realized that there needs to be a change in how substance abuse resources, specifically in terms of mental health, tackle the situation. I was about three, sitting with a family friend—"Pengüino," I called him, because I couldn't pronounce his actual name—in my mom's former house. I remember laughing with him at all the funny gadgets on my toy computer. I felt completely safe with him. My mom had told me that at one point, he had struggled with things like alcohol and drugs, but I wouldn't have imagined that he could fall back into the same vicious cycle years later. We started getting updates where he was hanging onto life by a thread, with organ failure, internal ruptures, and more. I never realized how devastating relapse could be, or how easily someone could fall back into the addictions they once overcame. Unfortunately, it was through Pengüino that I discovered the detrimental effects of relapse on people and their loved ones. I also hadn't considered how substance abuse affects those who fill in the gaps for users until my mom's friend nearly crashed into us on the way to school. She had been so distracted by her new charge over her three grandchildren after their parents suddenly fell into addiction that she went into the contraflow lane of a traffic circle. In the few encounters we had afterwards, I saw the worry weighing her down, the kids' aloofness, and the conflict in their eyes—wanting help but afraid to reach out. Her family's situation has only worsened. Her 13-year-old granddaughter is expressing suicidal intentions after her birthday this July, seeing as her parents suddenly abandoned her and her siblings. When I heard this, all I thought was: where is the help they should be receiving? Where's the outreach? I grew up in a community where substance abuse and mental health were openly discussed. Yet I still saw many struggle. My sister relied on marijuana to relieve her anxiety, but had her therapist not warned her that it only worsens anxiety in the long term? My brother's wife was drinking and breastfeeding, and the child remained in her custody. In witnessing these things, I realized that awareness and infographics sometimes aren't enough. Because I've decided to pursue a career in mental health, I want to start contributing to effective prevention and outreach now. I've already started researching mental health stigma, the factors influencing treatment effectiveness, and how substance abuse influences those statistics. When I move to the city where my university is located, I plan to get involved in my new community through organizations that confront these issues, because I believe that these problems are solvable. After all, my eldest brother spent nearly 15 years of his life under the influence of drugs, and now, he works for the City of Yakima, with two children and a wife. People can be free of addiction, but it will only happen if the right support and actions are taken.

When I was in middle school, I aspired to be a fashion designer, creating clothing that comforted and uplifted people. I often filled notepads with visions of my own clothing line. In 9th grade, I used a technical literacy project to further develop this dream, but the more I planned, the more I fell in love with a different variation of it. My career goal shifted, but it didn't shift what I wanted to build—a sanctuary amid a chaotic world. And What started as a simple idea has grown into a vision for a café‑style sanctuary.. Early on, I learned the importance of peace, love, and being understood, and yet, how elusive these qualities could be. Growing up Christian, I knew I could rely on God for lasting peace when life hit me—hard, sometimes. But in my struggles, I realized many people face even greater battles with far less support. Often, these people need a safe space to reflect and to process what they are going through, especially in a rapidly-moving world that only ever raises the standard of success. In understanding this, I realized I could be a psychotherapist and open up a supportive space that acted as a sanctuary to others. It may seem unconventional to combine a therapy practice with a café, but both create space for comfort, reflection, and connection.. A café is widely associated with comfort, relaxation, and focus—a calming environment many lack. By creating such a space, I hope to foster serenity where people feel safe to simply be. This environment can also encourage individuals to seek mental health support. Despite progress over the past two decades, many still feel unsure about therapy, even though studies show they could benefit. Through this café, I aim to make supporting personal growth accessible. While I don't have all the credentials yet, I have access to technology and professionals experienced in business and mental health. I’ve researched mental health and am exploring options to start my own business. My vision is for this space to serve as a beacon, helping others find the peace I have known. But my outreach extends beyond that. I’ve gone mission trips, sharing the hope and love of the gospel. In every experience, I was attracted to those rejected by their communities—I wanted them to know they were loved. I was able to witness lives transformed by small acts of love, and I think, if a small conversation can make such a big impact, what would a space meant to act as a sanctuary do for people? Being part of such moments fuels my desire to dedicate my life to serving others and helping them flourish. My legacy, I hope, will be rooted in lifting others and demonstrating the power of support and presence. In a world filled with pain, I aspire to leave behind serenity—something I believe we can create through compassion, understanding, and shared humanity.

