The first time I walked into a trans support group, I didn’t fully realize how much I needed it. Up until that point, my understanding of what it meant to be trans was limited and shaped mostly by what I had seen or not seen. A lot of it felt restrictive, like there were only certain ways you were allowed to exist, and anything outside of that was not really an option. I was still trying to figure out what was possible for me. What affected me most was not a speech or a specific conversation. It was something much smaller. There was a trans man in the group wearing a headband. It sounds simple, but it stayed with me. It had never occurred to me that something like that was even an option. Not because there was anything unusual about it, but because I had never seen someone exist so comfortably in their own presentation without limitation. It challenged this idea I had been carrying that there were strict, unspoken rules about how I needed to look or be in order to be valid. That moment shifted something for me. It made me realize how much of my identity had been shaped by what I thought was allowed, rather than what I actually wanted. Seeing someone exist without those constraints made me start to question where those limits were coming from. More broadly, being in that space showed me what it feels like to not have to explain yourself. No one questioned who anyone was. There was no need to justify identity or navigate discomfort from others. It was one of the first times I experienced what it meant to simply exist in a space where I was understood. That experience changed how I think about community and activism. It made me realize that creating spaces like that is not a small thing. It is essential. For someone who has never seen themselves reflected before, even the smallest moment can expand what feels possible. Because of that, I have become more intentional about how I show up for others. I do not see activism as something that only happens in large, visible ways. I see it in the environments we create and the way we treat people within them. I try to be open about my own identity and experiences so that others feel less alone. I challenge assumptions when I hear them, and I try to make space for people to exist without needing to justify themselves. In my leadership roles and volunteer work, I have carried that perspective forward. I focus on building trust, creating clarity, and making sure people feel supported rather than evaluated. Whether I am working with a team or contributing to community-based spaces, my goal is the same: to create environments where people feel like they belong. Looking ahead, I plan to continue that work through my education and career. As a student studying Journalism, Media, and Culture, I am interested in how stories are told and who gets to tell them. Representation matters, not just in visibility, but in showing the full range of what is possible. That moment in the support group stayed with me because it was so small, but it changed something fundamental. It showed me that the limits I thought existed were not real. That is what motivates my activism. Not just changing systems, but expanding what people believe is possible for themselves.

What defines me most is that I have never stopped trying to understand the world around me. Even when my life has been unstable or uncertain, curiosity has been the constant that brought me back to learning. I care about why people think the way they do, how systems shape behavior, and what gets lost when communication breaks down. That curiosity is what led me to pursue a degree in Journalism, Media, and Culture, and it continues to shape the kind of work I want to do. My path to this field has not been linear. I spent years working in customer service and management, where I learned that people are not usually looking for perfection or even immediate solutions. They want to be heard, understood, and treated like they matter. That experience fundamentally changed how I think about communication. It taught me that clarity and empathy are not optional, they are necessary. In 2023, I experienced a head injury that disrupted my career and forced me to step away from work for months. During recovery, I had to relearn how to focus, read, and engage with the world in ways I had previously taken for granted. When I was laid off shortly after, I was left without a clear direction. Returning to school became a way to rebuild not just my career, but my sense of self. It reminded me that learning is not just something I value, it is something that stabilizes me and gives me purpose. Now, as a student studying journalism in an international environment, I am constantly exposed to different perspectives, cultures, and ways of interpreting the same events. Living abroad has made it clear how easily people can misunderstand one another, even when they are trying to communicate honestly. It has also shown me how powerful it can be when someone takes the time to provide context, ask better questions, and present information in a way that is both accurate and accessible. My goal in journalism is to contribute to that kind of work. I want to create stories and analysis that help people slow down, question assumptions, and see beyond simplified narratives. I am especially interested in issues like misinformation, media influence, and cultural misunderstanding, because I have seen how these forces shape real lives. As a transgender person, I have also experienced firsthand how harmful it can be when stories are told without care or accuracy. That perspective drives my commitment to ethical storytelling and representation. The kind of social impact I hope to make is not abstract. I want to help make information more human and more trustworthy. Whether through reporting, documentary work, or media analysis, I want to create work that helps people feel less isolated in their experiences and more equipped to understand others. Even small shifts in understanding can reduce fear, challenge bias, and open the door to more thoughtful conversations. I do not believe journalism needs to be loud to be impactful. I think it needs to be careful, intentional, and grounded in truth. If I can contribute to that, if I can help even a small group of people see something more clearly or feel more understood, then I am doing the work I set out to do.

I have always believed that words matter because they shape the stories we tell about ourselves and about one another. For as long as I can remember, I have been drawn to language. As a kid I carried a pocket dictionary around with me, fascinated by the way a single word could hold history, emotion, and meaning all at once. Writing became the place where I could make sense of the world, especially the parts of it that did not seem to make sense at all. I am a 37-year-old undergraduate student who was recently accepted to Columbia University, and I am currently trying to find a way to make that opportunity a reality. My path here has not been straightforward. I grew up in Louisiana, left home as a young adult, and spent years building a career in customer service and management while slowly taking classes along the way. For most of my life, education happened in the margins of everything else. I worked full time while attending community college, often taking online courses late at night after long workdays. In 2023, my life changed dramatically after I suffered a head injury that forced me to step away from work for nearly a year. When I was finally ready to return, I was laid off. Losing my job at the same time that I was still recovering physically and mentally was destabilizing in ways that are difficult to describe. I spent months wondering what my future was supposed to look like and whether I was still capable of the things I once took for granted. I have been openly living as a trans man since 2015. While I have been fortunate to find supportive communities, navigating the world as a transgender person still comes with constant small negotiations. There are forms that do not account for you, institutions that struggle to understand you, and moments where your existence becomes a topic for debate rather than simply a fact of your life. Those experiences have sharpened my awareness of how narratives shape power. Who gets to speak, who gets believed, and whose stories disappear entirely. Writing has become the place where I can push back against that silence. I am interested in the things people are taught not to say out loud and what happens when they finally do. My work often explores identity, memory, and the quiet contradictions people carry inside themselves. Poetry in particular allows me to approach these questions with both honesty and curiosity, leaving space for ambiguity rather than forcing easy answers. Returning to school after everything that has happened has given me a renewed sense of purpose. Journalism and creative writing both ask the same essential question: how do we tell the truth about the world as it is, while still imagining how it might be different? That question feels especially urgent in a time when misinformation and hostility toward LGBTQ+ communities continue to grow. I want to spend my life contributing to the record of human experience, especially for people whose stories are often overlooked or misunderstood. Writing allows us to create connection across difference and across time. When someone reads a story and recognizes a piece of themselves inside it, even if their life looks completely different from the writer’s, something powerful happens. It reminds us that we are not alone. That possibility is why I continue to write.

Mental health support has rarely looked formal in my life. It has looked like listening when someone was spiraling at work and making sure they weren’t left alone with it. It has looked like adjusting expectations for an employee who was struggling instead of punishing them for it. It has looked like telling people, honestly, that they were not broken, lazy, or failing, even when systems around them made it feel that way. In my previous career in customer service leadership and quality assurance, I supported dozens of people through burnout, anxiety, depression, and crises that were never listed in their job descriptions but showed up anyway. I learned quickly that people do not need platitudes. They need clarity, patience, and to be taken seriously. I advocated for flexible workflows, clearer communication, and non-punitive approaches to performance when mental health was involved. I also shared my own experiences openly, which helped others feel safer asking for help instead of hiding until they broke. My understanding of mental health is also personal. I have lived with depression, anxiety, and trauma from a young age, survived a serious mental health crisis as a teenager, and later navigated a traumatic brain injury that disrupted my ability to work and function. Those experiences taught me how isolating it can feel to be dismissed, misunderstood, or reduced to a diagnosis. They also taught me how powerful it is when someone listens without trying to fix you. I am currently studying Journalism, Media, and Culture because I want to work in spaces where communication shapes how people understand themselves and each other. Media has enormous influence over how mental health is discussed, stigmatized, or normalized. In my future career, whether through reporting, analysis, or advocacy-driven storytelling, I plan to center mental health as a public health issue that deserves accuracy, nuance, and compassion. I want to help build narratives that reduce shame, challenge misinformation, and remind people that needing support is not a personal failure. Mental health advocacy does not only happen in clinics. It happens in conversations, workplaces, and the stories we choose to tell. That is where I have already been working, and where I intend to keep showing up.

I grew up queer and transgender in southern Louisiana, in a place where difference was tolerated at best and dangerous at worst. Long before I had the language to explain myself, I learned how to monitor my body, my voice, and my presence. I learned how to disappear just enough to stay safe. For a long time, that vigilance felt necessary. What it actually did was delay my ability to imagine a future where I could live openly and without fear. Coming out was not a single moment, but a series of risks taken over time. Each step toward honesty carried consequences: strained family relationships, housing instability, and the loss of people I thought would stay. Like many queer people, I learned how conditional support could be, and how easily access to safety and stability could disappear. Much of my early adulthood was spent rebuilding from scratch, moving across states, working full time, and surviving without a safety net. Even after I built stability, it proved fragile. In 2023, I suffered a head injury that required months of recovery. While I was on medical leave, I was laid off from my job. Overnight, I lost my income, my health insurance, and the career I had spent years building. For transgender adults, employment loss is rarely just financial. It threatens access to healthcare, housing, and basic security. That period forced me to confront how quickly progress can unravel, even after years of careful work. Returning to school became a way back to myself. I completed workforce retraining, earned an associate’s degree, and am now an undergraduate studying Journalism, Media, and Culture. Education has given me language for experiences I once only felt. I study how power works, how narratives are shaped, and how marginalized communities are talked about instead of listened to. As a queer student, I approach media with urgency, because I know how misinformation, erasure, and careless framing translate into stigma, policy, and real harm. Advocacy has never been abstract for me. In previous workplaces, I worked with LGBTQ+ employee groups to push for clearer policies and safer systems, particularly around names, pronouns, and privacy. I spoke openly about my own transition not because it was easy, but because visibility reduced the burden on others who were not yet safe enough to speak. I have mentored people navigating late-in-life transitions, returning to school as nontraditional students, or simply trying to believe they are not too old or too far behind. My goal is to use my education to work in media that prioritizes accuracy, care, and accountability. I want to contribute to journalism and cultural analysis that treats queer and trans lives with complexity rather than spectacle, and that challenges narratives which make harm seem inevitable. Financially, I am doing this without a net. Because of how layoffs and medical leave appear on paper, I am not eligible for federal aid, despite having no meaningful savings left. Tuition, housing, and basic living expenses remain a constant strain. Receiving the Rainbow Futures Scholarship would directly reduce the pressure that threatens my ability to stay enrolled and focused. This scholarship would mean more than assistance. It would be recognition that persistence, resilience, and care for others are worth investing in. I am here because I kept going. With support, I can keep building work that makes it easier for others to do the same.

Being a first-generation college student means learning how to move through unfamiliar systems without a map. There was no inherited knowledge about financial aid, course planning, or what it even means to belong in higher education. Every step I’ve taken toward a degree has required figuring things out on my own, often through trial, error, and persistence. For much of my adult life, I worked full time and treated education as something I squeezed in when I could. College didn’t feel like a destination I was allowed to claim. It felt conditional, fragile, and easy to lose. That feeling only deepened after a serious head injury and a job loss forced me to reassess my future. Returning to school wasn’t a straightforward decision; it was a risk taken during a period when stability was already scarce. What pushed me forward was the realization that learning has always been my anchor. Once I returned to school, that belief was reinforced again and again. I completed certifications, earned my associate’s degree, and eventually enrolled in a bachelor’s program in Journalism, Media, and Culture. Each step has confirmed that this is where I belong and what I am meant to be doing. As a first-generation student, that clarity didn’t come from confidence handed down to me. It came from persistence and hard-earned self-trust. The challenges I face now are not about motivation or effort. They are financial. I am supporting myself independently, and there is no family safety net to fall back on if costs rise or funding disappears. Without scholarship support, I simply cannot continue my education. Tuition, housing, and basic living expenses already require careful balancing, and there is no margin left to absorb additional costs. A scholarship like this one would not be supplemental for me; it would be essential. My goal is to build a career centered on communication, research, and storytelling that makes complex systems more understandable and accessible to others. I want to use my education to give voice to experiences that are often overlooked, particularly those shaped by class, health, and unequal access to opportunity. What drives me is the belief that clarity and understanding can change outcomes, whether through journalism, analysis, or advocacy. This scholarship would give me the ability to stay enrolled, focused, and moving forward. It would relieve the constant pressure of wondering whether I can afford to continue and allow me to direct my energy toward learning and contributing, rather than simply surviving. As a first-generation student, being able to continue is not just about finishing a degree. It’s about proving that this path is possible for me and worth the effort and sacrifice it took to get here.

