Mental health has never been something that exists in isolation for me. It shows up in layers, in my own mind, in my sister’s experiences, in my mother’s quiet weight, and in the loss of a close friend who took her own life. It is not one story in my life. It is multiple overlapping ones, all shaping how I understand people, silence, and survival. In my own life, I’ve dealt with personal mental health struggles that I didn’t always have the language for while I was in them. There were times when everything felt internalized, like I was carrying too much but didn’t know where to put it. I learned how to function outwardly while still sorting through things privately. Over time, I’ve realized how easy it is to normalize quietly struggling, especially when you’re surrounded by others who are doing the same. I’ve seen that same quiet struggle in different forms within my family. My sister has gone through her own mental health challenges connected to family conflict, and I’ve watched how that impacts not just her, but the way we all interact with each other. Conversations can become shorter, more careful, or more emotionally loaded than they appear on the surface. Even when no one says, “This is what we’re going through,” it still shapes the household's energy. My mother carries her own emotional weight as well, shaped in part by her relationship with my father and the responsibilities she has had to hold over time. I’ve learned that mental health isn’t always loud or visible. Sometimes it shows up in exhaustion, in patience that is stretched thin, or in the way someone keeps going even when they are carrying more than they talk about. On top of that, I experienced the loss of a close friend to suicide. That changed something in me that I still don’t fully have words for. It made mental health feel less like an abstract topic and more like something real, fragile, and often hidden in plain sight. What stayed with me most was the shock of it, the realization that someone can appear strong, social, and present while still struggling deeply underneath. That experience made it impossible for me to ignore how important it is to actually check in on people, not just assume they are okay because they seem okay. All of these experiences have shaped how I see relationships. I’ve become more intentional about listening, more aware of tone shifts, and more careful not to dismiss what someone might be carrying internally. I’ve also learned that silence can be its own form of communication. Sometimes what people don’t say is just as important as what they do. In terms of my goals, mental health has made me more grounded in what I want to do with my life. I plan to pursue marketing and creative strategy, but I’m interested in it beyond just business. I care about communication, how messages are formed, how people are represented, and how stories can either isolate or connect people. I want to be part of work that is thoughtful about the way it reaches people, not just effective on the surface. More than anything, my understanding of mental health has taught me that visibility matters. Not everything that is happening internally will show externally, and not everything that looks fine is fine. That awareness has made me more empathetic, more observant, and more committed to creating spaces where people don’t feel like they have to hide what they are going through. Mental health has shaped my life by teaching me that struggle is often quieter than people expect, connection requires real attention, and healing starts with being willing to see what is usually left unspoken.

Connection today doesn’t disappear because people stop caring. It gets harder to recognize because everything is happening at once, and most of it is happening through screens. We’re more “available” than ever, but not always more present. Messages are instant, conversations are constant, and yet it’s still possible to feel completely unseen in the middle of all that noise. I’ve noticed that even when people talk more, they’re not always understood more deeply. So the question for me isn’t whether human connection still exists. It’s how we make it feel real again. Part of the answer is slowing down how we interact with each other —not in a dramatic way, but in small choices—by actually listening without multitasking. Asking follow-up questions instead of just reacting and letting conversations go deeper than what’s convenient or surface-level. A lot of connections are lost, not because people don’t care, but because everything is rushed. I’ve learned this in very simple spaces in my own life. When I volunteered at a retirement home with my sister, I spent time talking with residents who didn’t need anything complicated from me. They just needed someone who would sit, listen, and stay present. Some of them would repeat stories, and instead of seeing that as something to move past, I started to understand it as a form of trust. They weren’t having a conversation. They were offering it. That experience changed how I think about connection. It made me realize that being present is not passive. It is an active choice. It is how people feel valued. I’ve also experienced how connections change in academic spaces. Through speech and debate, I learned how powerful structured communication can be, but also how easy it is for voices to get lost if they aren’t intentional. As someone who often had to find my place in predominantly white academic environments, I had to learn how to speak in a way that made space for myself without shrinking who I was. Over time, it also became one of the first spaces where I built real relationships with teammates through shared effort, feedback, and growth. Those connections weren’t automatic. They were built through consistency. At the same time, I think technology isn’t the enemy of connection. It just changes the responsibility we have in how we use it. We can use it to stay distant or to stay intentional. A message can still carry care. A call can still carry presence. Even online spaces can feel real when people choose to show up fully instead of partially. The future of human connection, to me, depends on intention. It depends on whether we are willing to be present in a way that goes beyond convenience. It is not about rejecting technology or returning to the past. It is about choosing depth in a world that constantly rewards speed. As I move forward into higher education and my future career in marketing and creative strategy, I think about connection in a similar way. Communication is not just about visibility. It is about resonance. It is about whether what you say actually reaches someone in a meaningful way. I want to be part of work that understands that distinction and uses it responsibly. Human connection is not disappearing. It is just being challenged to become more intentional. And the people who learn how to slow down, listen better, and show up fully will be the ones who shape what connection looks like next.