1. I am an absolute bookworm. Instead of banning phones, my mom had to leave my brothers as guards to ensure my books stayed out of my room and that I wasn't awake when she came back from her jobs at dawn. I am also a homegrown Christian, the youngest of 7 in a family that yells over each other at restaurants to make sure everyone is on the same page (we never get there, though), and someone who cherishes the little things because she knows that they can be a lifeline when the struggles of a dysfunctional family rise and threaten to murder you. The little things, like finding books in Spanish at school to read with my mom at home, or never figuring out how to split a check at a restaurant for our party of 14, are what make me that neither introverted nor extraverted person, the sweet but also slightly crazy and wild person I am. 2. As a bilingual student, I begrudgingly had to learn to embrace the request, "Talk to me in Spanish!" What was I supposed to say? Similarly, in Honduras, I became a foreign commodity for being American as well. And even though I didn't like the questions where foreign languages became entertainment, it taught me that human nature is the same wherever you go. While in America, I was receiving a higher education, I was also gaining valuable skills from my Hispanic roots, learning the value of hard work and community, at the same time recognizing that the opportunities I've had are considered privileges and luxuries in other parts of the world. Additionally, being one of many multicultural people showed me how human nature manifests itself differently across the world. 3. In the last 13 years, I've learned the impact your background can have on your future-- not simply from appearance, but by how it shapes your own perspectives of life. I had learned early on that anything is possible with dedication and grit, but in 6th grade, reality woke me up to a different reality for many of my immigrant peers. That year was when I first translated for others in school. The girl had recently arrived from Mexico, willing to learn and overcome obstacles. However, when she realized that she had to work twice as much with only the support of someone struggling with what she was supposed to know, she gave up. And many adopt that mindset. Her story taught me to count my blessings, to appreciate the skills I've built, but most of all, to look out for my people, because no one else is giving them support. 4. Taking all of this into consideration, I've decided to become a psychotherapist, not just for those who can actually afford therapy, but to support the people whose futures seem to be set in stone just because their opportunities were presented with more barriers. I might not be giving them tangible opportunities, but my goal is more focused on removing the personal, social, and mental barriers people set on themselves. A lot of the time, the difference between who we consider successful and who we consider a failure comes from mindset. I know that, financially speaking, I may not be in the best position for college, but I am determined, if not hell-bent on dragging the people who don't think they can do more with me to higher standards, more ambitious dreams, greater things. Because at the end of the day, if we were able to travel to unknown lands and survive, what is there to stop us?

I love word search puzzles. I like to work with (and secretly compete with) my mom in finding all 24 words in the 15x15 grid. I feel like it comes so naturally to me-- I look at a word, and it pops out. Sometimes, though, it doesn't work like that. Sometimes, I have to work for it, and it makes me want to beat myself up for not being consistent in my Super Word search Skills. Sometimes, I don't beat my mom, or my mom finds them better than me, and I doubt the abilities I thought I'd built. Sometimes I think mental health is almost exactly like those word-search puzzles. There are times when I've felt on top of the world-- I have plans for the future, I feel motivated, busy but not overwhelmed, etc.-- but there are also times where life doesn't go that well, and my mental health takes a toll. There was an especially difficult period in my mental health during a series of familial problems that happened to coincide with the pandemic. My brother got together with a girl who displayed a variety of red flags: isolation from friends and family, an unhealthy relationship with her family, and more. That worried my mom to the point where I was sat down and explained what I was supposed to do in case she died. I was twelve. Twelve, and waking up no less than five times at night to aid her with water, blood sugar machine, blood pressure, and oxygen level machines to make sure she was still more or less okay. In the event of her death, I was to contact the bank, a legal representative, and the people to help us with the funeral plans, so that she could have her cherry wood casket. In February, four months into this fiasco, I witnessed my mom's first near-death experience and saw how anguish paralyzes the body. A month later, I experienced my first panic attack. And, in August, after I tried to smother my feelings of fear and sadness to be strong for my mom in her critical condition, I ultimately broke. I thank God that I had a corner full of people who not only loved and encouraged me, but who reacted quickly, establishing a greater support system, more love, and more reinforcements of lessons along the lines of "you don't have to carry this alone" and "don't be afraid to not be okay." However, I've