The first skill I ever learned was how to listen. I didn’t learn it all at once or in a single place. I learned it through years of customer service and management work, talking to people who were frustrated, confused, scared, or simply tired of not being heard. Later, I even took a course on active listening at Portland Community College, not because it was required, but because I wanted to be better at understanding people before trying to solve their problems. Over time, I realized that most conflict isn’t caused by malice, but by misunderstanding. People want clarity. They want to know someone is paying attention. That understanding has shaped how I move through the world and how I want to contribute to it. As a first-generation college student, I didn’t grow up with a roadmap for higher education or a safety net if things went wrong. I spent years working full time, navigating systems that weren’t built with people like me in mind, and learning through trial and error. That experience taught me how to translate complex information into something human and accessible, a skill I now see as essential to building a more empathetic global community. After a head injury and a job loss forced me to rethink my future, I returned to school later in life and eventually moved abroad to study Journalism, Media, and Culture. Living in Prague has shown me just how fragile understanding can be across cultures, languages, and systems. Even when everyone is acting in good faith, it is easy to talk past one another. I have seen how confusion can turn into fear, and how fear can turn into distance. I have also seen how much changes when someone takes the time to explain, contextualize, and listen carefully. My unique strength is my ability to bridge those gaps. I approach communication with patience and curiosity rather than assumption. Whether I am working across departments, cultures, or belief systems, I focus on making information clearer and conversations more humane. I believe empathy is not abstract. It is built through specific actions: choosing accurate language, asking better questions, and slowing down long enough to understand what someone actually needs. I plan to use these skills through media and storytelling. Journalism, at its best, helps people see beyond their own experience without speaking over others. I want to create work that explains rather than inflames, that challenges misinformation without shaming, and that centers real human impact instead of easy narratives. That might take the form of reporting, analysis, documentary work, or cultural criticism, but the goal remains the same: helping people understand one another more clearly. As a first-generation student, I know what it feels like to navigate institutions without guidance. That perspective keeps me grounded in the responsibility that comes with having a voice. I want to use my education not just to build a career, but to contribute to a world that communicates with more care and intention. A more empathetic global community is not built by being louder. It is built by listening better, explaining more clearly, and refusing to reduce people to stereotypes or soundbites. Those are skills I have spent years developing, and they are the ones I intend to keep using.

My plans for the future center on a single conviction: that clarity, context, and compassionate storytelling can help people understand the systems that shape their lives. I am studying journalism and media because I believe these fields offer powerful tools for making the world more navigable, especially for people who come from backgrounds like mine, where stability was never guaranteed and higher education felt out of reach. I did not grow up imagining myself in a university classroom. My father struggled with addiction throughout my childhood, and housing was uncertain for much of my life. Education always felt like something other people had access to: people with financial support, stable families, and the freedom to explore without risking their survival. I spent most of my twenties and early thirties working in customer service leadership, not because it was a calling, but because it was steady and I could excel in it. I learned how to mentor people, guide teams, and create clarity in chaotic systems. I didn't realize at the time how much those skills were preparing me for the work I want to do now. In July 2023, I experienced a head injury that changed everything. By the time I was preparing to return to work nine months later, I was laid off. I applied for hundreds of roles and found nothing but closed doors. Going back to school didn't feel like a confident decision. It felt like the only step forward that wasn't rooted in fear. I enrolled in community college to rebuild my confidence, and something in me came back to life. I remembered what it felt like to learn for myself, not just for survival. That momentum carried me to where I am now: studying journalism, media, and culture. My goal is to use communication, whether through writing, visual storytelling, or education, to support people who experience the kinds of instability I know well. I want to bring clarity to confusing subjects, context to complicated issues, and compassion to stories that don't always receive it. The world feels increasingly chaotic, and I want to be someone who helps people understand the forces shaping their lives, especially those who have been told, directly or indirectly, that they don't belong in certain rooms. This scholarship would make it possible for me to continue my education. I am a first-generation college student with no financial aid, no family support, and no safety net. I sold my home to make this degree possible, and I am currently supporting myself on savings that are running out. One semester of tuition costs roughly $6,000, and I need three more semesters to finish. Without scholarship support, I will be forced to defer or withdraw from a program where I am thriving academically. With this scholarship, I can stay enrolled, complete my degree, and move forward into the work I have fought to access my entire adult life. It would give me the stability to focus on learning rather than survival, and it would affirm that students like me (older, first-generation, rebuilding after crisis) are worth investing in. Education has already changed the direction of my life. This scholarship would ensure that change continues.

I became a non-traditional student because for a long time I believed I would never be a student again. My first attempt at college in Louisiana ended in a way I still struggle to talk about. I was young, confused, unsupported, and overwhelmed. Every system around me failed to catch me when I needed help, and I left believing it was my fault. I carried that weight for years. I thought I had closed the door on higher education forever, not because I didn’t want it, but because I had convinced myself I wasn’t someone who got to have that kind of life. So I worked. I built a full career in customer service leadership and quality assurance. I built my identity on competency, on being the person who had the answers, on being the one who helped others grow. If I could not be the student I dreamed of being, at least I could be useful. At least I could lift others up. Then July 2023 happened. The head injury, the medical leave, the silence of recovery. It is strange to say that losing my job wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the months of stillness afterward. I had so much time to think. So much time to face myself without distraction. Everything I thought made me valuable had been stripped away. I wasn’t managing anyone. I wasn’t solving problems. I wasn’t achieving anything. I was alone with myself in a way I had never been, and I kept asking the same quiet question: if everything is gone, what is left? There was one answer I kept returning to. I love to learn. I always have. Even when life was overwhelming, even when my career took all my time, even when I believed I wasn’t “college material,” I kept learning wherever I could. Books, classes, articles, training, anything. Learning made me feel like myself. So when everything else was taken from me, I went back to the one thing I trusted. I enrolled in community college not because I had a plan, but because I had nothing left to lose. I fully expected it to expose every weakness I feared I had. Instead, I surprised myself. I got all As. I studied harder than I ever had in my life because for the first time, I wasn’t doing it to prove anything. I was doing it because it mattered to me. I even got to work in the library. That sounds small, but for me it was a dream I had quietly carried for years. I used to think working in a library meant you had earned a certain kind of life. A life where learning wasn’t just a hobby but a foundation. Being hired there felt like I had crossed into a world I spent years believing was closed to me. I earned my associate’s degree with honors. Then I applied to universities I would never have dared to consider in my twenties. And I got in. When the acceptance letters arrived, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Relief, pride, and a sense that maybe my story wasn’t over after all. But success does not erase struggle. Moving to Prague and starting over at thirty-six has been full of moments where I had to choose to keep going even when it hurt. Money has chased me every single month since July 2023, always more going out than coming in. I sold my house to make this possible. I have scraped through visa delays, unexpected expenses, and the reality of supporting two households while trying to stay enrolled. There are still days I wonder how long I can hold everything together. But I also know this: I am not the person I was when I left Louisiana believing I had failed. I am someone who rebuilt his life through education when everything else collapsed. I am someone who teaches and mentors and encourages others because I know what it means to be overlooked. I am someone who still carries compassion even after a year that could have hardened me. I am someone who keeps trying. The qualities that defined Andrea Worden, kindness, perseverance, compassion, a commitment to lifting others, are qualities I have tried to practice even when life felt heavy. Perseverance, for me, looked like studying through brain fog and discouragement. Kindness looked like forgiving myself for needing more time. Compassion looked like helping classmates who felt lost, even when I felt lost too. Lifting others up looked like what it has always looked like in my life: seeing potential before someone sees it in themselves. A defining moment for me was not dramatic. It was the quiet realization, somewhere in the middle of recovery, that learning was not something life could take away from me. It was mine, and if I followed it, it might lead me back to myself. This scholarship asks for honesty, not perfection. I am someone who lost almost everything and decided to start over because learning made me feel alive. I am someone who still believes in others even on days I cannot fully believe in myself. I am someone who is trying to build a life of intention, meaning, and generosity, no matter how many times I have to begin again. This is who I am, this is how I got here, and this is why I am still moving forward.

Going to college means giving myself a chance to believe something I have struggled with for most of my life. It means believing that I am worthy of the opportunities that have always felt out of reach. For years, I watched people move ahead of me not because they were more capable, but because they had access to an education I could not afford. I tried to convince myself that experience alone was enough, but underneath that, there was a quieter truth. I felt unworthy. I felt like education belonged to other people. I know I work hard. I've built training programs, supported teams, and took on high-profile responsibilities. Still, when promotions or new roles came up, someone with a degree often received them instead. I told myself it was fine, but it felt like a reminder that no matter how capable I was, I would always be seen as someone who did not quite belong in the rooms I was trying to reach. It was harder in 2023 after I suffered a head injury that forced me out of work. While I was still recovering, my job was eliminated. Losing the career I had built was painful, but losing it while already feeling unsure of my future made it even sharper. I spent almost two years applying to jobs, hoping something would open up, but the silence that followed most applications made the doubts even louder. Returning to school became a turning point for me, rather than just a career choice. It was a personal decision to stop believing the idea that I did not deserve the same opportunities. Earning my associate degree helped me remember that my mind is strong, that I am capable of learning, and that I can build something new even after so much loss. Now I am studying Journalism, Media, and Culture because it allows me to understand the world more deeply and to help others understand it too. It gives me a voice I had been trying to claim for years. Even with all the progress I have made, the truth is that being in college is still a struggle. Higher education often feels like a world designed with a specific kind of student in mind. Someone who has the financial safety net to make mistakes. Someone who can rely on family support. Someone who does not have to rebuild their entire life at the same time they are trying to earn a degree. I want to be honest about the fact that I do not fit that mold. I walk into classrooms carrying things that other students do not see. The financial strain, the instability, the pressure to succeed without a cushion, and the lingering fear that one more setback could derail everything. There are days when I feel proud to be here, and there are days when I feel like I am trying to survive in a place that was never built for people like me. Still, I keep showing up because I believe in what this education can do for my future. I want to build a life where my abilities and my potential are finally met with opportunity instead of barriers. College gives me the tools and the knowledge to move toward that kind of future, but I am honest about the reality that I cannot carry this alone. A scholarship would not only support my academic goals. It would reinforce something I am learning slowly and with effort. That I belong here, even if the system was not designed with me in mind.

The moment that still sits heavy with me is the day I sold my house. It wasn’t a fresh start or a proud milestone. It was a decision I made because I had run out of options. I sold it for far less than I ever imagined I would. After years of work, years of investing in it, I walked away with barely more than I paid in the first place. Watching the last piece of real stability I had slip away for almost no gain was devastating. But by that point, I didn’t have the luxury of holding on to what I hoped for. I needed money to stay housed, stay fed, and stay in school. I needed to survive. That moment didn’t come out of nowhere. It was the end point of a long unraveling that began in July 2023, when I suffered a head injury that turned my life upside down. Before the injury, I had a career I was proud of. I built teams, created training programs, and worked in quality assurance across multiple regions. I felt capable and grounded. I knew the work and the work knew me. The injury changed how my brain worked. My memory slipped. My focus became unpredictable. Tasks I had done a thousand times suddenly felt foreign. And just when I was finally preparing to return from medical leave, my position was eliminated. Losing my career while still learning how to function in my own mind was a blow I wasn’t prepared for. I spent almost two years applying for jobs. Hundreds of applications. Different fields, different levels, different regions. I tried everything. Most of the time, I didn’t even get a rejection. Just silence. The few responses I did receive led nowhere. By the end, I was exhausted from trying to convince the job market that I still had value. With my savings disappearing and no employment opportunities left, I realized that I needed a path forward that didn’t depend on the job market at all. Going back to school became that path. It wasn’t a luxury or a dream decision. It was the only direction that made any sense if I wanted a real future. Once I enrolled, the only job available to me was a work-study position capped at seven hours a week. Seven hours doesn’t cover rent. It doesn’t cover groceries. It doesn’t even come close to covering the cost of rebuilding a life after everything fell apart. It was something, but it was never enough. That is why I had to sell my house. Not to fund a passion but to keep myself afloat in a system where I was trying everything and nothing was working. Now, I’m studying something that genuinely matters to me. Journalism and media give me a way to take everything I’ve lived through and turn it into something meaningful instead of just surviving it in silence. But I’m still carrying the weight of every crisis that led me here. I’m committed. I’m focused. I’m doing everything I can. And I’m still stretched to my limit. A scholarship right now wouldn’t just lighten a financial load. It would give me room to breathe after more than two years without a single moment of stability. It would help me stay in school without constantly wondering how much more I can sacrifice. It would give me the chance to move forward without feeling like I’m fighting for my life at every step. I am ready for that chance. I just need the support to reach it.