I remember the moment my family shifted into a “before” and “after,” even though nothing changed all at once. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. One day, my brother was part of my everyday life, and then he wasn’t. He is now serving a life sentence, and that reality reshaped my family in ways I’m still learning to understand. After that, everything adjusted. The way we talk, what we don’t say, and the names that only come up when we’re ready for the weight they carry. Even when life looks normal from the outside, there is always something heavier underneath that never fully leaves. Growing up in that “after” made me more observant. I notice tone shifts, pauses, and what people avoid saying. I’ve learned how to hold a lot internally, even when I don’t have a place to put it. Some parts of my life are hard to explain, so I’ve gotten used to carrying them quietly. One of the hardest parts is the silence from others. People often don’t know what to say about incarceration in a family, so they say nothing. That silence can feel isolating, like you’re carrying something people carefully step around. You learn to keep going anyway. At the same time, it has shaped how I understand people and stories. I’ve learned how quickly someone can be reduced to a single moment, even when there is so much more behind them. That has made me more thoughtful, less quick to judge, and more aware of how easily people get labeled instead of understood. Academically, this experience has made education feel essential. I want to pursue higher education to build stability and create a different path for myself and my family. I plan to study marketing and creative strategy because I’m interested in how narratives are shaped, how perception is formed, and how communication influences understanding. After seeing how quickly stories can be narrowed, I want to be part of work that communicates with more intention and humanity. Speech and debate also became important to me during this time. It gave me a structured space to organize my thoughts and use my voice when so much in my personal life felt unspoken. It taught me how to speak with clarity and confidence, even when what I was expressing carried weight. It also gave me a sense of community through teammates who made school feel less isolating. What I carry now is awareness. Awareness of how quickly life can change, how deeply incarceration affects families long after it happens, and how silence can shape experience just as much as words. And awareness that education is one of the few tools I have to build something different moving forward. I’m not trying to erase my family’s story. I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t define everything that comes after it.

The person I admire most doesn’t talk about education as if it were a dream. She talks about it like it’s something she had to set down, not something she stopped wanting. That person is my mother. She was on a path toward her own education, but when my father was away, and life shifted, she decided to step back and focus on raising me. I’ve always understood that choice as something deeper than sacrifice. It was love in action, even when it meant putting her own goals on pause. But growing up, I also started to see what that pause cost her in terms of her own path forward. That is what inspires me now. I pursue education partly for myself and partly as a continuation of something she had to set aside. When I think about college, I don’t just think about independence or career goals. I think about completing a direction that was interrupted in my family, and making sure that interruption doesn’t define what comes next. Speech and debate became one of the spaces where I began to understand my own voice in new ways. As a Black woman in predominantly white academic spaces, I didn’t always feel like my perspective naturally fit into the room. There were moments where I questioned whether I was being understood the way I meant to be. Speech and debate changed that for me. It gave me structure for my voice. It permitted me to speak clearly, directly, and with intention, even when the topics were difficult or uncomfortable. Over time, it also became something more personal than competition. It became one of the first spaces where I felt like I wasn’t just being observed, but heard. I learned how to argue ideas, think critically under pressure, and express myself without shrinking. Those skills didn’t just stay in tournaments. They carried into how I communicate in everyday life. Just as importantly, speech and debate gave me a sense of community. I built friendships with teammates who pushed me, supported me, and showed me what it feels like to grow alongside people who are working toward the same goals. Those relationships were a major reason I stayed committed. It wasn’t just about performance. It was about belonging to something that challenged me while still feeling like home. My motivation for continuing education is rooted in both of these experiences. My mother’s choice showed me what it looks like to prioritize family, even at personal cost. Speech and debate showed me what it looks like to find my voice and use it with purpose. Together, they shaped how I see my future. I want to pursue higher education not only to build a career, but to expand what is possible for me and for the people who come after me. I want to take the discipline, confidence, and communication skills I’ve developed and turn them into something that creates long-term impact, whether in marketing, advocacy, or any space where ideas and people intersect. I admire my mother because she taught me what commitment looks like. I stay in education because I want to carry that commitment forward, but also complete it in a way that opens doors she once had to step away from.

