At my high school graduation, two chairs sat empty. They should have been occupied by two of my friends. While my classmates celebrated years of hard work and looked ahead to their futures, I could not stop thinking about the people who should have been there beside us. Those empty chairs represented more than absence. They represented lives cut short, dreams left unfinished, and a painful reminder of the impact mental health struggles can have on individuals, families, and entire communities. The first friend I lost was one of my best friends from elementary school. She was also my neighbor. We grew up on the same street, and for years, I never imagined a day when she would not be there. During our sophomore year of high school, she died from a drug overdose. Looking back, there were signs that something wasn't right, but at the time, none of us understood how serious her struggles were. When I see her younger sisters outside, I immediately think of her, and I think about all the things she should have experienced but never got the chance to. The second friend I lost died the summer before our senior year of high school, after a suicide attempt that resulted in a car crash. What made it so hard to understand was that he never seemed like someone who was struggling. He was always joking around in class and making people laugh. No one saw it coming. It showed me that even the people closest to someone may not know what they are going through. His death taught me something I will never forget: you cannot always see what someone is carrying. For a long time, I felt like I had failed both of them. When I first started visiting their graves and memorial sites, I kept asking myself the same questions. Why didn't I notice? Could I have reached out more? Was there something I should have said? I carried that guilt for a long time. Eventually, I realized something important. Mental health struggles are complicated, and no one person can carry the weight of saving another person alone. That realization did not take away the sadness, but it taught me how to move forward. Instead of focusing on what I could not change, I decided to focus on how I could be a better friend, listener, and advocate for others. Since then, I have made it a point to check in on people, even when they seem fine. I have learned that a smile does not always mean someone is okay. Good grades do not mean someone is okay. Being funny does not mean someone is okay. Sometimes, it may be the people who appear the strongest who are the ones struggling the most. I helped support both families after their deaths. I donated money to help with burial expenses, brought flowers, and continue to visit them from time to time. On their birthdays, I take a moment to remember them and reflect on the impact they had on my life. Although they are gone, their influence remains with me every day. As someone from a Mexican family, these experiences also made me think about how mental health is discussed in Hispanic communities. In many families, people are taught to be strong and push through difficult situations rather than openly talk about their struggles. Both of the friends I lost were Hispanic, and their deaths showed me how important it is to create spaces where people feel comfortable asking for help. No one should feel like they have to suffer in silence. As someone who has often translated for family members, I also understand how language barriers can prevent people from accessing information and support. By combining Communications with Spanish, I hope to reach even more people who may otherwise feel disconnected from the resources available to them. My friends' deaths showed me what can happen when people feel unable to express what they are going through, which is why I am drawn to Communications. To me, communication is not just about delivering information; it is about making people feel heard. I want to use my education to advocate for people who feel overlooked and connect them with resources and support before they reach a crisis point. Everyone deserves to know that their voice matters and that someone is willing to listen. I also hope to reach Hispanic communities where conversations about mental health can sometimes be difficult. After my friends passed away, I saw how cultural expectations and stigma often made these conversations harder. Too often, men are expected to stay strong and keep their emotions to themselves, while women may be told they are overreacting or being too emotional. These attitudes can discourage people from seeking help when they need it most. Through Communications, I hope to help create conversations that make people feel safe asking for support instead of suffering in silence. The two empty chairs at my graduation changed the way I see the world. They remind me that mental health struggles can affect anyone and that we never truly know what someone may be facing. They remind me to check on my friends, to listen more carefully, and never to assume someone is okay simply because they look okay. I cannot change what happened to my friends, but I will always wish they were sitting in those chairs beside me. What I can do is honor their memory by checking in on others, encouraging conversations about mental health, and using my education to advocate for people who feel unheard. If I can help even one person feel seen, supported, or comfortable enough to ask for help, I hope it helps create a world where fewer chairs at graduation are left empty.

