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After being diagnosed with antithrombin deficiency, my life changed in ways that weren’t always obvious to others. It wasn’t just the doctor visits or medications it was the quiet, constant awareness of my body, the small decisions I had to make every day to stay safe, and the moments of worry no one else could see. Some days I felt frustrated or isolated, but I also learned to be patient with myself and notice the little ways I was growing stronger. Living with this clotting disorder has shaped how I approach challenges more broadly. I’ve learned to slow down, pay attention, and stay calm even when things feel uncertain. It’s given me a quiet resilience and perspective that I carry into school, sports, and the things I care about most. Writing has always been my outlet, a way to process the quiet, subtle parts of life that often go unnoticed. My experiences haven’t always been dramatic or headline-worthy, but they matter: the small microaggressions that ripple through daily life, the unspoken tensions in sibling relationships, the bittersweet feelings that come with graduation. Writing lets me give these invisible moments form and attention, helping me understand them and myself. At times, writing feels like a quiet conversation with myself, a way to make sense of thoughts I can’t easily speak aloud. When I sit down to draft a script or a poem, I’m tracing the lines of experience that are easy to overlook, the tension in a small gesture, the weight of a glance, the way words can both hurt and heal. These moments might seem minor, but they carry truth, and writing gives me a place to notice them without judgment. Sometimes the act of putting pen to paper uncovers feelings I didn’t realize I was holding. I’ve found that the small frustrations and hidden anxieties of daily life, whether tied to my health, relationships, or identity, helped me gain clarity and perspective when I write. Each sentence is a chance to step back, reflect, and see the patterns in my own story, even the ones that might otherwise stay invisible. Ultimately, writing has taught me that subtlety doesn’t mean unimportant. By focusing on the quiet, overlooked details of life, I’ve learned to honor complexity, embrace patience, and recognize growth in ways that aren’t always obvious at first glance. Through my scripts and poems, I’m learning not only to understand myself, but also to invite others to see, feel, and connect with these understated truths. Two of my poems, “The End: The Beginning” and “Crown” capture this approach, turning the understated moments I see every day into a lens for understanding and connection.

Fishing has always been more than a hobby for me. It has been a way to connect with my dad, the outdoors, and myself. I remember in 2019, I proudly caught my first largemouth bass, a solid 3 pounds, and my dad could not stop laughing at how excited I got, squealing as I tried to reel it in without tipping the boat (I did anyways). Those afternoons on the water were loud with laughter, quiet with concentration, and somewhere in between, they became lessons about hard work, patience, and curiosity. Fishing taught me that success is not always immediate. Some days I would spend hours without a bite, and my dad would gently remind me, “It is not about the fish, it is about how you show up.” Those moments stuck. I realized that dedication, paying attention to small details, and adjusting your approach—whether changing a lure or your mindset—make the difference. That same work ethic carries into my academic life. As I pursue a math major, a field where women are still underrepresented, I approach problems the same way I approach the water: with persistence, curiosity, and focus, even when the solution is not obvious. Fishing also sparked curiosity in unexpected ways. On days when neither of us caught anything, my dad and I would play different versions of I Spy, and I learned to identify birds I had never noticed before. I can now tell the difference between two very similar-looking species, like a blue jay and a stellar jay, and I can confidently say I finally know the difference between a crow and a pelican(though my dad jokes that it only took me three summers to figure that one out). Learning these small details reinforced that curiosity and observation matter just as much as action. On the water, noticing subtle changes in behavior or environment often meant the difference between catching a bass and going home empty-handed, teaching me that curiosity is a form of preparation and care. Beyond personal growth, fishing shaped how I interact with my community and show sportsmanship. I volunteer at local events, mentor younger anglers at my club, and make sure everyone feels included, whether they are beginners or experienced fishers. On the water, I learned that sportsmanship is not just about following rules; it is about respect, patience, and celebrating other people’s wins. I carry that value into everything I do, from group projects in school to coaching Special Olympics track. Encouraging others, recognizing their effort, and working together are lessons I learned fishing that I now apply everywhere. What started as afternoons catching 2- or 3-pound bass turned into lessons that shape who I am: valuing hard work, showing up for others, observing and learning, and embracing challenges with persistence. Fishing taught me that success comes from dedication, curiosity, and integrity, but also from the relationships and experiences we build along the way. Travis Ely’s legacy reminds me that the impact you make—on the water and in life—comes from character, sportsmanship, and the energy you bring to every task. Receiving this scholarship would help me honor those values, continue pursuing my ambitions in math, and bring the same work ethic, curiosity, and commitment to every community I am part of.