I’ve been thinking about college less like a “next chapter” and more like a financial equation I have to learn how to solve without letting it solve me. Higher education has always been presented as the path forward, but for students like me, it also comes with a second layer that’s impossible to ignore: cost. Tuition, housing, fees, transportation, and daily living. It adds up quickly, and student loans often become the default answer. But I’ve seen how that “solution” can stretch far beyond graduation, shaping what someone can afford to do, where they can live, and how freely they can build their future. Because of that, I’ve started approaching my education with a different mindset. I don’t just want to attend college; I want to leave it with as little financial burden as possible. Right now, I'm working and preparing for college, and I’ve been intentional about how I manage the money I earn. Instead of treating it as spending money, I’ve started dividing it into categories: saving for school expenses, setting aside money for essentials, and building a small buffer for unexpected costs. It’s not perfect or overly complex, but it’s taught me discipline and awareness in a way I didn’t have before. I’ve had to become more mindful about what I spend and why, especially knowing that every dollar I save now is one less I may need to borrow later. I’m also planning my college path with debt prevention in mind. I already have credits through Running Start, which gives me a head start academically and can shorten the time I need to complete my degree. My goal is to make strategic decisions about course loads, major requirements, and transfers to avoid unnecessary extra semesters. I plan to major in marketing, and I’m being intentional about choosing a program that balances opportunity with affordability so I can focus on graduating efficiently rather than extending my time and increasing costs. Beyond budgeting and planning, I’ve also been looking at how I can increase my income potential while in school. I want to pursue internships and work opportunities related to my field, not only for experience but also to help offset expenses. I’m especially interested in roles that build skills in marketing, digital media, and creative strategy, because I see those as investments in my future career, not just temporary jobs. Long term, my goal is to graduate with as little debt as possible so I’m not starting my adult life in a constant cycle of repayment. I want to make decisions based on opportunities and growth, not just financial obligations. I also want to be in a position where I can eventually help my family and create stability that extends beyond just me. To me, addressing student debt is not only about avoiding loans. It’s about being intentional before the debt even exists. It’s about planning early, working consistently, and making choices that prioritize long-term freedom over short-term ease. College is still an opportunity I am grateful for, but I’m approaching it with my eyes open. My goal is to earn my degree in a way that builds my future rather than limits it so that I can step into life after college with possibility, not pressure.