I don't feel lucky to be struggling. I do feel proud that I'm still here. I'm writing this from a small apartment in Prague, where I just started school at Anglo-American University. I moved here with my partner after graduating with a 4.0 GPA from my community college in Oregon. We planned everything carefully: we sold almost everything we owned, gave up stable housing, and planned to fund our education and first year of living expenses through the sale of our house. That sale fell apart just days before we left. We left anyway. I don't have a safety net now. I don't have parents to ask for help or a credit card to rely on. I haven't had a job in over a year, not because I didn't want one, but because a traumatic brain injury took me out of work for nine months. Just as I was preparing to return, I was laid off. While that could have been the end of the road, I refused to let it be. I returned to school full-time for the first time in over a decade and poured everything I had into finishing my degree and building a new path. So, why do I deserve this scholarship? Because I'm still trying, even when everything in my life told me to give up. Because I've sacrificed more than I ever thought I'd have to, including giving up two of my cats; the hardest, most gut-wrenching decision I've ever made. Because even now, with tuition due at the end of the month and rent looming, I'm waking up every day determined to make this work. What gives me an advantage isn't that I've avoided hardship. It's that I've looked hardship in the face, over and over, and kept going anyway. I've worked full-time while attending school part-time. I've led teams in high-pressure tech roles. I've built training systems, mentored new employees, and advocated for equity in the workplace. I've lived through medical setbacks, financial collapse, and deep personal loss. Through it all, I've kept showing up. Not perfectly, not without fear, yet with purpose. I'm scared. I'll be honest about that. I'm terrified of what it means to be in a new country without financial aid, without credit, without the cushion that was supposed to make this sustainable. I will never let fear stop me again though; all fear has done is make me question whether I deserve the things I want most. This time, I'm not letting it win. Maybe this won't work out. Maybe I'll fall short. Yet it won't be because I didn't try every single thing I could. This scholarship is part of that effort, one more handhold on a cliff I refuse to let go of. It won't solve everything, but it will give me breathing room, buy me time, and help me keep going. And that's what I'm here to do.

I've always been drawn to taking broken things and turning them into something beautiful. What I didn't expect was that this impulse would lead me to reimagine how we think about renewable energy. I'm developing an art practice concept that would transform discarded solar technology into functional sculptures that happen to power homes. I call it SolarForm, and it represents everything I believe about art's role in our world: that creativity can solve problems, that beauty can drive change, and that the most powerful art makes the invisible visible. After a traumatic brain injury disrupted my career, I returned to school in my mid-30s to study renewable energy technology. I became a certified solar installer, learning the technical intricacies of photovoltaic systems. Now I'm in Prague studying journalism, media, and culture, exploring how stories shape the world we build. This combination of technical knowledge and artistic vision is what drives my work. I see possibilities others miss because I understand both the engineering and the emotional landscape of renewable energy adoption. During my solar training, I discovered something fascinating: homeowners regularly reject perfectly functional solar installations because they don't like how they look. My instructor, a professional designer, told us about clients who would rather forfeit thousands in tax credits than install panels that clashed with their home's aesthetic. "They'd rather pay their electric bill than have an ugly rooftop," she said. That moment crystallized everything for me. Here was this incredible technology that could help save the planet, but it was failing to connect with people on a human level. Solar panels were being designed as invisible utility equipment when they're actually highly visible architectural elements that people live with every day. I started asking: What if we stopped trying to hide renewable energy? What if we celebrated it as its own artistic medium? SolarForm is my conceptual response. It's an art practice I'm developing that would focus on creating custom solar installations using salvaged photovoltaic cells and reclaimed materials. Each piece would be a collaboration between me, the homeowner, and local artists, resulting in functional sculptures that generate electricity while expressing the personality and values of the people who live with them. The process I envision begins with sourcing materials. I would collect damaged or discarded solar cells from installers, manufacturing overruns, and decommissioned systems. These cells are still functional but would otherwise become waste. I'd pair them with reclaimed art supplies and construction materials from organizations like SCRAP PDX and ReClaim It, turning multiple waste streams into raw material for creation. Each installation would start with a conversation. I'd work with homeowners to understand their aesthetic vision, their home's architecture, and their personal story. Then, collaborating with local artists and craftspeople, we'd design panels that are genuinely expressive and beautiful. The frames might be made from reclaimed barn wood, the mounting system from salvaged metal, the overall composition reflecting everything from mid-century modernism to folk art traditions. The result wouldn't just be functional art. It would be art that transforms how people relate to sustainability. Instead of renewable energy feeling like a sacrifice or compromise, it could become a source of pride and self-expression. Neighbors would stop to ask questions. Children would become excited about clean energy. Communities could start seeing solar not as industrial equipment but as a cultural expression. This work sits at the intersection of environmental art, functional sculpture, and social practice. It's influenced by artists like Maya Lin, whose work makes environmental issues tangible and personal, and the Watts Towers by Simon Rodia, which proved that outsider vision can create something both beautiful and structurally sound from discarded materials. My artistic practice also draws from European approaches to sustainability that I'm studying in Prague. Here, renewable energy infrastructure is often treated as an aesthetic opportunity rather than a necessary evil. I'm learning how public art can shift cultural narratives around technology and environmental responsibility. The impact extends beyond individual installations. Each SolarForm piece becomes a conversation starter about waste, beauty, and our relationship with technology. When someone chooses a custom solar installation over a standard one, they're not just making an energy decision. They're making a statement about values, creativity, and what kind of future they want to build. I'm also developing ideas for workshops that would teach people to see solar technology as an artistic medium. Participants would learn basic photovoltaic principles while creating small-scale installations using salvaged materials. These sessions would combine technical education with creative expression, showing that renewable energy can be both functional and deeply personal. My long-term vision includes public art installations that demonstrate the beauty possible when we embrace rather than hide sustainable technology. I want to create solar sculptures for parks, schools, and community centers that generate clean energy while sparking imagination. I'm particularly interested in installations that tell stories about resilience, transformation, and the creative potential within discarded materials. This work matters because art has the unique power to change how people see possibilities. Most renewable energy advocacy focuses on statistics, policy, and environmental necessity. My practice focuses on desire, beauty, and personal connection. When people fall in love with how sustainable technology looks and feels, adoption accelerates naturally. I feel that art that people live with every day, that powers their homes while expressing their values, has the potential to shift entire communities. Every beautiful solar installation becomes a seed for broader cultural change. I'm applying for this scholarship because I believe artists have a crucial role to play in building a sustainable future. Not just by commenting on environmental issues, but by creating solutions so beautiful that people choose them for aesthetic as well as ethical reasons. My work proves that we don't have to choose between saving the planet and expressing ourselves. We can have both. In fact, we need both if we're going to create a future that's not just sustainable, but genuinely worth sustaining. Through SolarForm, I'm not just making art. I'm reimagining what art can do.

I've struggled with mental health for as long as I can remember. I never felt like I was enough: never good enough, smart enough, masculine enough, feminine enough, thin enough, or even normal enough. The night before my thirteenth birthday, I tried to end my life. I couldn't imagine waking up another day in a house where I felt invisible or continuing to live inside a body and mind that made me feel like I didn't belong. It wasn't a cry for help. I truly believed I was done. The moment I swallowed the pills, though, something unexpected happened: I felt regret. It hit faster and harder than I could have ever imagined. I realized I didn't want to die. I just didn't know how to live with the pain. That moment changed everything. It gave me something I've carried with me ever since: the understanding that somewhere deep inside me, I still wanted to live. Things didn't magically get better. Honestly, in many ways, they got worse. But that moment of clarity, that small spark, has kept me going through some of the darkest periods of my life. I've come close to giving up again, more than once, but I always return to that realization. It reminds me that I can come back from just about anything. Coming out as queer and trans made life even more complicated. It meant navigating a world that often didn't see me or, worse, only saw me as a target. I've spent years trying to prove that I deserve to exist, to take up space, to be heard. I've lost people I loved, faced rejection, been misgendered and dismissed, and had to explain myself more times than I can count. Yet I've also found community, healing, and people who truly see me. I've dealt with anxiety, depression, trauma, and chronic stress. I've lost jobs, housing, and stability. I've had to start over from scratch more times than I ever thought I could survive. But I did, every single time. And I didn't just survive. I grew. I fought to find joy. I fought to believe that I had a future worth living into. Now I'm studying Journalism, Media, and Culture because I want to tell stories that reflect the truth of people like me. I want to tell stories that hold space for complexity, that don't shy away from pain but also don't stop there. I want to make space for queer and trans voices that have been erased or silenced and show that we exist in all our complexity and that we matter. This scholarship isn't just financial support. It's recognition. It's a way of saying that survival itself is worthy of honor, that living through things no one should have to face is a kind of work, and that the people who do it every day deserve more than just getting by. Elijah's story could have been mine. Some days, it still feels that close. But I'm here, I'm still trying, and I'm proud of how far I've come. I don't think I'm special for surviving. I just think it's important to tell the truth about what it takes. If my story can help me keep going and maybe help someone else feel less alone, then that's enough for me.

In 2023, I sustained a traumatic head injury that derailed everything. I had been a full-time manager at a tech company, rebuilding my life after years of instability. Suddenly, I was on medical leave for nine months, forced to relearn how to manage my time, energy, and thoughts. Just as I was preparing to return, I was laid off. That moment could have broken me but instead, I pivoted. I enrolled in a solar energy program at my community college. It was supposed to be temporary, but I stayed. I finished the program, completed my associate degree, and decided to continue. Now, at 36, I’m preparing to move to Prague to pursue a degree in Journalism, Media, and Culture. I’ve taken an unconventional route, but I’m proud of where it’s led me. What drew me to this scholarship wasn’t just the financial support, it was Kalia’s legacy. I recognized in her story the same qualities I’ve tried to hold onto: work ethic, kindness, and the belief that you keep showing up even when things feel impossible. I was not a star athlete but I know how to push through and how to show up for myself and others, even when I’m tired, scared, or unsure. Returning to school as an adult hasn’t been easy. I’ve worked library shifts as long as 11 hours a day, fitting in homework at night and on weekends. I’ve taken classes full-time while navigating car trouble, housing uncertainty, and the aftermath of a brain injury. I had to turn down a stable (but draining) city job to stay on track with my degree. That was one of the hardest choices I’ve made, but it was when I knew I was finally building something for myself that mattered. This scholarship would help cover tuition fees, moving costs, and honestly, whichever bill comes up next. More than that though, it would help remind me that this path I’ve chosen, even when it's long and winding, is worth it. That someone sees me the way Kalia saw the people around her - with compassion, belief, and high expectations. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am, but I’m still pushing forward, still learning, still choosing to believe there’s a future where my voice, and the stories I want to tell, can matter. Thank you for considering me. I would be honored to carry Kalia’s spirit with me as I begin this next chapter; not just by achieving my goals, but by staying kind, staying focused, and staying in motion.