Some nights I sit in a quiet room with my headset on, listening. On the other end of the line, strangers share things I can barely imagine: their fears, their worries, the moments when they feel completely alone. As a crisis helpline volunteer, I have learned that hope doesn’t always come in big gestures. Sometimes it shows up quietly, through listening, asking the right questions, or simply being there. One night, a caller sounded completely hopeless. We talked for what felt like hours, and by the end, they told me they felt a little less trapped, a little more able to face tomorrow. That moment stayed with me. It reminded me that even small acts of care can change someone’s life. During the day, I take on a very different role. As a sexual health and peer education counselor, I help my peers navigate conversations that can feel awkward or intimidating. We talk about choices, boundaries, and resources, and I try to give them the knowledge and confidence they need to make decisions that are right for them. I remember leading a discussion with a group of students who were hesitant to speak at first. By the end, they were asking questions, sharing experiences, and supporting each other. It was a small moment, but it showed me how empowering information can be. Service isn’t always about solving someone’s problem, it’s about giving them the tools to solve it themselves. Both of these experiences have taught me that service is about more than volunteering for a few hours each week. It’s about creating spaces where people feel safe, supported, and empowered. I’ve realized that the systems around mental and sexual health often leave people isolated or unsure of where to turn. That’s why I want to take the next step: to build my own organization dedicated to providing accessible education, resources, and support for mental and sexual health. I want it to be a place where anyone can come to be heard, to learn, and to feel capable of navigating challenges in their life. Inspired by Priscilla Shireen Luke’s devotion to service, I see this organization as a way to continue spreading hope on a larger scale. I hope to combine what I’ve learned from direct volunteer work with innovative approaches to education and outreach, so that people aren’t just supported in the moment, but empowered to make informed decisions for the long term. I want to build a community that encourages openness, reduces stigma, and inspires others to pay it forward, just as I have learned to do through my own experiences. My goal is simple: to leave the world a little kinder, a little more informed, and a little more hopeful than I found it. Through my work on the helpline, in peer education, and in the future through my own organization, I am learning how to make that happen every day. Each conversation, discussion, and moment of guidance is a reminder that service can take many forms, but its purpose is always the same: to help someone feel seen, supported, and capable. I plan to carry that commitment with me in everything I do, and to create spaces that continue spreading hope for generations to come.

For the longest time I had this eerie silence in my head. No thoughts, just going through the motions. I knew something was missing, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then once I began questioning my sexuality, that silence was gone. My head was clouded with all this stuff, and I couldn’t figure out how to stop it. It felt like I’d opened a door I wasn’t ready to walk through, but couldn’t close either. Mental and physical wellness became less of a luxury and more of a necessity. It was something I had to actively fight for. Because once the silence left, so did my ability to just “coast.” I had to start facing myself. The overthinking, the anxiety, the stress about who I was, who I wasn’t, who people thought I should be, it all collided. I didn’t even notice how much it affected me physically until I started skipping meals without realizing, or sleeping for hours and still waking up exhausted. I started running, never on a treadmill, always outside. I hated running but having a destination to go to, and knowing I would always have to run back, gave me a sense of purpose I didn’t have before. It helped me let go of my insecurities, and find the good in myself I didn’t necessarily see before. A few months later, I got diagnosed with depression. For a long time, I misunderstood depression. I thought that it meant that people were sad all the time. I was wrong. That weird “silence” I felt, the isolation is what depression is. Reflecting on my experiences, I decided to do two things: join the indoor track team and become a crisis helpline volunteer. Becoming a crisis helpline volunteer and later captain of my indoor track team both forced me to confront different parts of myself. At the helpline, I heard people say things I’d once felt but never said out loud. It made me realize how much pain people carry silently, and how easy it is to feel like you're the only one struggling. Some days it was heavy, and I had to figure out how to take care of myself too, and how to support others without falling apart. Track challenged me in a completely different way. When I became captain, my first thought was, "Why me? I’m not even that fast." It was hard not to compare myself to my co-captains athletically, socially, academically. But over time, I started to see that maybe I wasn’t chosen because I was the best runner, but because I showed up for people. I listened. I cared. I made sure no one felt invisible. Running gave me something steady, something to come back to when my head got too loud. Both of those roles reminded me that mental and physical wellness isn’t something you achieve and move on from. It’s something you have to choose, sometimes every day. It’s hard for me to show up for something that seems intangible. There’s no grade to measure how well you did, no medal to evaluate your place, and no award to give you credit. And as a student, that’s not always easy. There’s this pressure to do everything and be everything all at once. But I’ve realized that if I don’t take care of myself—mentally, emotionally, physically—I can’t show up for anyone else. I’m still figuring it out. But I know now that I don’t just want to function, I want to feel, think clearly, and actually live. And that starts with taking care of me.