When I say I’m going to college, I don’t mean it in a “next step” kind of way. I mean it as a turning point. My parents grew up in places where safety wasn’t a background assumption; it was something you actively navigated. You learn to read your environment fast. You learn what to avoid, what to ignore, and what to push through. And when survival takes up that much space, long-term planning doesn’t always get to be the focus. You do what you can with what you have. Even though I didn’t grow up in the same conditions, I still grew up with the weight of that reality in the background. You can feel when a family has had to stretch everything: time, money, energy, patience. You start to understand early that opportunity isn’t evenly distributed, even if nobody says it out loud. So college, for me, is where that starts to shift– Not instantly. Not magically. But intentionally. It’s the first time I’m stepping into a space where I can build something that isn’t centered around survival or limitation, where I can start turning effort into stability, and stability into options my family didn’t always have. I plan to major in marketing because I like how it sits between creativity and strategy. I like building ideas from nothing and figuring out how they actually land in the real world. I’m interested in how messages move people, how brands shape perception, and how something simple can become influential when done with intention. But what matters more to me than the title of the major is what it leads to. I want a life where my family doesn’t have to carry financial pressure in the background constantly. Where “getting by” is no longer the baseline. I’ve seen what it looks like when people are always calculating, always adjusting, always trying to make things work with limited room for error. I don’t want that to be the permanent story. I also don’t see my success as something I keep to myself. If I manage to get access, I want to share it with others, too. That could look like mentorship, hiring opportunities, internships, or just being someone who opens doors rather than closes them behind me. I don’t think education is only valuable if it stays individual. It becomes more powerful when it spreads. To me, college is the first real structural shift in my family’s trajectory. Not because it fixes everything, but because it creates leverage. It turns “we’ve always had to figure it out” into “we now have more room to choose.” That’s what I’m working toward. Not just a degree, but a different starting point for the people who come after me.

I didn’t really think I had anything “important” to offer when I first started going with my sister to the retirement home. I thought I’d just follow her around, maybe smile, maybe feel awkward, and that would be it. But it turned out to be something way more real than I expected. At first, I didn’t know how to talk to the residents. I was worried I’d say the wrong thing or that I wouldn’t have anything in common with them. But slowly, I realized they didn’t need me to be impressive or perfect. They just wanted someone to sit with them and actually listen. So that’s what I did. Some of them would tell long stories about their lives, like when they were younger, their families, or things they used to do. Sometimes they’d repeat the same stories more than once, and I remember thinking at first, like, “Oh, I already heard this.” But then I started noticing it wasn’t really about the story. It was about having someone there who cared enough to hear it again. There was one woman who stood out to me. She would always talk about her past as if she were still right in it. I didn’t always know what to say back, so sometimes I just asked questions or nodded and let her keep going. And weirdly, those were the moments where she seemed the happiest, just being able to talk without feeling rushed or ignored. I think that’s when it clicked for me that helping someone doesn’t have to be big or complicated. It can literally just be being present. Like fully present. Not on your phone, not half-listening, just there. After a while, I started looking forward to going. Not because it was exciting, but because it felt meaningful in a quiet way. Many residents didn’t get a ton of visitors, and even small conversations seemed to make their days feel less lonely. And honestly, it made me think about how easy it is for people to feel forgotten, even when others surround them. That experience changed how I think about people in general. Now, when I’m around others, I pay more attention. I notice when someone seems quiet or left out, or when they’re just kind of there but not really included. And I try to step in, even in small ways, like starting a conversation or just checking in. As I get ready for college, I know I want to keep that part of me. The part that doesn’t just walk past people. I want to be someone who notices, who listens, and who actually shows up for others instead of just assuming everyone’s fine. Helping at the retirement home taught me that “helping someone in need” doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it’s just sitting down, talking about nothing and everything, and making someone feel like they still matter in the world.