For most of my life, I have been far more comfortable advocating for others than standing up for myself. I knew how to fight when it wasn’t personal. But when it came to acknowledging what I wanted, or worse, asking for it, I froze. Vulnerability like that felt dangerous. What I want to build is a stronger commitment to myself, not in a self-indulgent way, but in a deeply honest one. I want to continue choosing a future that reflects what matters to me, not just what feels responsible or self-sacrificing. This shift started slowly. Last year, I was offered a full-time job as a parking officer - a role I had applied for long before, out of financial desperation. At that point, I was finally finding some momentum in school again, and I had just admitted how badly I wanted to keep going. The job would have meant stepping back from school with weeks to go before graduation and quitting my work-study job at the campus library, where I felt genuinely connected and useful. The pay was far less than I had paid before being laid off and it wasn’t a job I was excited about. Still, it was full-time work and money was tight. Saying no felt terrifying, but for the first time, I had a clear picture of the path I wanted to stay on, and I chose it. I chose myself and it was a turning point. Another example came more recently, when I decided to change my major from politics to journalism. It took me months to say it out loud. Politics felt like the “right” choice, a path aligned with public service and helping others. Journalism, on the other hand, felt selfish. It was rooted in something I loved and thought about constantly, but I feared people wouldn’t understand the shift. I feared it meant I wasn’t serious about making a difference. Truthfully though, I see storytelling as one of the most powerful ways to create change. I want to help people understand each other across differences. I want to bring light to overlooked stories, and to do that work with honesty, care, and clarity. That is a form of service, too. Choosing myself does not mean I’m choosing only myself. It means I am finally making decisions that reflect what I want to contribute, not just what I think I should endure. With this scholarship, I hope to keep building the kind of life where I don’t flinch at ambition, where I stand behind my choices without shame. I want to build a future in which I no longer apologize for wanting more, just one where I work hard to make that “more” meaningful.

After a head injury in 2023, I found myself in constant pain, barely functioning, and emotionally at rock bottom. The things that once came naturally, concentration, movement, memory, suddenly became difficult, frustrating, or impossible. I felt like I had been thrown off course with no clear path forward, and I realized I had a choice to make: either let it consume me or fight my way back. I chose to fight. For the first time in my life, I put everything else on hold and prioritized my own healing. I made the decision to go to every doctor’s appointment, to say yes to physical therapy, occupational therapy, and even therapy for the grief of having lost parts of myself I hadn’t fully acknowledged. I tried every mindfulness trick they taught me. I meditated. I learned to track pain and energy levels. I experimented with routines to see if I could stretch out the moments of clarity. I practiced letting go of guilt when I needed to rest, and I learned to celebrate the small wins. It was the first time I had ever fully paid attention to what I needed in the moment. If I needed food, I ate. If I needed rest, I rested. If I needed a break, I took one without apologizing. And when I pushed too far, which I did often at first, I tried not to shame myself but instead learn what that edge felt like. That process taught me something I never expected: self-care isn’t soft. It’s not an indulgence. It’s the grit it takes to show up for yourself again and again, especially when things are hard. I’ve carried those lessons into every part of my life. I’ve returned to school after years of working full-time, and while I still struggle with lingering cognitive issues, I’m earning a 4.0 GPA. I don’t work endless hours anymore just to prove my worth. I set boundaries, ask for accommodations when needed, and structure my time in a way that works for my brain now, not who I used to be. Learning to care for myself through adversity has also made me more compassionate and aware of what others might be going through. I’ve supported classmates struggling with mental health or medical issues by sharing my own experience, helping them advocate for themselves, or simply listening without judgment. I’ve also gotten involved in climate and equity work, using my own energy strategically; knowing when to speak up and when to rest so I can return stronger. Preparing for the future now means staying grounded in reality while believing in the possibility of something better. I plan to study journalism and media with a focus on how health, policy, and environmental justice intersect. My hope is to use my education to create change, telling stories that humanize big issues and empower others who feel unseen. This scholarship would not only ease financial stress but help reinforce the path I’ve fought to build: one that’s sustainable, healthy, and centered on helping others find strength in their own story.

Graduating with a college degree is not just a personal milestone for me. It is a chance to fully reclaim my identity, voice, and purpose. I hope to use my degree to tell stories that matter. I want to shed light on the systems that hold people back and amplify the voices of those who are often ignored, misunderstood, or misrepresented. Through journalism and media, I want to build bridges between people who feel worlds apart, using narrative and analysis to help create a more informed, compassionate, and equitable society. Right now, I am pursuing a degree in Journalism, Media, and Culture at Anglo-American University in Prague. I chose to study internationally because I wanted a broader view of the world and the systems that shape it. I also wanted the space to learn, write, and grow without the mounting fear I felt living in the United States as a transgender person. The political climate in my home country is increasingly hostile, and many of the basic rights I once took for granted (healthcare access, workplace protections, even physical safety) have become uncertain. Moving abroad was not just a dream. It became a necessary step for both safety and long-term stability. Before returning to school full time, I worked in customer support, workforce development, and team leadership. I was proud of the work I did. I coached dozens of employees, helped them earn promotions, and built internal training programs from scratch. I taught my teams how to prepare for interviews, how to navigate internal politics, and how to advocate for themselves. I built a peer development series that helped my team get direct exposure to other departments, and I created presentation templates to help them build confidence in public speaking while ensuring their work could be clearly understood. Watching others succeed was the best part of my job. But in 2023, I suffered a head injury that changed my life. It affected my memory, balance, coordination, and concentration. I lost the job I once excelled at, and for a while, I thought I might lose the future I had been working toward. Returning to school was both a leap of faith and a form of survival. I wanted to see if I could still learn, still grow, still contribute something meaningful. It turns out that I can. I currently have a 4.0 GPA and am on track to complete my degree. But that progress has come at a steep cost. As a returning student, I do not have family support to fall back on. I am funding this education on my own, and because I am studying internationally, I must meet tuition and visa requirements without the help of U.S. federal financial aid. I have sold nearly everything I own to make this move possible. I have worked full-time hours while taking classes, donated plasma, picked up odd jobs, and applied for every scholarship I am eligible for. This scholarship would help ease the enormous financial strain and give me the breathing room to continue focusing on my education instead of simply trying to survive it. Once I graduate, my long-term goal is to work in journalism or media strategy for organizations that promote equity, human rights, and global cooperation. I want to work across borders, across perspectives, and across disciplines to tell stories that shape policy and expand public understanding. I am especially interested in reporting on the intersection of gender, poverty, and education access, and I want to bring greater visibility to the challenges that transgender people face in healthcare, employment, and housing. I also want to explore how community-led solutions are being built by and for those who are often left out of policy conversations. Eventually, I would like to return to workforce development work, this time from a media and advocacy lens. I know how powerful it can be when people see themselves as capable. I want to create resources and public messaging that help people navigate systems they were never taught to understand. That includes everything from how to get legal documentation changed after transitioning, to how to access disability accommodations, to how to advocate for yourself in interviews when you are the only one in the room who does not come from a traditional background. This work matters to me because I have lived it. I have navigated poverty, unstable housing, disability, discrimination, and burnout. I know what it feels like to have potential but no access. I also know how powerful it can be when just one person or one opportunity changes your trajectory. Scholarships like this are more than financial support. They are signals that someone believes in your ability to carry your goals forward, even when the road has not been easy. My future plans are not just about finding a job. They are about building a life that reflects the values I carry with me every day. I want to write clearly and thoughtfully about complicated issues. I want to bring empathy and curiosity to conversations that often get reduced to politics or fear. I want to be a voice for people who are still figuring out how to speak. Whether I work as a journalist, communications strategist, nonprofit consultant, or public educator, I plan to use every skill I develop in college to serve people who deserve to be seen, understood, and supported. This scholarship would help make that possible. It would relieve some of the immediate financial pressure of tuition and allow me to focus on my coursework and professional development. It would give me time to pursue internships or volunteer opportunities that align with my long-term goals, rather than taking on short-term jobs that do not support my future. Most of all, it would serve as an affirmation that where I come from does not have to limit where I go. When I think about what I hope to accomplish with my degree, I return to something simple: I want to help make change feel possible. Not just for me, but for others like me. First-generation students, disabled students, queer students, working-class students, students who thought they had missed their chance. I want to create stories, tools, and opportunities that remind people that there is still time, that they are not alone, and that their path, however winding, is still worth following.

I am working to address the growing gap in opportunity and safety for transgender people, especially in education and employment. As a trans man, I have seen firsthand how policies, biases, and silence shape who gets to be seen, who gets to be hired, and who feels safe enough to learn. This issue is not abstract for me. It defines the world I live in and the future I am trying to build. For years, I worked in customer support and team leadership. In those roles, I mentored dozens of employees, helping them find confidence, sharpen their skills, and move into better jobs. While I loved that work, I also saw how quickly opportunities could disappear for people who did not meet unspoken norms around gender, appearance, or identity. I advocated within my company for more inclusive hiring and promotion practices, and I worked with our LGBTQ+ employee group to create clearer, more respectful internal processes for name and pronoun changes. These changes helped trans employees feel less alone and more respected, but they were not enough. After experiencing a head injury in 2023 and losing my job, I took a hard look at what I wanted to do next. I chose to go back to school full time and study Journalism, Media, and Culture. I made this choice because I believe stories are one of the most powerful tools for social change. When people understand the experiences of others, they make better decisions. They vote differently. They hire differently. They become more willing to challenge unfair systems. Now, I am using my education to become a better storyteller and advocate. I want to create work that highlights how trans people are affected by current policies and how communities are resisting that harm in creative and courageous ways. I am especially interested in stories that explore the intersection of gender, class, and access. In the future, I want to write about how economic policy, housing, and education systems can either trap or liberate people like me. Beyond school, I continue to mentor others whenever I can. I have helped peers write resumes, prepare for interviews, and apply for scholarships. I share my experiences navigating legal transitions, healthcare, and higher education because I know how isolating those systems can be without a guide. My goal is to make things easier for the next person who comes after me. The social issue I am addressing is broad, but I approach it through a specific lens: education, representation, and access. If more trans people are given the chance to study, to lead, to tell their stories, and to build careers in public-facing fields, it becomes harder to erase us. It becomes easier to build a world where we can thrive. I do not want to be the exception. I want to be part of a wider shift that makes opportunity less fragile and more honest. That is what I am working toward every day, and that is the kind of impact I want my work to have.

In July 2023, I hit my head. At the time, I thought I would shake it off and get back to normal in a few days. Instead, I found myself struggling to read a full page, stay balanced while walking, or recall simple information. For someone who had built their career on high performance, multitasking, and clarity, it felt like a door had suddenly closed that I did not even know I had walked through. I never expected to experience a disability. It arrived quickly and quietly, without a clear recovery timeline. My memory became unreliable. Multistep tasks became exhausting. I could no longer process information the same way, and I lost the job I had once excelled at. At first, I thought the only way forward was to get back to who I was before. Eventually, I realized I had to make space for the person I had become. Returning to school gave me that space. I had taken community college classes before while working full time, but this was the first time I allowed myself to be a full-time student. I enrolled in courses that excited me, even when they scared me. I relearned how to take notes, how to advocate for accommodations, and how to ask for help without shame. I began to see that my disability had not made me less capable. It had forced me to become more intentional. More patient. More creative in how I approached problems. It also helped me reimagine my goals. Before my injury, I worked in workforce development and team leadership. I still care deeply about helping people grow, but now I want to do that through storytelling. I am studying Journalism, Media, and Culture because I believe stories help us understand each other, especially when experiences fall outside what others expect. Disability, like so many identities, is often misrepresented or flattened in media. I want to help change that. My disability changed not just how I learn, but how I listen. It made me slower, but it also made me pay closer attention. I notice more now. Body language, tone, the pause before someone speaks. These are strengths I bring into classrooms, conversations, and eventually into interviews and reporting. I want to lift up voices that are too often spoken over or simplified, including those of other disabled people navigating a world that rarely makes space for difference. This experience has also shifted how I define success. I no longer measure it by how much I can get done in a day. I measure it by whether I am moving with purpose. Whether I am learning. Whether I am building something that lasts. My long-term goal is to work internationally in media and communication, using what I have learned to tell stories that are grounded in honesty, respect, and depth. My head injury took more from me than I expected. It also gave me clarity about what matters. I am still learning what my limits are, but I know I am not limited in what I can contribute. I am determined to keep showing up, to keep learning, and to keep using my voice, even on the days when it takes more effort to find the right words.

