My medical challenge is an invisible one, but it impacts every physical movement I make. I have a rare SCN2A genetic mutation. For me, this diagnosis severely impacts my processing speed, my fine motor skills, and my executive functioning. Growing up, the physical world often felt like it was moving entirely too fast for me to keep up. While the traditional high school classroom was a chaotic and overwhelming environment, I found my ultimate sanctuary in our family garage. Under the hood of a car, the chaos of the world completely disappears. A vehicle is a logical, tangible system. My passion for the automotive field began by spending countless hours alongside my father, performing hands-on maintenance and restoration on our family vehicles. We worked together to maintain a 2012 Toyota Sienna, a 2002 GMC Yukon XL, and a classic 1974 MGB. Through him, I learned the incredible satisfaction of automotive repair. We tackled everything from diagnosing alternator failures to carefully polishing the vintage paint on the MGB. Working on those cars taught me a fundamental lesson: when a mechanical system breaks down, you do not throw the machine away. You diagnose the problem, you engineer a workaround, and you rebuild it. I applied this exact mechanical mindset to my greatest personal medical challenge. Because of my rare genetic mutation, medical professionals suggested I should avoid driving altogether. They believed my slow processing speed and fine motor delays would make operating a vehicle too dangerous. I refused to accept that limitation. I knew how vehicles worked on the inside, and I needed to master operating one on the outside. I viewed driving as a complex mechanical system that I simply needed to troubleshoot. I logged over sixty hours of repetitive driving practice. My goal was to build up so much physical muscle memory that my body could safely bypass the cognitive delays of my brain. Earning my driver permit was a massive victory. It proved that a vehicle is not just metal and rubber; it is the ultimate equalizer for personal independence. I am pursuing a career in the automotive field because I want to spend my life keeping the spirit of hands-on troubleshooting alive. Scott A. Ross understood the deep value of the automotive trades, and I share that exact same passion. I want to build, repair, and optimize the mechanical systems that give people their physical freedom. A rare medical diagnosis changes your life, but it does not have to be a dead end. By pursuing automotive technology, I will use the grit I learned from managing my disability to engineer a successful career, honoring Scott’s legacy of hard work and dedication to the industry.

When most people think about education, they think about sitting in a classroom, taking normal notes, and passing standard tests. My brain was simply not built for that version of the world. I have a rare genetic mutation related to the SCN2A gene. Because of this diagnosis, my brain processes information much slower than the average person. I also experience fine motor delays. For the first few years of my life, the educational system felt like a massive wall. Teachers spoke too fast. The lights were too bright. My hands could not move fast enough to write down the information. Doctors and educators immediately lowered their expectations. They wanted to put me on a non-standard track and keep me hidden in a quiet room. They assumed a regular high school diploma was impossible for me. That was my starting line. My real education did not begin when I sat in a classroom; it began when I decided I refused to stay in that quiet room. I wanted standard classes, but wishing to be standard does not fix anything. I had to learn how to learn. I could not rely on natural speed, so I became an engineer of my own life. I started building my own academic systems from scratch. Because I could not process auditory lectures fast enough, I invented my own visual shorthand. Because my fine motor skills made traditional writing difficult, I installed massive whiteboards on the walls of my bedroom. I stood in front of those whiteboards for hours, writing complex concepts repeatedly. I was not just studying; I was forcing my body to lock the information into my physical muscle memory. I bypassed my cognitive delays by using my physical body. That was the most important educational experience of my life. It taught me that a broken system is not a dead end. It is just an engineering problem waiting for a creative solution. I took that exact same problem-solving mindset out of the bedroom and into the family garage. The high school environment was always chaotic and overwhelming, but the garage was completely logical. My dad is the ultimate problem solver, and I spent hundreds of hours next to him working on our family vehicles. We maintained a 2012 Toyota Sienna, a 2002 GMC Yukon XL, and we restored a classic 1974 MGB. Under the hood of that old MGB, nothing ever went according to the manual. We had to tinker, troubleshoot, and invent our own workarounds. I loved the feeling of fixing something with my own hands. I realized that my disability was just like a broken alternator. You do not throw the whole car away; you figure out how to bypass the problem and rebuild it. This became incredibly real when I reached driving age. Medical professionals warned me that my slow processing speed would make driving too dangerous. They suggested I rely on others for