Going to college means becoming a bridge between worlds. As a first-generation college student raised in a Mexican household, higher education represents more than earning a degree. It represents the opportunity to turn the responsibility I carried growing up into a lifelong purpose of helping others feel understood, included, and empowered. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting beside my grandmother in waiting rooms, classrooms, and offices, translating conversations I was still learning to understand. Spanish was the language of home, comfort, and family, while English was the language of systems we had to navigate. I translated medical instructions, school paperwork, and everyday conversations so my grandmother could advocate for herself in spaces that often felt overwhelming. At the time, I did not realize how significant those moments were. I only knew that she trusted me to be her voice when language created barriers. Those experiences shaped how I see communication. I learned that language is more than words. It is access, connection, and belonging. Watching my grandmother rely on me showed me how many families struggle simply because information is not accessible to them. I saw how easily people can feel invisible when they cannot fully express themselves or understand what is being said around them. Helping her gave me a sense of purpose long before I understood what career I wanted to pursue. As I grew older, that role expanded beyond my family. I found myself helping neighbors interpret documents, explain school expectations, and navigate important conversations. One of the most defining moments of this came when I sat down to fill out FAFSA and college applications myself, overwhelmed by forms that felt written in a language I was still learning. In that moment, I saw a younger version of myself in every student who feels lost in the process of trying to access higher education. That younger girl struggling to fill out the FAFSA was me. And it is her I want to help most of all; that same student who has the desire and potential, but feels shut out simply because no one showed her how to navigate the system. Going to college allows me to transform those lived experiences into professional impact. I chose to major in Communications and minor in Spanish because together they reflect both parts of my identity. Communications will give me the skills to share information effectively, advocate for communities, and amplify voices that are often overlooked. Spanish allows me to remain connected to my culture while continuing to serve families like mine who deserve to feel confident navigating education, healthcare, and public spaces. My goal is to use my education to improve communication between institutions and Spanish-speaking communities. Whether through media, community outreach, or public relations, I want to ensure that language is never a barrier to opportunity. I want families to feel supported rather than intimidated, informed rather than excluded. The same way I once helped my grandmother understand the world around her, I hope to help countless others access resources that can change their lives. For me, college is not only a personal achievement. It is a continuation of the service that began before I stepped into a classroom. It is the chance to honor my family’s sacrifices, break generational barriers, and transform lived experience into meaningful change. By pursuing higher education, I am preparing to dedicate my career to communication that connects communities, strengthens understanding, and ensures that no one feels unheard simply because of the language they speak.

One of the Taylor Swift performances that moved me most was her live performance of All Too Well (10 Minute Version) and the accompanying music video/short film. Watching it felt different from any performance I had seen before. It was honest, emotional, and deeply intentional. The storytelling, the quiet intensity, and the vulnerability she allowed audiences to witness made it unforgettable. It did not feel like a performance created for perfection. It felt real, and that honesty is what made it iconic to me. What makes this moment even more powerful is the story behind it. At the time, Taylor Swift was reclaiming her music after losing ownership of her original masters. Instead of allowing her past work to belong to someone else, she chose to rerecord her albums and rebuild her legacy on her own terms. Seeing her remake songs she once did not have the rights to showed incredible resilience. She transformed something unfair into something empowering, proving that artists deserve control over their voices and the stories they create. As a fan growing up alongside her music, watching this era unfold felt inspiring on a personal level. Taylor did not simply revisit old songs for nostalgia. She gave them new life and new meaning. All Too Well (10 Minute Version) especially felt like a statement about growth and reclaiming your narrative. It showed that even painful experiences can become powerful when you choose to own them instead of hide from them. Her journey taught me an important lesson about self-worth and perseverance. There will always be moments when others try to define your success or limit your voice, but Taylor’s decision to fight for ownership reminded me that we have the ability to rewrite our own stories. That message extends far beyond music. It applies to education, career goals, and personal identity. Watching her stand confidently in her work encouraged me to believe that persistence and authenticity matter more than outside approval. Taylor Swift’s career has always been about evolution. From country beginnings to global pop icon, she has never been afraid to grow publicly while staying true to herself. The All Too Well performance represents that evolution perfectly. It blends storytelling, artistic control, and emotional bravery into one defining moment. For me, being a fan of Taylor Swift means more than enjoying her music. It means learning from the way she turns challenges into creativity and setbacks into empowerment. Her decision to reclaim her music showed me that owning your voice is one of the most powerful things a person can do. That lesson continues to inspire how I approach my own future, reminding me that the most meaningful success comes from telling your story honestly and refusing to let anyone else write it for you.