I grew up in a house where books were considered a luxury, something to be taken away when I misbehaved. While other kids were grounded from TV or phone privileges, I was grounded from reading. My parents knew how much I lived inside stories, and they used that love against me. In my family, education wasn’t valued. It was something to mock or tolerate, not something to pursue. I was singled out early on as the “difficult one,” the one with too many questions, too much emotion, and too little willingness to conform. I left Louisiana at nineteen and never looked back. I worked full time while taking online college classes, slowly building a path for myself with no guide, no blueprint, and no safety net. I had to figure out how to navigate school systems, financial aid, and transfer processes on my own. I worked days, studied nights, and kept going even when it felt like I was fighting uphill in every direction. Then came the head injury in 2023, followed by a layoff. My ability to focus disappeared almost overnight. The tools I had relied on, my memory, my attention to detail, my communication, were suddenly unreliable. At the same time, as a transgender man, I was watching the rights I had fought so hard to claim disappear through laws and executive orders. I was scared, but I refused to stop. I kept pushing, looking for every opening I could find, unwilling to back down no matter how cornered I felt. Despite all of this, I graduated this spring from Clackamas Community College with a 4.0 GPA. I’ve been accepted to Anglo-American University in Prague, where I’ll continue my education in Journalism, Media and Culture. I want to use this opportunity to expand my world and deepen my understanding, not just to survive but to grow. I’m especially interested in how media shapes public narratives and how storytelling can challenge injustice and amplify unheard voices. I’ve carried this weight alone for a long time. I’ve sold my belongings, donated plasma, and worked every shift I could to get here. But I’m only one person, and sometimes I wish it didn’t have to be this hard. I don’t need everything to be easy. I just wish someone could help ease the burden long enough for me to keep going. This scholarship would be more than financial support. It would be a sign that people like me, people who were told they were too much, too difficult, or not worth investing in, still matter. I will keep moving forward no matter what. But with your help, I can do it with more focus, more stability, and more hope.

I used to think selflessness meant giving everything you had to someone else. That you had to go without, or make yourself small, to be considered good. I don’t believe that anymore. I believe selflessness means showing up anyway. Helping even when it’s inconvenient. Offering what you can, when you can, even if all you have is your time, your attention, or the belief that someone deserves better. Especially when they don’t believe it themselves. When I worked in customer service and management, I saw people burn out because they felt invisible. So, I tried to be the kind of leader I wish I’d had when I started out. I paid attention. I asked questions. I figured out what people were good at and helped them grow into roles that matched those strengths. I created interview prep workshops, wrote referrals, and coached people through resumes and applications. Most of my team got promoted or moved into better-fitting roles. That’s still one of the things I’m proudest of. Outside of work, I’ve always had a heart for helping others feel seen. I built a free little library in front of my house and stocked it with books that reflected real diversity, because I wanted kids in my neighborhood to see themselves in stories. I gave away boxes of clothes, art supplies, furniture, and food to people who needed it more than I did. And when I was laid off after a concussion, and everything in my life felt uncertain, I still showed up for my classmates and community. Going back to school at 34 was humbling. I didn’t expect to have to start over. But instead of giving up, I threw myself into it. I volunteered to lead study groups and explain assignments when others were struggling. I spoke up in class about accessibility and communication and made sure non-traditional students knew about all the resources and tools available to them. I answered questions, sent follow-up emails, shared whatever information I could find. Not because it made me look good, but because I remember what it felt like to be confused and afraid to ask. When people reach out for help, it’s vulnerable. They’re trusting you with something they might not even be ready to say out loud. And to me, answering that call is one of the most meaningful things you can do. Whether it’s walking someone through a stressful situation, standing up for someone when it’s easier to stay quiet, or just making space for someone to exist without having to justify themselves, I want to be that person. I don’t always get it right. I have limits, and I’ve learned to honor them. Still, I believe deeply in the idea that we are responsible for one another. That kindness and action, even in small moments, ripple outward. I want to leave a place better than I found it. I don’t need credit; I just need to know that I tried.

Life doesn’t stop when everything falls apart. In 2023, I got a concussion that changed my entire life. I was in the middle of a career I had built from the ground up. I was a team lead in tech support, someone people came to for answers, someone known for being calm under pressure. But after the injury, I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t read or remember things. I couldn’t even do basic tasks without getting overwhelmed or exhausted. I lost my job. I lost my sense of identity. And for a while, I thought I had lost my future too. I didn’t bounce back quickly. There were months where I felt like I was failing every single day. But eventually, I realized I had to stop trying to be the person I used to be and start figuring out who I was now. That is what led me back to school. I joined a workforce retraining program in renewable energy. It wasn’t easy. I had to rebuild my confidence while also learning how to function in a classroom again. Some days, I felt proud just for showing up. But I kept going. I earned certifications. I found new ways to learn. I found new ways to be proud of myself. I used to think of success as a job title or a salary. Now, I think of success as surviving something that could have broken me and deciding I still want to help other people anyway. Before the injury, I mentored dozens of people into promotions and created training programs to help them grow. I was proud of that. But I don’t think I really understood what resilience meant until I had to learn it myself. I had always been a helper, someone who offered support from a place of strength. After the injury, I had to learn to help from a different place, one that was more honest. I couldn’t always fix things, but I could sit with people in the hard moments. I could say, me too. I’m still here. And I believe you can get through this too. Since coming back to school, I’ve volunteered my time tutoring classmates and answering questions whenever someone is too afraid to ask. I’ve helped others build their resumes and applications, just like I used to do at work. I’ve spoken up in student forums and surveys to make sure the needs of students like me (older students, disabled students, students coming back after life knocked them down) don’t get overlooked. Every time I help someone else feel like they belong, I feel like I belong a little more too. There are still days when I get scared. I don’t know what my brain will be like ten years from now. I don’t know what my job will be or where I’ll live. But I know that I want to keep trying. I want to be someone who helps others make it through whatever they’re facing, whether it’s confusion on an assignment or a much bigger loss. I want to build a life that is grounded in care, and in the belief that no one is too broken to be worthy of a future. I never expected to start over, but I am glad I did, and I am proud of who I am becoming.

My earliest memories are of my grandmother teaching me how to read. I was probably two years old, more mimicking the sounds than actually understanding the words, but she was so proud of me. I honestly can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to read. I can’t remember who I was without it. Books have shaped how I see the world and how I see myself. I remember reading The Giver as a kid and being completely taken in by it. The quiet resistance, the questions it asked; it stuck with me. Later on, I read Night by Elie Wiesel in school and called my mom afterward, crying on the phone because it felt like too much to hold. I remember trying to read Pride and Prejudice and just not getting it, then watching the BBC mini-series, going back to the book, and reading it again until something clicked. That book ended up becoming one of my favorites. It taught me that if a book doesn’t make sense the first time, it doesn’t mean it’s not for you. Sometimes it just needs more time. Reading has always been my way in. It helped me figure out who I was, growing up queer and trans in places where that wasn’t exactly welcome. It helped me understand other people’s lives and opened up ways of thinking I never would’ve gotten from the world around me. Books have been my comfort and my compass. That’s why it was so hard when I couldn’t read anymore. I got a concussion in July 2023, and suddenly reading hurt. Physically. Every word felt like too much. I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t follow the page. I’ve had hard things happen in my life, but this one cut deep in a different way. I didn’t just lose an activity. I lost my main way of processing the world. The one thing that had always helped me through. Eventually, I started coming back to it. Slowly. I had to work at it. I still do. But now every time I get through a chapter, I feel grateful. Every time I can read without pain, it feels like a win. When I found out I got the work-study job in the college library, I was over the moon. Walking into that space every day still makes me smile. I get to be surrounded by books again, and by people who care about them the way I do. I shelve, I sort, I help other students find what they need. It’s simple, but it means a lot to me. I don’t know exactly where I’m headed yet, but I know that reading and learning will be a part of it. Whether I end up working in libraries, writing, or becoming a policy person who never forgets the power of a story, I want to keep helping people find what they need through books. Reading helped me find myself. It helped me heal. And it reminds me, every day, that change is possible, even if it starts small. One person. One book. One story at a time.

My greatest achievement so far has been returning to school after a traumatic head injury and recommitting myself to learning with more focus and purpose than I have ever had before. In July 2023, I suffered a head injury that shook every part of my life. I lost my job in May 2024 after months of struggling to keep up with work while trying to heal. My sense of identity, which had been built on being reliable, capable, and the person others turned to for help, crumbled. I had been working full-time since I was a teenager. I put myself through community college while working 40 to 60 hours a week. I built a strong career in customer service, team leadership, and quality assurance. Suddenly, none of that seemed to matter. I could not work. I could barely remember things, focus on tasks, or even finish a sentence some days. I had no idea what came next. I enrolled in Clackamas Community College in fall 2024, terrified that my brain would not be able to keep up. I thought I might fail out, or worse, that I would be stuck in the same limbo I had lived in since the injury. But what I found instead was the beginning of something I had not expected: a new path forward. Returning to school gave me something I did not know I needed, permission to slow down and fully focus on learning. It reconnected me with a part of myself I had buried under years of survival-mode thinking. I remembered how much I love asking questions, how curious I am about the world, and how driven I am when I believe in something. I threw myself into my classes. I showed up early. I asked questions. I stayed late to talk to professors. For the first time in my life, I made school my priority. This experience taught me that I am capable of rebuilding from the ground up, even when it feels impossible. It also taught me that it is okay to ask for help. I have always been fiercely independent, mostly out of necessity. I grew up low-income, queer, and trans in rural Louisiana and later in a small town in Illinois. I never expected help to come, so I learned to figure things out on my own. But the truth is, no one gets through this alone. I am learning to let people in and let them support me, whether that is a professor, a classmate, or a scholarship committee willing to invest in my future. Looking ahead, my biggest goal is to study politics, economics, and social thought in a global context. I have been accepted to Anglo-American University in Prague and plan to transfer there in the fall. I want to understand how societies shape policy, how inequality persists, and what it takes to build systems that actually serve people. I believe deeply in public service and policy change, but I also know that those things cannot be done in isolation. They require knowledge, experience, and the kind of perspective that comes from seeing the world through a wider lens. Long-term, I hope to work in government or nonprofit policy development, ideally in a country where I can live safely and openly as a transgender man. I want to help build systems that protect the most vulnerable because I have been one of them. I know what it means to need help and not know where to find it. I want to make sure someone else does not feel that way. This scholarship would help me continue down a path I was not sure I would ever find again. It would be more than financial support. It would be a vote of confidence that my future is still possible and worth pursuing.

My name is Reed Wilder, and I am a full-time student at Clackamas Community College working toward my associate’s degree before transferring to study politics and social thought. I returned to school after a head injury and job loss forced me to rethink everything about my future. What once felt like an ending has become the foundation for something new: a career in public service, grounded in equity, accountability, and care. I grew up in Louisiana and rural Illinois, where resources were limited and opportunities were even harder to find. I am transgender, and for most of my life, I did not see a future where someone like me could live openly, let alone thrive. I spent years working in customer service and management, helping others navigate complicated systems and advocating for marginalized voices wherever I could. I built training programs, supported colleagues in career growth, and worked with diversity teams to make workplaces safer for queer and trans people. I am proud of that work, but I knew I wanted to do more than help one person at a time. I wanted to help change the systems themselves. Education is what makes that possible. For the first time in my life, I am able to focus fully on school, and I am committed to making the most of that opportunity. I plan to use my degree to work in local government or nonprofit advocacy, helping underserved communities gain better access to housing, public services, and mental health care. My dream is to build programs that actually reflect the needs of the people they serve. Especially, for people like me who have spent too long feeling invisible in the process. This scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of continuing my education, it would also be a reminder that my goals are valid and worth fighting for. Like Mark Green and LaTonya Green, I believe in the power of education to shift entire lives. I know what it feels like to start from behind, and I know how much it matters to have someone believe in you. If selected, I will carry this opportunity forward with purpose. I will keep showing up for my community, for my classmates, and for those who are still waiting for their chance to be seen. I want to build a future that honors everyone who made it possible for me to get here, and I want to help others do the same.