transportation. But working in the garage taught me that a car is the ultimate tool for freedom. I refused to let my diagnosis take that away from me. I treated driving like a whiteboard problem. I spent over sixty hours doing repetitive driving practice in empty parking lots and quiet roads. I drove until my body knew exactly how much pressure to put on the brakes before my brain even processed the command. Getting my driver permit was my ultimate transformation. It gave me my true independence. That experience completely shaped my sense of direction and my goals for the future. Earning my permit showed me how vital physical independence is for someone with a disability. But it also showed me how hostile modern cars are to neurodivergent people. Today, cars are filled with massive digital touchscreens. If you have sensory processing issues or fine motor delays, trying to tap a flat glass screen while moving is completely overwhelming and actually dangerous. Education gave me the confidence to know I can fix this. I am going to attend High Point University this fall to study automotive design. I want to design the next generation of accessible vehicles. I want to build dashboards with physical, tactile buttons that a driver can operate using purely muscle memory. I want to create sensory systems that mute unnecessary noises to prevent cognitive overload. I want to do this because I know exactly who I am building it for. Because I am the first person diagnosed with SNC2A to attend a four-year college, I volunteer as a mentor with the FamilieSCN2A organization. I spend time with younger kids who have my exact genetic mutation. I see the anxiety in their parents' eyes. They worry about what will happen to their kids when they grow up. At our last medical conference, the room was so tense and sad that I grabbed my younger sisters and started a spontaneous dance train right through the dining room. Almost every kid joined in. I wanted to show them that joy and independence are possible. I want to use my college education to build a world that is physically ready for those kids. The BlueHill REI LLC and Harmony scholarship is about using education to rise above challenges and build a better tomorrow. My entire life has been about rising above the low expectations placed on me. I am not standard, and I never will be. But I have the grit to design my own path forward. This scholarship will help ease the financial burden of a four-year degree, allowing me to focus entirely on my automotive design classes. I want to spend my life engineering tools that give my community their independence, proving that who we are becoming matters just as much as anyone else.

Richard Neumann believed that problem-solving was an art form. For me, problem-solving is a matter of survival. I have an SCN2A genetic mutation that severely impacts my processing speed, my executive functioning, and my fine motor skills. In a traditional high school environment, I was the exact definition of an unconventional thinker who did not flourish under standard methods. The educational system was not built for my brain, so I had to build my own tools to navigate it. The most important thing I have created to solve a personal problem is my own academic operating system. Because I process auditory information slower than average, I could not take traditional notes during fast-paced lectures. To solve this, I completely redesigned my learning process. I invented a specific visual shorthand to capture complex concepts rapidly. I then installed massive whiteboards in my bedroom, using them to write out these concepts repeatedly until they locked into my physical muscle memory. I successfully bypassed my cognitive delays by engineering a physical workaround. That system allowed me to survive standard classes and prove that my differences are not a deficit. As I look to the future, I want to apply this same problem-solving mindset to the automotive industry. Earning my driver permit taught me how vital a vehicle is for personal independence. However, modern cars are increasingly hostile to individuals with sensory and processing delays. If I had the necessary money and resources, I would create a fully adaptive vehicle interface designed specifically for neurodivergent drivers. Currently, automakers rely on massive digital touchscreens. These require extreme fine motor precision and visual focus, which easily overwhelm the senses. My plan is to engineer a vehicle interface that prioritizes intuitive, tactile feedback over visual menus. I would replace screen-heavy dashboards with distinct, haptic physical controls that a driver can operate purely through muscle memory, without taking their eyes off the road. Furthermore, the system would feature an adaptive sensory environment, allowing the driver to isolate and mute non-essential auditory or visual alerts to prevent cognitive overload. With unlimited resources, I would build a physical prototype of this dashboard and test it exclusively within the adaptive community. By gathering data from individuals with various processing speeds, I could optimize the ergonomics to ensure the vehicle acts as an extension of the driver, rather than a distraction. I will be studying automotive design at High Point University this fall. I want to spend my career proving that true innovation comes from navigating a world that was not originally built for you. A roadblock is simply a system waiting to be redesigned.