It’s funny—people talk about “opportunities,” but when you’re part of a community that’s often overlooked, “opportunity” feels like a word you hear but never quite reach. Growing up, I learned early that not everyone gets to have the same shot. As a BIPOC student, I didn’t have the luxury of things coming easy. There were days when it felt like I had to work twice as hard just to be seen, to be heard, to prove I belonged. But instead of feeling defeated, I started getting angry. Angry that people who looked like me were often pushed to the sidelines. Angry that access to resources, knowledge, and opportunities always seemed to be reserved for someone else. And that anger? It became fuel. My brother’s diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes was the turning point. Watching him navigate a world that wasn’t built for people like us, feeling like the healthcare system was just one more thing stacked against us, opened my eyes. I couldn’t stand by and watch him struggle with something as personal and life-changing as his health, especially when the support wasn’t there. I wasn’t just upset about his diagnosis, I was upset by the layers of systemic barriers he’d have to fight through to get the care he deserved. That’s when I realized that medicine isn’t just about curing diseases; it’s about fighting for the people who have been forgotten by a system that’s supposed to help them. But it didn’t end there. Instead of feeling helpless, I started looking for solutions in places people might overlook, like the kitchen. I started experimenting with food to help my brother manage his blood sugar, trying to bridge the gap between what we were told and what we could actually do. It wasn’t textbook or clinical, but it worked in ways that nothing else did. That’s when I realized medicine isn’t just a science, it’s a conversation. It’s about looking at a person, understanding where they come from, what they need, and finding creative ways to meet them where they are. So, I decided to keep going. To go deeper, learn more, and push past the frustrations. I want to be someone who doesn’t just treat diseases, but someone who changes the way healthcare works, especially for those who are often left behind. People like my brother, and communities like mine, deserve better. They deserve a seat at the table, and they deserve a healthcare system that sees them as people first, not just patients. This scholarship would be a step toward that future. It’s not just about me, it's about the countless others who’ve been held back by the same barriers. It’s about breaking down the walls that separate people from the care they deserve and ensuring that, one day, no one has to fight to be seen

My name is Rebecca Mlapah, and I am a high school senior at Longmeadow High School. Throughout my high school years, advocating for mental health awareness and bullying prevention has been my primary passion. This cause is personal to me, as I have seen firsthand the devastating effects of bullying and cyberbullying on individuals in my community. My dedication to creating safe, supportive spaces for those in need drives everything I do, from my volunteer work to my academic pursuits. As a volunteer at a crisis helpline, I’ve had the privilege of supporting individuals experiencing emotional distress, many of whom are victims of bullying. This role has taught me the importance of being an active listener and providing resources that empower others to heal. I’ve seen the impact of both in-person and online bullying and have witnessed how essential it is to foster environments of kindness and respect. In my role, I also educate others on mental health awareness, emphasizing the significance of breaking the stigma surrounding mental health. Beyond my volunteer work, I serve as a coach for the Special Olympics, where I mentor athletes of all abilities. This experience has reinforced my belief in the power of inclusion and positive reinforcement. In both my coaching and volunteer work, I strive to create environments where everyone feels seen, heard, and valued, and where bullying of any kind is not tolerated. However, pursuing these passions comes with financial challenges. My family has faced significant financial difficulties, and this has motivated me to seek scholarships to continue my education. Being the first in my family to pursue higher education, I understand the weight that financial constraints can carry. My ambition is to major in biological mathematics, combining my love of medicine, mathematics, and advocacy, particularly in the areas of diabetes research and endocrinology. Financial assistance will allow me to pursue these goals without adding additional financial stress to my family, ensuring that I can continue my academic journey and advocacy efforts. The Matthew E. Minor Awareness Foundation’s mission resonates deeply with me, and I am committed to using my education and future career to continue advocating for mental health awareness and bullying prevention. If awarded this scholarship, I will be able to focus on my studies and my advocacy work, all while continuing to contribute to a more compassionate world where bullying no longer has a place. The opportunity to pursue my passions in a meaningful way, especially with the support this scholarship would provide, means more to me than simply funding my education. It would allow me to make a lasting impact in the lives of others and fulfill my goal of creating positive change within my community and beyond.