I want to build a life that feels like mine. For a long time, survival came first. I moved through jobs, homes, and systems that were not made for someone like me, trying to make things work anyway. I got good at adapting and helping others through the same struggles, but I never really had the chance to build something lasting for myself. Now that I do, I plan to take that seriously. At the center of what I want to build is education. Not just degrees or credentials, but real learning. The kind that changes how I understand the world and gives me the tools to make a difference. I am working on finishing my associate’s degree right now and will be transferring to earn a bachelor’s in politics and social thought. That step represents more than a new chapter. It is the foundation for the future I want to create. I want to build a career in public service that focuses on access, transparency, and equity. I know what it feels like to fall through the cracks. I have seen what happens when systems are designed without care for the people they are supposed to serve. I want to change that. Whether I am working on housing policy, mental health access, or community support, I want to create solutions that center people who have been ignored or excluded. At the same time, I want to build a life rooted in safety and belonging. As a transgender man, I have spent years trying to find a place where I can live fully and openly without fear. That is still a work in progress, but every step I take toward that future through learning, advocacy, and connection feels like building something real beneath me. What I am building is not just for myself. I want to create space for others to build too. When people see that it is possible to start over, to imagine something better, and to move toward it with purpose, that is when real change becomes possible. I want to be part of that, and I want the life I build to make that path a little easier for the next person who needs it.

I did not grow up thinking I would end up in public service. I just knew I wanted things to be different. I wanted to feel safe. I wanted to see people like me represented. I wanted systems that actually worked for the people they claimed to serve. Over time, I realized those wants were not abstract. They were connected to policy, to funding, to leadership. They were about power and who had access to it. That realization lit a fire in me. My path has not been traditional. I worked for years in customer service and management, helping people navigate systems that were often confusing and unfair. I got good at finding the real issue under the surface, and I became the person others came to when they felt stuck. I found purpose in that. But I also found limits. I could help one person at a time, maybe a team or a department, but I could not change the system itself. That has always been what I wanted. Public service gives me the chance to use everything I have learned so far and apply it to something bigger than myself. I want to work in policy and local government, focusing on equity, access, and community-centered solutions. My lived experience gives me a perspective that is often missing in the rooms where decisions are made. I know what it feels like to need help and not know where to turn. I know what it is like to feel invisible in the systems that are supposed to serve you. I want to make sure other people do not have to go through that. Education is a key part of that plan. Through my coursework, I want to gain a stronger foundation in economics, social policy, and political theory. I want to understand how local systems work so I can figure out how to make them better. But I also want to build relationships with people who are just as committed to change as I am. Collaboration matters. Community matters. I want to take what I learn and bring it back to the places that shaped me. My goal is not to fix everything. That would be impossible. But I do believe in practical, meaningful change. I want to work on housing policy that takes the actual needs of tenants into account. I want to advocate for clearer access to mental health support. I want to create programs that help people navigate the bureaucratic maze without losing their dignity. These are not abstract goals. They are rooted in real experiences and real needs. Public service is not just a career choice for me. It is a commitment to the kind of world I want to live in. I am not looking for prestige or power. I am looking for impact. I want to do good work with my name attached, and I want that work to matter.

I didn’t used to think much about mental health. It always felt like something for people with time and money, not something I was allowed to prioritize. I grew up surviving, trying to stay safe, trying to stay invisible, trying to figure things out on my own. But over time, that kind of constant pressure takes a toll, even if you don’t want to admit it. I’ve had to start over a few times. After a head injury last year, I lost my job and had to completely reimagine what my life was going to look like. That kind of loss hits hard--not just financially, but emotionally. I didn’t know what I could still do, or if I’d ever get back to feeling like myself. School became a lifeline, not because it was easy, but because it gave me structure, something to work toward, and a way to believe in a future again. As a student, I’ve learned that mental health isn’t separate from academics, it’s deeply connected. If I’m overwhelmed, grieving, anxious, or burned out, it affects everything: how I focus, how I participate, how I connect with people. So I try to be honest about it. With myself, first and foremost. But also with classmates, professors, and the people in my life. I advocate for mental health by showing up as I am. I don’t pretend to have it all together. I ask for extensions when I need them, and I encourage others to do the same without guilt. I’ve had conversations with classmates about burnout and stress, about the pressure to always be “on,” and about how hard it can be to even get through the day sometimes. Just naming those things out loud can be powerful. It reminds people they’re not alone. When I can, I share resources; whether that’s info about on-campus counseling, tips for managing executive dysfunction, or even just how I’ve dealt with a rough patch. I also listen. Sometimes what people need most is someone to hear them without judgment or trying to fix it. Mental health is something I have to work at every day. I’m still figuring out what I need and how to ask for it. But I believe that students deserve to feel supported. Not just for their grades, but as whole people, and if I can make things even a little bit easier for someone else, then it’s worth speaking up.

Being a first-generation college student shapes almost everything about how I see education and my future. I wasn’t raised to expect this path. For most of my life, survival was the goal, not opportunity. I didn’t grow up hearing about college admissions or what a degree could open up. I had to figure that out on my own. I learned how to enroll, how to balance school and work, and how to stay motivated when no one around me really understood what I was doing or why. That kind of experience changes how you move through the world. It also makes you pay attention to who gets left out and why. I know how hard it is to find your footing in systems that were not built with people like me in mind. That is part of why I want to work in public service. I don’t just want to study policy. I want to make it better. I want to help build systems that are easier to navigate, more compassionate, and more focused on the people who are doing everything they can but still keep falling through the cracks. For me, being first-gen is not just a personal detail. It is a huge part of why I care so deeply about access, representation, and fairness. I have seen what it looks like to work hard and still not know if you are going to make it. That is why I want to be someone who not only holds the door open for others but also helps change the structure so more people can walk through it in the first place.

When I was a kid growing up in Louisiana, I used to read encyclopedias just to pass the time. I didn’t always understand what I was reading, but I kept coming back to the same feeling. If I could understand how the world came to be the way it is, maybe I could find a place in it. I’m a transgender man who has spent most of his life in places where I didn’t really feel safe, and for a long time, I thought survival was all I could aim for. But I’ve always been someone who wants to understand the bigger picture. What shapes a society? Who gets left out, and why? What can we learn from how people before us tried to build something better? Right now I’m finishing my associate’s degree at Clackamas Community College. This fall, I’ll be starting a Politics and Society program at Anglo-American University in Prague. It’s been a long road to get here. In 2023, I had a head injury that forced me to slow down and re-learn how to manage my energy and focus. In 2024, I lost my job, and I wasn’t sure what would come next. But even when things felt unstable, I never stopped learning. I kept thinking about how systems fail people, and how different things might look if we truly understood where those systems came from in the first place. I want to work in public service, especially in social policy and human rights. I’ve watched the ground shift under people like me, especially over the past few years, and I know how quickly things can change. But I’ve also seen how powerful it is when people understand history and how it connects to the present. That kind of awareness can shape better decisions, not just at the policy level but in how we treat each other every day. Studying political science and history in Prague gives me the chance to see these ideas in action. The city itself has lived through revolution, empire, and democracy. That kind of environment opens up new ways to think about what makes a society strong or fragile. I want to take those lessons and use them to help create policies that are rooted in context and care. My goal is to make sure that the people who are usually left out of the conversation are finally being heard. This scholarship would help me keep pushing forward. I don’t just want to study these subjects. I want to use what I learn to help build something better. The past holds answers we still haven’t fully listened to, and I want to be someone who helps connect those dots.

I never expected a head injury to change the course of my life, but in July 2023, everything shifted. One day, I was working, managing teams, solving problems, and pushing for change in my workplace. The next, I was struggling to remember basic tasks, losing my train of thought mid-sentence, and feeling like a stranger in my own mind. I had built my entire identity around what I could do, how I could help others, how I could make systems better. Suddenly, I could not even trust my own brain. At first, I was consumed by frustration. I had spent years moving up in my career, mentoring people, and creating policies that actually made a difference. I had worked hard to get where I was, only to have it all slip away in an instant. When I lost my job, I lost my sense of purpose. But in that emptiness, I started asking myself a question I had never allowed before. What do I actually want? For years, I had been drawn to politics and social policy. I had spent my career fixing inefficiencies in companies, but I had always wanted to do more, to fix things that mattered on a larger scale. The problem was, I never thought it was possible. Going back to school felt out of reach, something for other people, not someone like me. But after losing everything I had worked for, I realized the only way forward was to rebuild from the ground up. I started small, enrolling in a renewable energy training program. It was a way to push myself, to prove I could still learn. The more I studied, the more I felt that hunger for knowledge return. I was not just capable, I was thriving. For the first time, I allowed myself to believe I could pursue what I truly cared about. That injury, as devastating as it was, forced me to stop settling. It made me realize I did not want to just make companies more efficient. I wanted to understand how policies shape lives, how systems fail people, and how I could be part of the solution. Now, I am ready to fully dedicate myself to that pursuit. Losing my old path gave me the chance to carve out a new one, one that feels more like me than anything I have done before.

For most of my life, I didn’t see a future for myself. I grew up in Louisiana, a place that never felt like home, where I was expected to be someone I wasn’t. I knew I was different, but I didn’t have the words for it. What I did have was a deep, unshakable feeling that I didn’t belong. I spent years trying to disappear, keeping my head down, blending in. It wasn’t until I left that I started to understand who I was and what I wanted from life. At eighteen, I found myself in the middle of nowhere Illinois, stuck in a dead-end town with no prospects and no way out. I was working retail jobs, barely making ends meet, and the idea of a future felt impossible. But I refused to accept that this was all there was. I saved up what I could and moved across the country to Oregon. It was the first time I had ever chosen myself. Oregon gave me space to breathe, to explore, to become. It is where I transitioned, where I started building a life that was my own. I worked full time while taking community college classes, squeezing in coursework between shifts, exhaustion pressing down on me. But I loved learning. Even when I had to put school on the back burner, it stayed with me, this hunger to know more, to understand the world and my place in it. For years, I built a career in customer service, moving from front-line roles to leadership positions. I took pride in developing people, helping them see their own potential when they couldn’t. I created training programs, mentored teams, and pushed for change in my workplaces. The higher I climbed though, the more I felt the weight of expectation, to prioritize profits over people. I wanted more than that, I wanted work that meant something. Then, everything fell apart. In July 2023, I suffered a head injury. I lost my job, my sense of identity, my independence. I had always defined myself by what I could do, and suddenly, I couldn’t do anything. I spent months struggling through brain fog, memory issues, and a crushing sense of failure. I had to learn patience with myself, to accept that healing wasn’t linear. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Somewhere in that darkness, I found clarity. I realized that I didn’t want to keep chasing jobs just to survive. I wanted to dedicate myself to something bigger, to go back to school, to finally put my education first. I joined a training program in renewable energy, dipping my toes back into learning, and it reignited something in me. I started believing I could have a future Now, I am ready to take the leap. I want to study politics and social policy, to understand how systems shape people’s lives and how we can make them better. My dream is to work in public service, to use everything I have learned about resilience, about change, about people, to make an impact. More than anything, I want to build a life where I can be safe. I know what it is like to exist in places that were never meant for me, to always look over my shoulder, to feel like I have to fight just to be seen as worthy of dignity. For the first time, I am not just surviving. I am fighting for the life I want—one where I don’t have to justify my existence, where I can build something lasting, where I can finally feel safe.

I have always been passionate about learning, but for most of my life, education had to take a backseat to work and survival. I attended community college while working full time, fitting in classes whenever I could, but I never had the opportunity to fully dedicate myself to my studies. After experiencing a head injury in 2023 and being laid off in 2024, I found myself at a crossroads. Instead of viewing it as a setback, I saw it as a chance to finally prioritize my education, something I have dreamed of doing for years. This scholarship would help me continue on that path. I am currently enrolled in the RENEW-IT training program at Clackamas Community College, where I am learning about green energy and renewable technologies. This program has given me hands-on experience and a sense of direction, showing me how I can contribute to a field that is both stable and impactful. However, my aspirations go beyond job training. I want to pursue higher education in politics, economics, and social thought to better understand how policy shapes industries, influences communities, and determines who gets access to opportunities. I have spent much of my career working in customer service, management, and quality assurance, and I have seen firsthand how financial systems and regulations affect everyday people. Studying these subjects will allow me to take that understanding further, shifting from frontline experience to a more active role in creating policies that improve people’s lives. For years, I put my education on hold because I felt like it was impossible to balance school with financial stability. Even when I took classes, they had to fit around my work schedule, which meant I was never able to focus fully on learning. This scholarship would provide crucial financial support, allowing me to finally prioritize my studies instead of treating them as something I squeeze into the margins of my life. More than that, it would be a validation of my decision to invest in myself and my future. I have always been someone who believes in helping others succeed, whether through coaching my employees, advocating for more inclusive workplace policies, or developing training programs that set people up for growth. Now, I am finally allowing myself the same opportunity to grow. Education is not just about career advancement for me. It is about regaining a sense of self after years of putting other responsibilities first. It is about proving to myself that I can be more than I ever thought possible. This scholarship would be a stepping stone in that journey, giving me the opportunity to continue learning, develop new skills, and create a future that reflects my values and aspirations.