I used to think I had a clear idea of what someone struggling with mental health looked like. Then I learned how wrong I was. My friend Ameera didn’t fit any of the stereotypes people often expect. She was bold, ambitious, and full of plans. She carried herself with confidence, the kind that made you assume she always knew where she was going. From the outside, she looked like someone who was thriving. So when she passed away by suicide, it didn’t make sense to most people. It still doesn’t feel real sometimes. That experience changed something in me. It forced me to understand that mental health is not always visible. People can be high-achieving, social, and seemingly “fine” while still carrying things internally that others never see. That realization is painful, but it is also important. It made me pay closer attention, not just to others, but to the conversations we do and do not have about mental health. After her passing, my friends and I started doing what we could to keep her memory alive while also trying to prevent other people from feeling as alone as she might have felt. On campus, we’ve helped organize and participate in mental health awareness events, created spaces for open conversations, and supported efforts that encourage students to check in on each other in more meaningful ways. These events are not just symbolic to me. They feel necessary. Mental health has become something I take seriously as a student because I understand how easily it can be overlooked. School environments often prioritize productivity, achievement, and performance, while emotional well-being can get pushed aside. But I’ve seen how quickly things can shift when people are struggling in silence. It made me realize that awareness alone is not enough. There has to be community, action, and ongoing support. For me, advocacy starts with conversation. I try to be someone who listens without immediately trying to fix or minimize what someone is feeling. I also help create spaces where people feel safe being honest, whether in group settings, at school events, or in one-on-one conversations. Even small moments, like checking in on a friend or making space for difficult topics, can matter more than people realize. Through our campus work, I’ve also learned the importance of reducing stigma. A lot of people still hesitate to speak openly about mental health because they fear being judged or misunderstood. I want to be part of changing that culture. That means normalizing conversations about stress, grief, anxiety, and everything in between, instead of treating those experiences as things to hide. Ameera’s absence still feels heavy, but it also motivates me. It pushes me to take mental health seriously, not just in theory, but in practice. To show up for people more intentionally. To speak up when something feels off. To keep building spaces where students feel seen, not just as achievers, but as human beings. As I continue my education, I want to expand this advocacy. I want to help create more structured support systems on campus, contribute to awareness programs, and continue working with peers to shift how mental health is understood and addressed. My goal is not only to honor my friend’s memory, but to make sure fewer people feel like they have to struggle alone. Mental health matters to me because I have seen what happens when it is ignored, and how powerful it can be when people are finally given space to talk about it.

I grew up in a home shaped by domestic violence. It’s not something I talk about lightly, but it is something that shaped the way I move through the world in ways I’m still learning to understand. One of the biggest impacts it had on me wasn’t just fear or instability; it was how I learned to read people. I became hyper-aware of moods, tone shifts, and tension in a room. I learned to adjust quickly to what would keep things calm. Over time, that became a habit I carried outside my home, too. In friendships, I often become a people pleaser without realizing it. I’ll overthink my responses, agree when I don’t fully agree, or try too hard to keep things smooth because conflict feels like something I need to prevent. At the same time, I’ve also noticed another side of that response. When I feel overwhelmed, dismissed, or like I’ve been giving too much of myself, I can get irritated quickly. It’s almost like my patience runs out suddenly, especially when I feel like I’m not being considered the same way I consider others. It can feel confusing at times, because I can go from over-accommodating to needing space very quickly. I’m still learning how to balance those parts of myself without feeling guilty for either. What I’ve come to understand is that both of those reactions come from the same place. There are ways I learned to protect myself in an environment where I had to be constantly aware of everything happening around me. In friendships now, I’m still unlearning that instinct to take responsibility for everyone else’s comfort while ignoring my own. Despite that, I’ve also grown a lot in how I handle relationships. I’m more aware of my boundaries than I used to be, even if I don’t always enforce them perfectly yet. I’ve learned that real friendships don’t require me to shrink myself or constantly manage other people’s emotions. That realization is still new to me, but it has changed how I choose who I keep close. Pursuing higher education represents more than just academic or career goals for me. It represents independence in a deeper sense, the ability to understand myself outside of survival mode. I plan to major in marketing and build a career in creative strategy and digital media, but what matters most is the personal growth I expect along the way. College, for me, is a chance to continue unlearning patterns shaped by my environment and replace them with healthier ways of connecting with people. It is a space where I can build confidence in my own voice, learn to set boundaries without guilt, and develop relationships based on mutual respect rather than emotional survival. My hope for the future is not just professional success, but emotional stability and self-trust. I want to build a life where I don’t feel the need to adapt to be accepted constantly, and where I can show up in relationships as I am, without fear of things falling apart. This scholarship would help me continue that journey. It would help me step into higher education with more stability and focus on building the future I want, one where I am not only successful but also grounded, self-aware, and free from the patterns that once shaped how I saw myself and others.