Diabetes has shaped my world in ways I never expected. It’s in the quiet beeping of a continuous glucose monitor, in the careful carb counting before every meal, in the way my family has learned to adjust to a new reality. When my brother was diagnosed, everything changed. We went from being a family that barely thought about food beyond what tasted good to one that measured, calculated, and planned every bite. I saw the exhaustion in his eyes, the frustration when numbers didn’t cooperate, the overwhelming weight of a disease that never gives a break. I didn’t just want to stand by and watch—I wanted to understand. At first, my curiosity was small. I asked questions, lots of them. Why does insulin work the way it does? Why do blood sugar levels spike even when someone eats the same meal every day? Why do some people develop diabetes while others don’t? I read articles, looked up studies, and tried to piece together a puzzle that still doesn’t have all its pieces. The more I learned, the more I realized how much we don’t know. That was both frustrating and exciting. It made me want to go deeper. I started finding ways to connect what I was learning with real life. Cooking, for example, became more than just something I enjoyed—it became a way to understand how different foods affect blood sugar. Math, which I had always loved, became something I could apply to real-world problems, like calculating insulin dosages or predicting glucose trends. Even my interest in languages connected in an unexpected way. The medical field has its own language, one that many people struggle to understand. I’ve seen how overwhelming it can be for families trying to navigate a new diagnosis, and I want to be someone who bridges that gap. My passion for endocrinology isn’t just about studying diabetes—it’s about changing what it means to live with it. Right now, managing diabetes is a full-time job. It’s constant monitoring, constant adjustments, constant stress. But what if it didn’t have to be that way? What if research could lead to better treatments, better technology, or even a cure? That’s what drives me. I don’t have all the answers yet, but I know I want to be part of the team looking for them. I want to be in the labs, studying the mechanisms behind the disease. I want to work on improving continuous glucose monitors and insulin pumps so that people with diabetes don’t have to think about their condition every second of the day. I want to take the knowledge I gain and use it to make real change. This isn’t just a career path for me. It’s personal. I’ve seen firsthand how diabetes affects not just the person diagnosed, but their entire family. I’ve seen how it takes over, how it forces people to make sacrifices, how it demands constant attention. But I’ve also seen resilience. I’ve seen my brother learn to advocate for himself, to adapt, to push through the hard days. I’ve seen my family come together, supporting each other through the ups and downs. And I’ve seen how knowledge—real, solid, scientific knowledge—can make all the difference. That’s why I want to pursue this degree. Because I don’t want to just understand diabetes. I want to change it.