Growing up, my family had Dish Network because of a promotion that offered Spanish-language channels my parents could watch from Mexico. Many traditional television networks at the time did not provide programming in Spanish, so our household became a blend of two cultures through television. I grew up watching shows in both Spanish and English, and one channel that became especially important to me was Disney Channel. Because it aired in Spanish, my mom and I could watch together, talk about the characters, and share moments that helped bridge the language gap between us. One of the stars I grew up watching during that time was Sabrina Carpenter. I first knew Sabrina as Maya Hart on Girl Meets World and the girl from Adventures in Babysitting. She was confident, funny, and unapologetically herself, qualities that stood out to me as a young viewer trying to figure out who I wanted to become. I remember watching Disney Channel commercials promoting her EVOLution album and learning that she chose the title because “EVOL” spelled backwards means love. Even then, I admired how intentional she was about her artistry and message. Around the same time, I owned a Just Dance video game that featured her song “Thumbs,” and I played it constantly. I remember dancing to “Thumbs” in my living room while my mom watched from the couch, laughing even though she did not fully understand the lyrics, because she understood how happy the music made me. Moments like that turned Sabrina Carpenter from just a celebrity into part of my childhood memories. As I grew older, I watched Sabrina grow as well. Like many Disney Channel actors who tried to redefine themselves, she successfully built an identity beyond her early roles. Seeing her transition into a confident musician and performer showed me what it looks like to evolve without losing authenticity. Her newer music feels more mature, honest, and fearless, and listening to her recent albums now feels like reconnecting with a familiar voice that grew up alongside me. What inspires me most about Sabrina Carpenter is her willingness to embrace change while remaining genuine. She did not stay confined to one image or one stage of her career. Instead, she continued to experiment, improve, and trust her own creative direction. Watching that evolution has encouraged me to approach my own life with the same mindset. Growth does not mean leaving your past behind; it means building on it. Being a fan of Sabrina Carpenter is not only about enjoying her music or performances. It is about witnessing an artist who represents confidence, resilience, and self-expression across different stages of life. From watching Disney Channel with my Spanish-speaking family to listening to her newest releases today, her career has been a constant thread connecting my childhood and my present. She reminds me that it is possible to grow, adapt, and pursue your passions while staying true to who you are, and that lesson continues to shape how I approach my own future.

Love Island succeeds because it captures moments where attraction meets reality. Viewers love romance and drama, but the most memorable relationships are the ones where contestants truly learn how to understand each other. My original challenge, The Translation Test, explores one question at the center of every successful relationship: can two people truly understand one another when communication becomes difficult? The villa transforms into a vibrant international festival celebrating culture, identity, and personal background. Music, decorations, and foods represent different traditions around the world. Islanders receive personalized prompts encouraging them to share pieces of their upbringing, values, and experiences that shaped how they love and communicate. The challenge unfolds in three rounds designed to test emotional connection beyond physical attraction. Round One: Lost in Translation Each Islander records a short message describing something deeply important to them, such as family expectations, personal ambitions, or fears about relationships. Their partner receives the message translated into simplified phrases or symbolic clues rather than direct wording. Using only those clues, partners must explain what they believe their Islander meant and why it matters. When the original message plays afterward, couples immediately see whether they truly listened and understood each other’s emotional language. This round highlights empathy. Love is not only about speaking clearly but about trying to understand someone whose experiences may be different from your own. Round Two: The Support Swap Couples face real life inspired scenarios presented by producers. One Islander may juggle career goals with relationship time, while another navigates family responsibilities or cultural expectations. Partners must choose supportive actions from multiple options and explain their reasoning. The goal is not perfection but awareness. Islanders demonstrate whether they can support each other’s realities instead of projecting their own assumptions. Round Three: Speak My Language Each couple creates a shared “relationship language” using three words that define how they want to love moving forward. They present these words at the Fire Pit and explain how they will practice them both inside and outside the villa. Words appear on the villa screen as a symbol of commitment, turning private understanding into a public promise. Growing up in a Spanish speaking household taught me that communication is more than vocabulary. Sometimes people care deeply for one another yet struggle to express emotions in the same way. The Translation Test reflects that idea by showing that strong relationships require patience, curiosity, and intentional listening. This challenge adds excitement because it replaces surface drama with meaningful discovery. Viewers watch Islanders move beyond attraction and into genuine understanding. Love Island becomes not only entertaining but relatable, reminding audiences that the strongest relationships are built when people choose to understand each other, even when connection requires effort.