Money was always something I understood by watching, not by being taught. Growing up, I didn’t have conversations about credit scores, investing, or budgeting systems. What I did have was awareness. I noticed when money was tight, when sacrifices had to be made, and how careful every decision had to be. I learned early that financial stability is not just about how much you have, but about what you know. And for a long time, I knew very little. Because of that, I’ve had to teach myself. Whether it was researching how credit works, learning the importance of saving, or understanding how quickly small financial decisions can add up, I’ve been building my financial literacy piece by piece. At times, it felt overwhelming. There is so much information, and without guidance, it can feel like trying to solve a puzzle without the picture on the box. But that challenge also pushed me to become more independent and intentional. One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is how easy it is to fall into financial traps without realizing it. Credit cards, debt, and spending habits are often introduced to young people without enough education on how to manage them. I’ve seen how a lack of knowledge can lead to long-term consequences, and that’s something I want to avoid in my own life. Instead of reacting to financial situations, I want to be prepared for them. As I prepare to attend a four-year university, financial education has become even more important to me. I am not just thinking about tuition, but also about budgeting, saving, and building credit responsibly. My goal is to graduate not only with a degree but with a strong financial foundation that allows me to move forward with stability and confidence. I plan to major in marketing, a field that blends creativity with strategy, but also requires an understanding of data, trends, and decision-making. Financial literacy plays a role in all of that. Whether I am managing personal finances or eventually running projects, campaigns, or even my own business, understanding money will be essential. I want to be in a position where I am not only earning, but managing and growing what I earn. Beyond my own future, I want to use what I learn to help others. Financial literacy should not feel exclusive or complicated, yet for many people it does. I hope to share knowledge in ways that are accessible and easy to understand, especially for young people who may be in the same position I was in, learning by observation rather than instruction. Whether that means mentoring, creating content, or simply having conversations, I want to be part of making financial education more accessible. Growing up in a low-income background has shaped how I view money. It has made me more aware, more cautious, and more motivated to build a different future. I do not take opportunities lightly because I understand what it means not always to have them. That perspective drives me to be intentional with every step I take. Financial literacy is more than just numbers. It is security, independence, and opportunity. It is the ability to make choices without constant fear or uncertainty. As I continue learning, my goal is not just to improve my own future but to create a ripple effect that allows others to do the same.

In the hallways of my school, I learned how to translate. Not languages in the traditional sense, but tones, glances, silences. I learned how to soften my voice so it wouldn’t be labeled “attitude,” how to shrink my presence so it wouldn’t be seen as “too much,” and how to carry my identity with pride even when it felt like I was the only one holding it. Being a Black girl in a predominantly white school has meant navigating spaces that were not built with me in mind, while still finding ways to belong, to excel, and to lead. Some moments made this reality impossible to ignore. Comments about my hair, my body, or my intelligence disguised as jokes. Being one of the only Black students in advanced classes. Watching history lessons skim over people who looked like me, or reduce them to a single chapter. These experiences didn’t just shape how I saw my school; they also shaped how I saw myself. They shaped how I saw the world and my place in it. But instead of letting those moments silence me, they sharpened my awareness. They taught me how systems operate, how bias can be subtle yet powerful, and how important it is to question what is presented as “normal.” Education, for me, became more than grades or test scores. It became a tool for understanding inequity and a pathway for changing it. My academic interests reflect that purpose. As a prospective marketing major with a strong interest in business and creative design, I am drawn to the power of messaging and influence. Marketing is not just about selling products. It is about shaping narratives, controlling visibility, and deciding whose stories are told and valued. Growing up, I noticed how often Black voices and creators were overlooked, undercredited, or excluded altogether. That observation has grown into a passion: I want to use marketing to amplify underrepresented voices and challenge the systems that have historically erased them. Through my education, I plan to explore the intersections of business, media, and social impact. I want to understand how branding, advertising, and digital platforms can either reinforce stereotypes or dismantle them. I am especially interested in ethical marketing