I plan to turn my dreams into reality by taking deliberate steps to build the knowledge, skills, and experiences necessary to achieve my goals. I have always believed that ambition alone is not enough. Success comes from action, persistence, and a willingness to adapt when challenges arise. Rather than waiting for opportunities to come to me, I am actively creating a path forward. Education is the foundation of my plan. For years, I balanced full-time work with part-time classes, but I never had the chance to fully commit to my studies. After being laid off in 2024, I recognized that I could no longer afford to put my education on hold. Enrolling in the RENEW-IT program at Clackamas Community College was my first step toward building practical skills in the green energy field while preparing to transfer to a four-year institution. I see this as more than just a degree. It is a chance to gain the knowledge I need to create real change in the world. Beyond academics, I am focused on gaining hands-on experience that aligns with my career aspirations. I know that making an impact requires more than just theoretical understanding. It requires direct engagement with the systems I want to improve. Whether through internships, research opportunities, or community projects, I am committed to applying what I learn in ways that prepare me for the work I want to do. I am particularly interested in policy and social change, and I plan to seek out opportunities that allow me to contribute to meaningful discussions about equity, accessibility, and sustainable development. Networking and mentorship are also key to my strategy. I have always valued learning from others, whether through formal mentorship or simply observing and listening to those who have experience in my areas of interest. I plan to connect with professors, professionals, and advocates who share my passion for social change. Building these relationships will not only help me refine my goals but also provide insight into the practical steps I need to take to make them a reality. Persistence will be essential in this process. I know that setbacks are inevitable, but I am not someone who gives up easily. My experiences with disability, job loss, and personal challenges have taught me resilience. Each obstacle I have faced has only reinforced my commitment to finding solutions and moving forward. I see every challenge as an opportunity to learn, grow, and refine my approach. Ultimately, my dream is not just about personal success. I want to use what I learn to contribute to a better world. Whether through policy work, advocacy, or direct community engagement, I want to help create systems that are more just, sustainable, and inclusive. My path will not be easy, but I am committed to putting in the work, making strategic decisions, and staying focused on the impact I want to make. By taking each step with intention and purpose, I am turning my dreams into reality, one step at a time.

I plan to make a positive impact on the world by using my experiences, skills, and education to create meaningful change in the communities I serve. Throughout my career, I have been dedicated to making systems more equitable and effective, whether that meant advocating for better policies, mentoring others, or streamlining processes to ensure fairness. Now, as I pursue my education, I want to expand that impact beyond the workplace and into broader social and political change. One of the most important ways I plan to make a difference is through policy and advocacy work. I have seen firsthand how bureaucracy and outdated systems create unnecessary barriers for marginalized communities, especially transgender people. While working at Airbnb, I helped improve the name change process for transgender customers, ensuring that people like me would not have to jump through endless hoops just to have their identities recognized. That experience reinforced my belief that change is possible, even in large institutions, when the right people push for it. Beyond that, I have always been passionate about mentorship and workforce development. At Cash App, I helped my team build the skills they needed to move into higher roles, ensuring that they had the knowledge and confidence to succeed. I believe that true impact comes from lifting others up, not just advancing on my own. I want to continue that work by helping people from underserved backgrounds access education, career opportunities, and the support they need to thrive. Pursuing a degree in politics and social thought will give me the tools to take my advocacy further. I want to understand the systems that shape our world, analyze the policies that create inequality, and develop solutions that lead to lasting change. Whether I work in government, nonprofit organizations, or policy research, my goal is to ensure that the people most affected by decisions have a voice in shaping them. Education is the foundation of that impact. By investing in my own learning, I will be better equipped to challenge injustices, propose effective solutions, and advocate for policies that create a fairer world. I want to use my knowledge and lived experience to help bridge the gap between policy and real-life impact, ensuring that changes made on paper translate to tangible benefits for those who need them most. Ultimately, making a positive impact means being an active participant in change rather than waiting for someone else to fix the problems I see. It means pushing back against systems that exclude people like me, advocating for a more just society, and ensuring that future generations do not have to face the same struggles. I am committed to doing that work, and I know that my education will be a key part of making it happen.

Anxiety has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, shaping the way I approach challenges, relationships, and even my sense of self. It has made me hyper-aware of my surroundings, constantly analyzing situations and preparing for worst-case scenarios. At times, that has been exhausting, making even simple tasks feel overwhelming. But over the years, I have also learned how to manage it, how to recognize when my thoughts are spiraling, and how to ground myself in what is real rather than what my anxiety tells me might happen. One of the biggest ways anxiety has affected me is in how I approach change. I have always been the kind of person who wants to have a plan, to know what comes next, and to feel like I am in control of my path. Losing my job in 2024 and struggling with the aftermath of a head injury forced me to confront that need for stability in a way I never had before. I had to sit with the uncertainty, not knowing what my next step would be, and figure out how to move forward despite it. That experience reinforced why pursuing a college degree is so important to me. For years, I put my education on hold, choosing work over school because it felt like the more stable and responsible choice. I told myself that I would go back eventually, but there was always another obligation, another reason to wait. When I lost my job, I realized that waiting had only kept me in a cycle where I was always prioritizing survival over growth. Going back to school is my way of breaking that cycle. It is a chance to invest in myself fully for the first time, to learn without constantly feeling like I have to juggle everything at once. Education has always been something I valued, but I never allowed myself to fully commit to it. Now, I see it as the key to building the future I want. Anxiety still plays a role in this process. I worry about whether I am making the right choices, whether I will be able to balance everything, whether I am good enough to succeed. But I also know that I have pushed through difficult situations before and come out stronger. I know that I am capable of more than I often give myself credit for. Earning a college degree is not just about career opportunities or financial stability, though those are important. It is about proving to myself that I can do this, that I am not limited by the circumstances I have faced. It is about taking control of my future in a way I never have before. This time, I am not letting anxiety dictate my decisions. I am choosing to move forward, to learn, and to create a life that reflects my ambitions rather than my fears.

Mental health has shaped so much of my life, from how I see the world to how I approach relationships and what I want to do with my career. It has affected me directly, but it has also shaped the lives of people I care about. Seeing how mental health struggles impact individuals and entire families has made me more empathetic, more aware of how systems fail people, and more determined to be part of something that actually makes a difference. For me, mental health has never been something separate from everything else. It is not just about individual choices or effort. It is about access to healthcare, financial stability, safe environments, and having people who actually care. I have struggled at different points in my life, and I have seen how much harder it is when resources are unavailable or when stigma keeps people from reaching out. I have also watched people I love go through their own struggles, sometimes feeling trapped by circumstances beyond their control. Whether it is untreated mental health conditions due to lack of access or the stress of constantly having to push forward without support, I have seen how these struggles ripple through families and communities. One of the biggest lessons I have learned is how isolating mental health struggles can be. It can feel like something you have to carry alone, whether because of stigma or because you do not want to be a burden to others. I have had moments where I felt like I had to handle everything by myself, and I have seen people I care about do the same. But I have also seen how much of a difference it makes when you do have support. Having even one person who listens, who understands, who reminds you that you are not alone can change everything. That is why I try to be that kind of person for others. I know what it feels like to struggle, and if I can help someone else carry that weight, even just a little, I want to. These experiences have shaped my career goals as well. I have spent years in customer service, workforce development, and quality assurance, and in every role, I have seen how much workplace policies and larger systems impact mental health. I have worked to create fairer evaluation processes, improve training programs, and ensure that employees feel supported rather than punished when they struggle. Those experiences reinforced my belief that systemic change is necessary and that even small shifts in policies and structures can make a huge difference in people’s lives. That is why I want to move into public service. I want to push for fairness, help people who have been overlooked, and challenge systems that make life harder than it needs to be. Mental health is directly tied to access to opportunities, support, and the ability to live life without unnecessary barriers. I want to be part of breaking those barriers down.

My Experience in the LGBTQ+ Community and My Career Goals Being part of the LGBTQ+ community has shaped who I am in ways that go beyond identity. It has influenced my values, my resilience, and my determination to make things better for the people who come after me. Growing up in Louisiana, I often felt like an outsider for wanting to be myself. Later, when I moved to Illinois, I was stuck in a place that offered few opportunities to find community or even imagine a future where I could live authentically. It was not until I moved to Oregon that I finally felt a sense of belonging, and even then, navigating the world as a transgender person has never been simple. One of the most impactful experiences I have had as a trans person was working at Airbnb and advocating for changes that made life easier for transgender employees and customers. I was HR’s test case for the internal name change process and worked closely with the company’s queer employee resource group to push for better policies. I also led a town hall where I shared my experiences transitioning, hoping to foster understanding and make things easier for those who came after me. One of the most frustrating moments of my transition was trying to change my name and pronouns as a customer on the platform. I had to go through multiple call center agents, none of whom knew how to help, and it became clear that there was no established process. Instead of accepting that as just another frustrating experience, I worked with Airbnb’s diversity and inclusion team to create a streamlined, confidential way for trans customers to update their information. It was never about making things easier just for me—I wanted to ensure that future trans users would not have to fight the same battles. That same mindset carries over into my career aspirations. I have spent years in customer service, quality assurance, and workforce development, and my biggest takeaway has been that systems and policies shape people’s experiences far more than individual effort alone. That is why I want to move into public service, where I can work on policies that make life better for marginalized communities. Whether it is through advocacy, policy work, or workforce development, I want to be in a position where I can break down barriers, challenge outdated systems, and create opportunities for people who have been overlooked. My experiences in the LGBTQ+ community have made it clear to me that meaningful change is possible, but only if people are willing to push for it. I want to be one of those people.

My experience with mental health has shaped just about every part of my life. It has changed how I see the world, how I approach relationships, and what I want to do with my career. I have had to navigate my own struggles while also supporting others, which has made me more empathetic, more aware of how much systems impact people, and more determined to be part of something that actually makes a difference. I do not see mental health as something separate from everything else. It is not just about individual effort or mindset. It is about access to healthcare, financial stability, safe environments, and having people who actually care. I have seen how hard it can be for people to get the support they need, whether because of stigma, lack of resources, or policies that do not take mental health seriously. That has made me passionate about public service and about making sure mental health is treated as a real priority instead of something people are just expected to deal with on their own. My relationships have been shaped by this too. I have learned how important it is to surround myself with people who are supportive and understanding, and I have gotten better at setting boundaries when I need to. At the same time, I try to be the kind of person others can rely on, especially when they are struggling. I know what it is like to feel like you are carrying everything by yourself, and I do not want anyone I care about to feel that way if I can help it. In my career, my experiences with mental health have made me gravitate toward roles where I can advocate for fairness and make things better for other people. I have spent years in customer service, workforce development, and quality assurance, and all of that has given me a real understanding of how policies and structures impact people. I want to be in a position where I can push for fairness, help people who have been overlooked, and challenge systems that make life harder than it needs to be. My passion for public service comes from knowing that mental health is not something separate from everything else—it is directly tied to whether people have access to opportunities, support, and the ability to live their lives without unnecessary barriers. I want to be part of breaking those barriers down.