Some of my earliest experiences with sports were not only about watching games but about understanding how stories shape the way athletes and teams are seen by their communities. Growing up in a Spanish-speaking household, communication often meant translating information, explaining moments, and helping others feel included in conversations they might otherwise miss. Those experiences taught me that access and representation shape who gets seen, heard, and remembered in sports, and they continue to guide the way I tell athletes’ stories today. As a student athlete and wrestler, I quickly learned what it feels like to compete in a space with limited visibility, especially for female athletes. Our wrestling program received little attention, and many matches went unnoticed despite the dedication behind them. Rather than accepting that lack of recognition, I became invested in how media coverage could change perception and support. Coverage from our town’s newspaper and sports talk radio station helped generate interest in our program, strengthened community engagement, and contributed to the establishment of our school’s first official women’s wrestling team. Seeing participation grow proved that media coverage can change opportunity, and it showed me the responsibility sports journalists have in shaping who feels welcomed into a sport. Motivated by that impact, I helped establish the first official media day for my high school’s football team as a model for broader athletic coverage. I organized photography sessions, filmed promotional videos, and produced visual content that highlighted athletes beyond statistics and final scores. Game attendance increased, community pride strengthened, and athletes felt recognized for their commitment. By showing athletes beyond game statistics through interviews, personality features, and behind-the-scenes content, our team built stronger community connections and increased support for the program. That experience transformed my understanding of sports media. Storytelling was not simply reporting events but building connections between athletes and the communities that support them. Through this work, I earned the opportunity to collaborate with professional media members in the football press box during games. Observing journalists analyze plays, ask strategic questions, and craft narratives in real time while engaging in conversations about coverage decisions assured me that sports journalism aligned with both my skills and professional goals. When I am not writing about sports or creating content, I like to watch national/local coverage of sports. Whether watching football or UFC, I am drawn not only to competition but to the analysis and dialogue that give sports lasting meaning. One realization stands out while watching these broadcasts. Most studio analyst desks are occupied by men. My goal extends beyond sideline reporting to becoming a trusted voice in sports analysis and storytelling. I want to contribute to the analyst table and help young girls see sports commentary as an achievable future where their voices belong. Today, I continue developing these skills by working in my college’s Sports Information Office, where I assist in producing videos and digital media content promoting student athletes. I helped create a feature video recognizing female athletes and coaches for National Girls and Women in Sports Day and contributed to highlight videos that showcase women’s sports alongside men’s programs. These experiences allow me to apply classroom learning in a professional environment while strengthening storytelling and production skills. Sports journalism allows me to combine storytelling, leadership, and advocacy into a purposeful career. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to continue developing professionally while reducing financial barriers faced by many first-generation college students. I am committed to elevating athletes’ stories, expanding representation within sports media, and building a career that ensures future athletes are seen, supported, and celebrated long before the final score is recorded.