I have chosen to pursue automotive design and technology because I understand exactly how critical a vehicle is for personal independence. I have a rare SCN2A genetic mutation that severely impacts my processing speed and fine motor skills. For most of my life, the physical world felt like it was moving too fast for me to keep up. When medical professionals suggested I should avoid driving due to my slow processing speed, I refused to accept that limitation. I viewed it as a mechanical engineering problem. I logged over sixty hours of repetitive driving practice until my body built enough muscle memory to bypass the delays of my brain. Earning my driver permit changed my life. It taught me that a car is not just a machine; it is the ultimate equalizer. What I enjoy most about the automotive field is the deep problem-solving it requires. Vehicles are complex physical systems that must be engineered to interact safely with unpredictable human drivers. I enjoy studying how vehicle packaging, ergonomics, and intuitive interfaces can be designed to empower people who experience the physical world differently. I love the fact that a mechanical roadblock is never a dead end, instead it is simply a system waiting to be optimized. As an incoming freshman at High Point University, my career goal is to design the next generation of accessible, intuitive vehicles. I want to prove that true automotive innovation comes from navigating a world that was not originally built for you. The Robert D. Novak Scholarship would directly support my education by reducing the financial burden of my tuition. It would allow me to focus entirely on mastering the technical design skills required to succeed in this industry. By supporting my education, this scholarship will help me spend my career engineering physical independence for others, honoring Mr. Novak’s legacy of using automotive skills to help people when they feel overwhelmed.

At the end of her album GUTS, Olivia Rodrigo sings a line that hits me hard every single time. She asks, "They all say that it gets better, it gets better the more you grow. Yeah, they all say that it gets better, it gets better, but what if I do not?". Most people probably hear that and think about regular high school stress. But for me, it perfectly describes what it feels like to grow up with a rare genetic mutation. Because of my SCN2A diagnosis, my brain processes information slower than average, and I have fine motor delays. When you have a disability, adults and doctors always try to make you feel better by saying things will get easier as you get older. They promise that eventually, you will figure it out or the school system will figure out how to help you. But sitting in a regular classroom, completely overwhelmed by fast lectures and unable to take normal notes, I felt exactly what Olivia was singing about. What if I do not get better? What if my brain is always just like this? Listening to "teenage dream" helped me realize it is okay to be frustrated. Her music makes sense to me because she admits the truth: waiting around for things to just magically fix themselves is a bad plan. If I wanted to survive high school and reach my goals, I had to stop waiting and start building my own systems. So, I built my own workarounds. Because of my processing speed, I invented my own visual shorthand just to keep up in class. I put massive whiteboards in my room and wrote things down over and over until they locked into my muscle memory. When doctors told me I should probably avoid driving because of my delays, I did not accept that. I spent over sixty hours doing repetitive driving practice. I built up so much muscle memory that my body knew what to do before my brain even processed the command. I passed my test and earned my permit. My life did not get easier because I naturally grew out of my disability. It got better because I stopped trying to be standard and just put in the heavy work to adapt. Olivia Rodrigo’s music is great because she does not pretend everything is fine. She lets you be angry when things are hard. As I head to High Point University to study automotive design, I know my brain will always process things differently. But I also know I have the grit to design my own way forward.