I walked into my AP Calculus BC class on the first day, wearing my Longmeadow High School sweatshirt, and immediately noticed what I had been expecting. I was the only Black girl there. I found my seat, pulled out my notebook, and tried to ignore the weight of that realization. I had worked hard to be in this class, but part of me still wondered if others saw me as someone who truly belonged. I have always loved math. There is something about the way numbers fit together, how logic builds upon itself, and how complex problems eventually lead to solutions. Math is not just about memorization—it is about patterns, creativity, and persistence. That is what draws me in. No matter how difficult a problem seems at first, there is always a way through it. Even when I struggle, even when the numbers feel overwhelming, I know the answer is there if I just keep working. Despite my love for math, there have been moments when I questioned my place in it. Being the only Black girl in my advanced classes has made me more aware of the gaps in representation. It is not that other Black students are not capable—it is that too often, they are not encouraged to push themselves in STEM. I know because I have seen it happen. I have seen students who were just as capable as I was hesitate to take higher-level math courses, convinced they would not succeed. That is why I have chosen to pursue a degree in STEM. My passion for mathematics and science is not just about solving problems on a page—it is about solving real-world problems, particularly in the field of endocrinology and diabetes research. I want to use my love for math to analyze complex biological systems, understand patterns in medical data, and contribute to research that improves lives. As vice president of the Women in STEM Club, I have worked to encourage more students, especially young women, to challenge themselves in math and science. I talk to underclassmen about taking AP math classes, even when they doubt themselves. I help tutor students who struggle, not because they lack ability, but because they have never been told they are capable. I know what it is like to be the only one in the room, and I want to make sure that future students do not have to feel that way. Representation in STEM matters. It matters when students walk into a classroom and see someone who looks like them succeeding. It matters when young Black girls do not have to question whether they belong in advanced math classes. It matters when the research and innovations that shape our world include diverse perspectives. I intend to pursue a career in STEM because I know that change starts with people like me—people who love math, who see the challenges, and who refuse to let them stand in the way. I want to be part of a future where the next Black girl who walks into AP Calculus BC at Longmeadow High School does not feel like the only one. I want to make an impact not just in my field, but in the students who come after me, proving that they, too, have a place in STEM.

First, I want to express my heartfelt condolences for the loss of Christian E. Vines. His passing at such a young age is heartbreaking, and I can only imagine the impact he could have had in this world. Christian’s dreams of helping others despite the barriers they face are something I deeply admire. In his memory, I want to honor his spirit by pursuing my own goals with a sense of purpose and by giving back to others, especially those in underserved communities. I am currently pursuing a career that combines two of my greatest passions: applied mathematics and medicine. Throughout my life, I’ve been fascinated by the power of math to solve complex problems, and I’ve always wanted to use my skills to make a difference in the world. At the same time, my interest in medicine—particularly endocrinology and diabetes research—has been shaped by my personal experiences. My brother was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes, and it was through his journey that I became passionate about understanding and solving the challenges that people with chronic conditions face every day. By pursuing both applied mathematics and medicine, I hope to bridge these two fields and apply mathematical models to improve healthcare outcomes. I believe math has the potential to revolutionize the way we approach medical research and patient care. For example, by analyzing large sets of patient data, mathematical models can help predict disease progression, tailor treatment plans, and improve overall patient care. In the field of diabetes research, I want to help develop more effective ways to manage the disease and, ultimately, contribute to finding a cure. One of my primary goals is to make healthcare more accessible and efficient, particularly for those in underserved communities who may not have the resources or opportunities to receive the best care. I’m particularly interested in how mathematical tools can be used to make healthcare more personalized, ensuring that patients receive the right treatment at the right time. I also want to help break down barriers in medical research and healthcare access, so that everyone, regardless of their background, has an equal opportunity to thrive. Through my career, I aspire to be at the intersection of research, healthcare, and technology. I want to use my skills to make a tangible difference in people’s lives, whether through improving treatments for chronic diseases like diabetes, or contributing to the development of new technologies that can change the future of medicine. This scholarship will help me pursue my education and equip me with the resources I need to make these goals a reality.