LGBTQIA+ experiences have shaped nearly every aspect of my life, influencing not only my personal identity but also my career, education, and sense of purpose. Growing up in Louisiana, I often felt like an outsider, not just because of my interests but because I didn’t see anyone like me reflected in the world around me. I knew I was different, but I didn’t have the language or the support to understand what that meant. It wasn’t until I moved to Oregon that I was able to begin living authentically as a transgender person. Even then, the road was far from easy. My transition—both socially and legally—was a constant battle against bureaucracy, confusion, and bias. Updating my name and gender marker felt like an impossible task. At every turn, there were roadblocks: call center agents who didn’t understand the process, government offices that required documents I didn’t yet have, and systems that refused to acknowledge nonbinary identities. It was exhausting to advocate for myself repeatedly, to explain why this process mattered, why it wasn’t just paperwork but something that defined my ability to move through the world safely. When I worked at Airbnb, I saw firsthand how these barriers extended beyond government systems and into private companies. Customers and employees alike struggled to update their names and pronouns in Airbnb’s system, often encountering the same confusion I had faced. I decided to take action. I became the test case for the company’s HR department, helping them figure out how to update employee records in a way that respected trans employees’ privacy. I later helped streamline the process for customers as well, ensuring that no one else had to endure the same frustration I did. Through this work, I saw the direct impact that thoughtful, inclusive policies could have on people’s lives. But the challenges of being transgender go beyond bureaucratic hurdles. There is the ever-present reality of being visibly trans in a world that doesn’t always welcome that. I have been misgendered, dismissed, and underestimated in professional settings. I have had to work twice as hard to prove myself in workplaces that weren’t always designed with people like me in mind. At the same time, I have found incredible strength and resilience in my community. I’ve connected with other trans people who have faced similar struggles, and together, we have supported each other in navigating a world that often feels stacked against us. These experiences have fueled my passion for public service. I know what it’s like to be up against a system that wasn’t built for you. I know how it feels to be left out of the conversation, to have to fight for basic recognition and respect. That is why I want to dedicate my career to changing these systems, making them more inclusive and accessible for everyone. Whether through policy, advocacy, or direct service, I want to ensure that the barriers I faced don’t exist for the next generation. More than anything, my LGBTQIA+ experiences have taught me the power of visibility. When I was younger, I didn’t see people like me in leadership positions, in government, or even just living openly and happily. Now, I understand that simply existing as my authentic self is an act of resistance and hope. I want to use my experiences to uplift others, to advocate for policies that protect and empower marginalized communities, and to ensure that no one else has to fight as hard just to be seen.

My story is not about grand ambitions or chasing after something extraordinary. It is about survival, resilience, and the desire to carve out a space in the world where I can simply exist without fear. I do not dream of wealth or power. My dreams are small, but they are deeply meaningful. I want to live in a world that takes care of people. I want to go to a job I love, come home, and not have to brace myself for whatever comes next. I want to take all the energy I have spent on anxiety and stress and pour it into love and creation. More than anything, I just want to breathe. For much of my life, I have fought against systems that were not built for people like me. As a transgender person, I have seen how policies fail the people they are meant to serve. I have had to advocate for myself in workplaces, healthcare settings, and everyday life just to have my identity recognized. I have also watched others struggle, falling through the cracks because the structures around them were not designed with them in mind. That is why I have spent my career working to make things better, whether by mentoring my team, advocating for more inclusive workplace policies, or helping improve processes that made life easier for someone else. But in 2023, everything changed. I suffered a head injury, and the world as I knew it suddenly felt unfamiliar. Tasks that once felt effortless became overwhelming. My sense of self, built on my ability to push forward no matter what, began to unravel. Then in 2024, I lost my job. After years of helping others navigate difficult situations, I found myself lost in a system that had no clear answers for me. I had to fight for support, push through endless obstacles, and constantly prove I was still worth investing in. It was exhausting. It still is. Yet, through all of this, my dreams have remained the same. I do not want to be defined by struggle, but I also do not want to forget what it has taught me. I know what it feels like to be left behind, to be scared, to feel like there is no safety net waiting to catch you. That is why I want to work in a field where I can make even the smallest difference in someone’s life. Whether through policy, advocacy, community work, or simply being someone who listens and helps, I want to spend my days making sure that fewer people feel the way I have felt. I used to think that dreams had to be big to matter, that I had to change the world in some dramatic way for my goals to be meaningful. But now I understand that change happens in small moments. It happens when someone feels safe for the first time in a long time. It happens when a system finally works the way it is supposed to. It happens when someone gets the support they need without having to beg for it. Those are the moments I want to create. More than anything, I want to live a life where I am not constantly afraid. I want to come home at the end of the day and feel at peace. I want to take all the fear and uncertainty I have carried for so long and turn it into something good. I do not need a perfect life. I just need one where I can keep showing up, keep helping, and finally, finally, be able to breathe.

My name is Reed Wilder, and my life has been shaped by the gaps in support systems. I have always been passionate about helping people navigate structures that were not designed for them, but that passion became deeply personal after I suffered a head injury in 2023 and was laid off in 2024. For the first time, I found myself on the other side, struggling to find the resources I needed. I had spent years helping others access support, whether through career development, policy advocacy, or workplace improvements, but when I needed help, I realized how difficult it was to get answers. The experience solidified my commitment to ensuring that no one is left behind simply because they do not fit neatly into a system’s predefined categories. Throughout my career, I have worked to bridge these gaps. As a leader and workforce development advocate, I helped my team members find career opportunities they did not think were possible. I revised hiring processes, coached employees through promotions, and advocated for better policies that made advancement more accessible. At Airbnb, I helped improve the name change process for transgender customers, making it easier for people to have their identities recognized without unnecessary stress. These experiences taught me that policies only work if they are designed with the people they serve in mind. Too often, well-intended support structures fail because they do not account for real-life obstacles. When I lost my job, I encountered many of these obstacles myself. I struggled to navigate unemployment benefits, found little guidance on workforce retraining programs, and had to advocate for myself at every turn. These challenges pushed me to enroll in the RENEW-IT program at Clackamas Community College, where I have been developing new skills in renewable energy. More than anything, though, the experience reinforced my belief that access to resources should not depend on privilege, prior knowledge, or sheer persistence. Communities should be designed to support people in times of need, not leave them to figure things out alone. As I move forward in my career, I want to focus on creating better policies, improving communication between institutions and individuals, and ensuring that no one is left out simply because they do not fit into a rigid framework. Whether through workforce development, public policy, or community advocacy, my goal is to make sure that people are not just told support exists, but that they can actually access it when they need it most. True progress happens when we design communities with people in mind, and that is the work I am committed to doing.

Empathy and understanding are built through action, not just intention. Throughout my career in leadership, workforce development, and advocacy, I have worked to ensure that people, especially those who are often overlooked, feel seen, supported, and valued. Whether it was helping my team members advance in their careers, advocating for fairer policies, or ensuring that a struggling employee had access to essential resources, I have always approached my work with a deep sense of responsibility toward others. One of the most important lessons I have learned is that systems are only as effective as their ability to reach the people they are meant to serve. A policy can exist, but if it is unclear, inaccessible, or difficult to navigate, it fails those who need it most. I experienced this firsthand when I worked with Airbnb’s internal teams to improve the name change process for transgender customers. What should have been a simple change required multiple calls, repeated explanations, and unnecessary stress. By collaborating with our diversity and inclusion group and refining internal processes, I helped create a more efficient and respectful experience. This taught me how much impact clear communication and thoughtful policy changes can have on people’s lives. Building a more empathetic and understanding global community requires addressing the structural gaps that allow people to fall through the cracks. Transportation, for example, is an area where inequity is often overlooked. Too many communities lack reliable, safe, and affordable ways to get around, especially outside major transportation hubs. Access to mobility is directly tied to economic opportunity, environmental impact, and quality of life, yet our infrastructure often fails to meet the needs of those who need it most. I believe that intentional urban planning, expanded public transit, and sustainable transportation solutions are necessary to create a more just and accessible world. I want to use my skills in policy analysis, communication, and advocacy to help bridge these gaps. My experience in workforce development has shown me that the right opportunities can change lives, but only if people can access them. Whether working to improve public transit, advocating for more inclusive infrastructure, or ensuring that policies are clearly communicated to the people they impact, I want to be part of the movement that makes systems work for everyone. True empathy is not just about understanding someone’s struggles. It is about taking action to remove barriers and create meaningful change. That is the work I have dedicated myself to, and that is the work I will continue to do to build a more inclusive, empathetic, and accessible world.

Books have always been about the story for me. I do not have a particularly visual mind, so when I read, I focus on the plot, characters, and dialogue rather than picturing scenes in my head. Because of this, film adaptations offer me something that books alone cannot. They help bridge the gap between my understanding of a story’s depth and its visual elements. No adaptation has done this more successfully for me than Pride and Prejudice. Every year, I revisit Pride and Prejudice in some form, either by rereading the book or rewatching one of its film adaptations. No matter how many times I return to it, I always find something new, whether it is an overlooked detail in the book’s dialogue or an unspoken exchange in the film that adds another layer to the characters. The 2005 film adaptation, in particular, holds a special place for me because it helps me experience the novel in ways that I could never fully grasp through text alone. One of the biggest challenges for me as a reader is understanding the subtleties of visual storytelling. Symbolism, costume design, and even the body language of characters often go unnoticed when I read. In the book, I know that Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy’s interactions are charged with tension, but I cannot always see the way they look at each other, the hesitation in their movements, or the weight of a single touch. The film makes all of this clear. I finally understand the full impact of a moment like Darcy’s hand flexing after helping Elizabeth into the carriage, an entirely wordless gesture that speaks volumes about his emotions. Likewise, the film brings to life details that I might skim over in the book. I read about Elizabeth’s muddy hem or the grandeur of Pemberley, but I do not picture them in my head. The film fills in those gaps. I see how Elizabeth’s world contrasts with Darcy’s and how these differences shape their relationship. The visuals make the social divide between them more tangible, reinforcing the novel’s themes in a way that stays with me long after the credits roll. However, what makes Pride and Prejudice truly special is that the book and film each enhance my appreciation for the other. The book allows for deeper character exploration, letting me sit with Elizabeth’s thoughts and understand her perspective more fully. Meanwhile, the film captures the emotions, the longing, and the weight of unspoken words that I might not pick up on in the text. Together, they create a fuller experience for me, one that I return to year after year, always discovering something new. For many, a film adaptation is a way to revisit a favorite story. For me, it is a way to see that story in a way I never could otherwise. Pride and Prejudice is not just a book or a movie. It is a story that continually reveals itself to me, no matter how many times I experience it.

I have always been drawn to work that allows me to help others, whether through leadership, mentorship, or structural improvements that make systems more effective. My career in customer service, quality assurance, and workforce development has given me firsthand experience in problem-solving, advocating for others, and ensuring fairness in decision-making. However, after years of working within corporate structures, I realized that I wanted to do more than improve internal processes. I wanted to contribute to broader systemic change. That realization led me to pursue a field focused on public service, policy, and social change. My interest in politics and policy comes from both professional experience and personal lived realities. As a transgender person in America, I have seen how policies, whether good or bad, directly affect people’s ability to live freely and with dignity. During my time at Airbnb, I worked to make the name change process more accessible for transgender users. This experience showed me how even a single policy change can have a meaningful impact on a marginalized group. I want to continue this kind of work but on a larger scale, ensuring that laws and policies support equity and inclusion rather than create unnecessary barriers. I also have a deep passion for workforce development and economic policy, largely influenced by my own career journey. Throughout my years in leadership, I prioritized helping others advance their careers by coaching, training, and mentoring. Seeing people thrive when given the right support reinforced my belief that systems should work for people, not against them. I want to advocate for policies that create real opportunities for individuals to build stable and fulfilling careers, especially for those who, like me, have faced setbacks and had to rebuild. My recent experiences have only strengthened my resolve to pursue this path. After suffering a head injury in 2023 and later losing my job, I struggled to regain my sense of direction. Enrolling in the RENEW-IT training program at Clackamas Community College helped me not only develop new skills but also reaffirm my commitment to lifelong learning. It reminded me that access to education, retraining, and career pathways is essential for economic mobility, something I hope to improve through policy work. Ultimately, my goal is to bridge the gap between policy and lived experience. Too often, decisions are made without considering the people most affected by them. With my background in problem-solving, training, and advocacy, I want to work in spaces where I can push for policies that are practical, equitable, and genuinely improve people’s lives. Whether through government, nonprofit work, or policy research, I aim to use my skills and experiences to contribute to a fairer and more just society. This is more than just a career shift for me. It is a personal commitment to making meaningful change. I know the power of opportunity, and I want to spend my life creating it for others.