also witnessed other people with a different story. A most beloved family friend suffered from Schizophrenia, and after four attempts, he died by suicide in 2018. I've never seen a church so full as at his funeral service, where people of all backgrounds came together to share how kind he had been, and express the pain and regret for not being there for him like he had been for them. Before the pandemic, I learned that one of my elementary school friends was struggling with the adjustment to the point that she began physically harming herself as a way to relieve herself of the pain she felt inside. I've also met people who think they don't have problems at all, not understanding that random outbursts, constant burnout, and stress are also included in the mental health package of things to beware of. I surveyed my town to see who struggles with mental health, and so many people awkwardly shuffled away, one person even saying, "No thanks, I don't have mental health." Seeing as the town is quite open and willing to educate everybody on all of these issues, I was astonished to see how people reacted. Especially when I grew up with a mom who, despite a variety of cultural, social, and self-stigmatizing barriers, taught me to never be afraid to seek mental health, and that mental health was something we all needed to take care of. I've suffered in knowing that others are going through experiences worse than mine and don't have the support that I've had. Seeing all that I have has made me realize more than ever that there is a severe mental health crisis in the world. At the same time, I've also grown to understand that the battle is fought together, not alone. I've discovered that, through my suffering, I have the opportunity to make sure that those who are struggling don't feel alone, that there are alternatives to suffering. What was a painful point in my life has shown me that mental health can't be understood only in terms of physical health. It encompasses a vast range of complex factors. Recognizing this is essential if we want to change how mental health is approached. I'm committed to becoming a psychotherapist to use what I've learned and what I will learn to foster an environment that fosters and welcomes open conversations about mental health. Mental health can often feel overwhelming, much like in a word search puzzle, where you find yourself trapped in a corner with letters swirling around in confusion. But when we work together, the pieces begin to align. Even if the word isn't quite obvious yet, we realize we're not alone in this journey. In that shared effort, the puzzle feels a little less daunting. I, for one, am committed to helping others find that relief, so no one has to face their puzzle alone.

When I was in middle school, I aspired to be a fashion designer, creating clothing that comforted and uplifted people. I often filled notepads with diverse designs and envisioned launching my own clothing line. In 9th grade, I used a technical literacy project to brainstorm business names for this venture. As I planned more, I became increasingly passionate about the idea—or a variation of it. Although my career path has shifted, my core goal remains—to build a stable life while providing others with a sanctuary amid a chaotic world. That small seed—now a café—has grown into a vine entwining my aspirations. Early on, I learned the importance of peace, love, and being understood. Yet, I also recognized how elusive these qualities can be. Growing up Christian, I knew I could rely on God for lasting peace—even during my mother's fight for her life when I was 12. But not everyone grows up with such faith, and many face greater struggles with less support. Often, they need a safe space to reflect and process. This understanding bridged my dream of becoming a psychotherapist with my desire to open a supportive space. It may seem unconventional to combine a practice and a café, but I see a connection. A café is widely associated with comfort, relaxation, and focus—a calming environment many lack. By creating such a space, I hope to foster serenity where people feel safe to simply be. This environment can also encourage individuals to seek mental health support. Despite progress over the past two decades, many still feel unsure about therapy, even though studies show they could benefit. I don't want my café to be just another business seeking profit; I aim to make supporting personal growth accessible. While I don't have all the credentials yet, I have access to technology and professionals experienced in business and mental health. I’ve researched mental health and am exploring options to start my own business. My vision is for this space to serve as a beacon, helping others find the peace I have known. But my outreach extends beyond that. I’ve participated in mission trips in Honduras, serving over 500 children with food, and have shared messages of hope and love of the gospel in Mexico. In every experience, I sought opportunities to understand those rejected by their communities—to show they are valued and loved. Through my church service, I’ve provided food for hundreds and witnessed lives transformed by small acts of love. Being part of such moments fuels my desire to dedicate my life to serving others and helping them flourish. My legacy, I hope, will be rooted in lifting others and demonstrating the power of support and presence. In a world filled with pain, I aspire to leave behind serenity—something I believe we can create through compassion, understanding, and shared humanity.