practices and representation in media industries. Too often, marginalized communities are treated as trends rather than contributors. I want to be part of changing that dynamic by creating campaigns and platforms that are rooted in authenticity, respect, and equity. Beyond my career goals, I am committed to using my education to create tangible change in my community. I envision building or supporting initiatives that provide young people of color with access to creative and professional opportunities, whether through mentorship programs, internships, or community-based events. Representation should not be a rare experience. It should be the standard. When students see themselves reflected in spaces of success and leadership, it expands what they believe is possible. The story of Ms. Ida Mae Foster Whittaker deeply resonates with me because it reflects the same belief that guides my journey: education is not just personal advancement, it is collective empowerment. Despite having limited formal education early in her life, she pursued learning while raising a family and dedicated herself to community activism. Her work reminds me that change does not come from comfort; it comes from commitment. She did not wait for opportunities to be handed to her. She created them, not only for herself but for others. In many ways, I see my own path as a continuation of that legacy. Like Ms. Ida Mae, I understand that education is both a privilege and a responsibility. It is something I carry not just for myself, but for the communities I represent and hope to uplift. My experiences as a Black girl in a white school have given me a unique perspective, one that I plan to bring into every classroom, every project, and eventually, every professional space I enter. I am not just pursuing a degree. I am building the tools to challenge inequality, reshape narratives, and open doors that have too often been closed. My goal is not simply to succeed within existing systems, but to help transform them into spaces that are more inclusive, more just, and more reflective of the diverse world we live in. Education gave Ms. Ida Mae the power to create change in her community. I intend to do the same, carrying forward her belief that knowledge, when paired with action, can build a more equal and just future.

My attention span is quite horrible. I find it hard to sit still and watch a movie without checking my phone. One day, my sister calls me, "Do you want to go see this new horror movie, Sinners, with me?" and I said, of course, because Michael B Jordan was in it, it'd be wild to pass up that opportunity. We make the plans, and soon enough, we are in the theaters. Our big buckets of popcorn and slushies in hand. Getting cozy in those soft, plush theater seats. The lights began to dim on us, and I saw the best opening scene I had ever witnessed: "There are legends of people born with the gift of making music so true it can pierce the veil between life and death." And in that moment, I knew I was about to witness the best film of my life. As the story began to unfold and the characters introduced themselves, I fell deeply in love with it. For once, I felt like I could truly pay attention to what the filmmakers were trying to tell me. And a story I once thought would be a regular slasher film became one about the social disparities people of color face and what those experiences are like. Going deeper into the roots of history and revealing a deeper meaning. There was a scene that was especially important to me and gave me chills. One of the main characters, named Preacher-Boy, began to show off his talent of singing and playing guitar. His voice, deep and rich, filled with soul. It moved me. The guitar's rhythm etched itself into my soul. And when I thought it couldn't get any better, dancers from all eras of life began to fill the screen—showing how music connects you not just to the present, but to the past and the future, and how it sticks with people for generations. And as someone who loves music, that deeper connection made it stick with me forever. It reminded me of when my dad would share his favorite old songs with me, and everything felt so warm. Or what it's like to rediscover one of your old favorite songs–– or better yet, find a new one. The static-y feel in my chest, the excitement in my bones, the music coursing through my ears. Towards the end, I cried. The movie took me through so many emotions that I had to let them out. And my sister and I sat there, tears streaming down our faces, astonished by the story we had seen in front of us. We watched people, love, lose, and die. I didn't stop talking about that movie for weeks. I looked deeper into the behind-the-scenes and tried to understand it even more. I couldn't get enough. The main reason why this movie had such a large impact on my life is that it showed me a world that I hadn't seen before. A world where people like me danced and sang and loved so freely, yet it had to be hidden. I could feel it all—the characters in this movie experience turmoil, fear, anger, sadness, and even joy. And each historical reference was something I understood already or decided to educate myself on. Seeing now that Michael B. Jordan has won an award for this piece of art has given me a new sense of hope. It made me feel like our voices as a community were heard, and our history was finally not ignored. That movie changed my perspective on cinema and even my own history.