I remember wearing my black jacket with the Longmeadow Tennis emblem to the grocery store when a man approached me. He looked at my jacket and asked, “Do you go to LHS?” I nodded, and he smiled. “I went there too, about 10 years ago. I didn’t know Black girls played on the tennis team.” His words stayed with me because they echoed the assumptions I’ve faced my entire life. The belief that someone like me, a Black girl, doesn’t belong in spaces like tennis, math classrooms, or even the halls of my church. But I’ve never been one to let others define my place. I’ve always made room for myself. Tennis taught me resilience. As the first Black girl on the team ever, I often felt the weight of proving myself, not just in my skills but in my presence. But every time I stepped on the court, I wasn’t just playing—I was challenging expectations. I wasn’t just trying to win; I was showing that I belong here, that Black girls can take up space in places they weren’t always meant to. But the foundation of my resilience comes from my church and faith. I became a mentor to the younger girls in church, helping them find their worth beyond what others said about them. I’d sit with them, listen to their doubts, and remind them that God created them in His image. But I didn’t stop there. I’d also tell them that while they are loved by God, they are also unique individuals with voices and paths of their own. I encouraged them to lean into their faith but also to stand tall in their own strength. It was my way of telling them that their value was not defined by anyone but themselves. I carried this mindset into my school life, especially in math. As the only Black girl in my AP Calculus BC class, I often felt out of place. I questioned whether I belonged there, not because I doubted my abilities but because of how different I was from my classmates. But every time I had those doubts, I reminded myself that I love math, that my passion for it is just as valid as anyone else’s. I wasn’t there to prove anything to others, I proved to myself that I belong in this space. Now, I use my experiences to encourage those who come after me. I tell younger students to challenge themselves, to take the classes that will push them, just as I did. When I see the younger girls, I remind them that their voices matter and that they are worthy of space in this world. I tell them to walk confidently in both their faith and their individuality. They have something unique to offer, and deserve to be heard. I’m not just breaking stereotypes for myself. I’m doing it for every young girl who looks at spaces like tennis, math, or church and wonders if there’s room for her. I’m doing it for the girl in church who isn’t sure her voice is valued. I’m doing it for the girl in math class who hesitates to take on a challenge because she doesn’t see anyone who looks like her. I want them to know they belong here just as much as anyone else. Every time I step into a new space , whether it’s tennis, math, or church, I remind myself that I'm not just here to exist. I'm here to break down barriers, to create room for others to stand alongside me, and to remind everyone that we all belong.

Growing up with sickle cell trait, I never really understood what it meant until I started facing the challenges it brought. I didn’t feel like other kids. I was always tired, sick more often than my friends, and had to take extra care of myself. My parents didn’t always have the answers, and as much as I wanted to be like everyone else, I had to deal with things that others didn’t understand. Things didn’t really get clearer until my younger brother was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Watching him go through all the daily routines of checking blood sugar, calculating insulin, feeling the highs and lows of it was hard for me. I admired his strength, but I couldn’t help feeling scared for him. And then, I found out something I wasn’t expecting. I found out I had the antibodies for Type 1 diabetes too. That moment changed everything. It felt like my future was set in stone, and it was hard to face. But instead of letting that news take over my life, I decided to do something about it. I needed to understand more about diabetes and why it felt like it was affecting everyone around me. I started looking into how sickle cell and Type 1 diabetes could be linked, and the more I read, the more my interest in diabetes research grew. I was fascinated by the role insulin played in the body and how something so small could make such a huge impact on someone’s life. The more I learned about how the body works with chronic conditions like diabetes, the more I realized that I could help others who were going through what my brother was. I knew then that I wanted to pursue a career in endocrinology. I wanted to understand the science behind these diseases so I could help people like my brother live better lives. But it wasn’t just about what I learned from research. It was also about how I could make a difference in my community. As the Community Service Chair of the National Honor Society, I’ve learned a lot about the power of helping others. I’ve always wanted to give back, and through NHS, I’ve been able to organize events, raise awareness, and just be there for others who are going through hard times. It’s taught me that no matter how tough life gets, there’s always something you can do to make someone else’s life easier. This has fueled my desire to continue learning and making a difference, not just in my community, but in the healthcare field as well. Working with research at UMass has also made me realize how much I want to be part of the scientific breakthroughs that can change lives. The more I learned about diabetes and the ways researchers are working to make life easier for people with chronic conditions, the more I knew this was what I wanted to do. I’ve seen how science can lead to discoveries that change the way we live, and I want to be a part of that. My brother’s diagnosis has always been something that pushed me to pursue this path, and I know that this is where I’m meant to be. Dealing with my own health challenges and watching my brother face his has taught me a lot. I’ve learned how to be resilient, how to adapt, and how to push through even when things feel overwhelming. I believe that by combining my love for science and my desire to help people, I can make a real difference in the world of healthcare.