Mental health became personal to me long before I understood how to talk about it. I lost two of my closest friends to mental health struggles. Each loss changed the way I see people, silence, and responsibility within a community. My first childhood best friend lived in my neighborhood. We grew apart during middle school, but we still saw each other around the neighborhood. When she began dating someone older, many of us worried, yet none of us understood the depth of what she was facing internally. Her death from an overdose shocked our entire community. I donated money to support her family because I had known her since childhood, but grief followed me long after. For months, I struggled to walk through my neighborhood. Seeing her younger siblings outside reminded me that someone deeply loved could still feel unseen. I still wonder if there was a moment when listening more closely might have made a difference. The second loss reshaped my understanding of mental health even further. My friend was known as the class clown, the person who made everyone laugh when school felt overwhelming. When we first heard news of his passing, many of us genuinely thought it was a joke he was pulling. That reaction still haunts me because it revealed how well pain can hide behind humor. None of us recognized the battles he carried privately. At graduation, two seats were empty where they should have been sitting with us. Seeing those spaces made me realize how many students suffer quietly, believing they must handle everything alone. These experiences changed how I move through my community as a student. Mental health matters to me because academic success means little if students do not feel safe enough to stay, speak, or survive long enough to reach their goals. I advocate by becoming someone others can approach without fear of judgment. I check in on friends frequently, especially those who appear strongest on the outside. I speak openly about grief and emotional struggle, so conversations about mental health feel normal rather than shameful. I support families affected by loss through donations and presence because healing often begins with knowing someone still cares. My advocacy also comes from understanding hesitation. Many students do not ask for help because they fear being misunderstood or becoming a burden. I recognize that fear because I have seen its consequences. By listening without trying to fix someone’s pain right away, I try to create spaces where honesty feels safe. Whether through conversations with classmates, supporting peers navigating stress, or encouraging others to seek counseling resources, I work to reduce the silence that often surrounds mental health. Higher education represents more than personal advancement for me. It allows me to continue building communities where emotional well-being is valued alongside academic achievement. I want to contribute to environments where students feel supported not only as learners but as people whose lives hold meaning beyond grades or expectations. I advocate for mental health so that fewer chairs sit empty at future graduations, and so more students remain here long enough to discover how deeply their lives matter.

One lyric from Olivia Rodrigo’s song “brutal” stays with me every time I hear it. She sings, “I am so insecure, I think that I will die before I drink.” It sounds dramatic at first, but to me, it captures what growing up often feels like. Everything feels loud, overwhelming, and deeply personal, even when no one else seems to notice. For a long time, insecurity followed me everywhere. I joined my high school wrestling team as the only girl, walking into a room where I felt instantly out of place. Before anyone spoke, I could feel the questions. Some people assumed I would quit. Others avoided wrestling me because they did not know how to treat a girl as competition. I laughed things off, but inside, I constantly wondered if I truly belonged there. Olivia Rodrigo’s music gave language to that feeling. Her songs do not pretend that confidence comes easily. They admit fear, jealousy, confusion, and self-doubt without apology. Listening to her made me realize that insecurity is not something we outgrow overnight. It is something we learn to carry while still moving forward. During one match, I broke my nose. Sitting on the sidelines afterward, I questioned everything. I wondered if the discomfort, attention, and pressure were worth it. That moment reminded me of another theme in Olivia’s music, the idea that growing up means facing moments where quitting feels easier than continuing. I chose to return to wrestling wearing a protective mask, not because I suddenly felt fearless, but because I understood that courage often looks like showing up while still afraid. Outside of sports, I experienced another kind of uncertainty. Growing up bilingual sometimes made me feel caught between cultures. I worried about saying the wrong thing or not fitting fully into either space. Over time, that difference became a strength. I began translating for students in journalism programs and helping Spanish-speaking families at church feel understood. Olivia Rodrigo often writes about identity as something unfinished, something we are still discovering. That perspective helped me accept that not having everything figured out is part of becoming who we are. What resonates with me the most about Olivia Rodrigo’s music is its honesty. She does not offer perfect answers or pretend that life suddenly becomes easy. Instead, she reminds listeners that feeling awkward, unsure, or emotional is universal. Hearing someone else express those thoughts made me feel less alone in my own journey. Today, I understand that insecurity did not mean I was weak. It meant I cared deeply about where I stood and who I was becoming. Wrestling taught me resilience, translation taught me empathy, and Olivia Rodrigo’s music helped me see that vulnerability can exist alongside strength. That lyric from “brutal” still feels true to me. Growing up can feel overwhelming, but it also means learning to face discomfort with honesty. Olivia Rodrigo’s words helped me stop waiting to feel perfectly confident and start believing that growth happens even when we feel unsure. And sometimes, simply continuing forward is enough proof that we are getting stronger.