When people watch the film Ford v Ferrari, they usually see a story about racing history and corporate rivalry. However, when I first watched it, I saw a masterclass in neurodivergence, extreme grit, and the power of engineering a workaround. As a student with a rare SCN2A genetic mutation that causes processing and fine motor delays, this movie profoundly impacted my life by validating my entire approach to overcoming personal and educational obstacles. In the film, Carroll Shelby and Ken Miles are tasked with doing the impossible: building a vehicle to defeat the dominant Ferrari racing team. The greatest antagonist in the story is not Ferrari; it is the rigid, bureaucratic Ford corporate system. The executives constantly try to force Miles and Shelby to conform to standard protocols, completely ignoring the fact that standard methods do not foster true innovation. This deeply resonated with my early educational experience. Because my brain processes information differently, my school district initially placed me in a segregated special education classroom. They attempted to force me onto a non-standard track, assuming a regular high school diploma was impossible simply because I did not fit their standard metrics. Like the protagonists in the film, my family and I refused to accept that limiting narrative. I fought to enter standard classes, but I quickly realized the traditional education system was not built for my brain. had to engineer my own vehicle for success. Just as Ken Miles used yarn and tape to physically test aerodynamics when he lacked access to a corporate wind tunnel, I invented a unique visual shorthand to bypass my processing delays. I utilized massive whiteboards to write out concepts repeatedly, locking complex information into my physical muscle memory. The movie also perfectly mirrors my proudest personal achievement. When medical professionals suggested I should not drive due to my slow processing speed, I remembered the core ethos of the film. Driving is not just about raw cognitive speed; it is about knowing the machine and relying on deeply ingrained practice. To bypass my delays, I logged over 60 hours of repetitive driving practice to safely earn my permit. I built up so much physical muscle memory that my body knew exactly what to do before my brain even processed the command. Ford v Ferrari taught me that true innovation comes from navigating a world that was not originally built to accommodate you. As I prepare to study automotive design at High Point University, I carry the ultimate lesson of the film with me: a roadblock is never a dead end; it is merely an engineering problem waiting to be solved. Pursuing higher education is my opportunity to transcend my boundaries, master my craft, and eventually design the next generation of intuitive, accessible vehicles for others.

How have you helped bring people together, create belonging, or make your community a more inclusive place? I have a rare genetic mutation related to the SCN2A gene. Because I am the first person with SCN2A to attend a four-year college, I volunteer as a mentor for younger children at the FamilieSCN2A annual conference. These families deal with severe clinical expectations, and the environment can be incredibly heavy. During a recent conference dinner, the room was packed with doctors, researchers, and overwhelmed parents. The messaging of the weekend was serious, and a tense, awkward silence fell over the room. I realized that true connection does not always require a microphone or a speech; sometimes, it requires action. Instead of waiting for an adult to fix the energy, I grabbed my younger sisters and started a spontaneous dance train weaving through the tables. Within minutes, almost every child in the room joined the line. We broke the tension instantly. The doctors noted it as a breakthrough in social leadership, but for me, it was simply about creating a space where kids with severe disabilities could just be kids. Neurodivergent individuals often feel isolated in standard environments. Creating an inclusive community means engineering moments where everyone feels safe to participate, regardless of their physical or cognitive differences. By starting that dance train, I helped bring those families together. I communicated to those parents that a joyful, connected, and authentic life is actually possible for us. Tell us about a time you resisted pressure to conform and instead chose to be your true self. When you receive a rare genetic diagnosis, society often expects you to quietly conform to a life of limitations. Because my SCN2A mutation affects my processing speed and fine motor skills, my school district initially placed me in a segregated special education classroom. The expectation was that I would stay hidden in a quiet hallway, accept a non-standard diploma, and avoid the stress of a regular environment. I completely refused to conform to that narrative. I wanted to experience an authentic high school life, which included taking standard classes and competing in athletics. My family and I fought to get me integrated, but once I was there, the standard methods of learning did not work for me. Instead of pretending to fit in, I built my own systems. I invented a visual shorthand to bypass my processing delays and relied on massive whiteboards to lock information into my muscle memory. I brought this same authentic defiance to sports. I joined the Varsity Bowling team, intentionally throwing myself into a chaotic, sensory-heavy environment that directly challenged my fine motor delays. I do not have a perfect brain, and I do not do things the traditional way. Choosing to be my true self meant accepting my differences and engineering my own workarounds, both in the classroom and on the lanes. By refusing to hide, I proved that bravery is not about being flawless; it is about showing up exactly as you are.