I never met my younger brother, yet his life and loss shaped the person I have become. When my mother lost her baby after just a few weeks of having him, I was too young to understand what death meant. What I did understand was how deeply it changed our family. My mother struggled with grief and stopped going to church because she felt angry at God for taking her child. My father coped differently. He encouraged me to try every sport possible, hoping activity and achievement might help fill the space left behind. Our home carried a quiet sadness that I could feel even when I could not explain it. As a child, I watched my parents navigate pain while also trying to protect me from it. I remember moments of distance and confusion, wondering why things felt heavier than before. Over time, our family began learning how to heal together. We started visiting my brother’s grave, cleaning it, and speaking about him openly. Those visits helped me understand that grief does not end. Instead, it becomes part of how a family learns to love more intentionally. My mother nearly lost her own life during that pregnancy, and as I grew older, I realized how close I came to losing her too. That realization changed my perspective. I became deeply grateful for the family I still have and motivated to honor both my brother’s memory and my parents’ sacrifices. I work hard in school and actively pursue scholarships because I want to lessen financial stress for my family and make the opportunities my mother fought to survive for truly matter. Losing a sibling I never got to know shaped how I treat others. I have a cousin the same age as my brother would have been, and I naturally stepped into an older sister role for him and for many younger children in my life. Today, I serve in children’s ministry at church, helping teach, mentor, and support kids who need encouragement and stability. Being present for them feels meaningful because I understand how important it is for a child to feel seen and supported. Through this experience, I learned perseverance at an early age. Loss taught me empathy. Grief taught me patience. Faith, even when questioned, eventually taught my family how to rebuild hope together. The impact of my brother’s life continues through the way I choose to serve others and pursue my education with purpose. I carry his memory not as something that holds me back, but as motivation to live fully, support others deeply, and move forward with gratitude. The brother I could have had inspires me to become someone who brings comfort, strength, and compassion to the world around me.

My interest in journalism began long before I understood it as a profession. Growing up, I often translated conversations for my Spanish-speaking grandmother during medical appointments. She lives with Alzheimer’s disease and diabetes, and I learned early on how overwhelming information becomes when language creates a barrier. Translating was not simply repeating words. It meant helping someone understand decisions that affected her life and dignity. That experience shaped how I view journalism today. Journalism should ensure that people are informed, represented, and never excluded from important conversations. At Columbus North High School, I became deeply involved in student media through the Bull Dog News Network, where I served as Executive Producer. I helped produce weekly broadcasts, photographed major school events, and contributed content to the school newspaper, yearbook, and athletic media platforms. One of my most meaningful experiences was teaching journalism basics to fifth-grade students at Parkside Elementary School. Watching young students gain confidence as they conducted interviews and shared their perspectives reinforced my belief that journalism empowers communities when people learn how to communicate their experiences. Because I am bilingual, I also translated interviews and assisted Spanish-speaking elementary students so their voices could be included in stories and broadcasts. I realized that journalism is not only about telling stories but about making sure everyone has access to tell theirs. I continue developing these skills as a communications student at the University of Indianapolis, where I work in UIndy Studios, the Communications Office, and the UIndy Athletics Sports Information department. I assist with video production, storytelling, news reporting, game day media operations, and creating content that connects audiences with campus life. Outside of school, I work professionally as a photographer and videographer at graduations, charity events, and church conferences, documenting moments that preserve community history. My commitment to journalism is rooted in service. As Creative Media Director at Iglesia Aposento, I manage photography, social media, and livestream production so elderly members, families, and bilingual congregants remain connected to their faith community. My bilingual background allows me to bridge cultural gaps and make information more accessible to people who are often underrepresented in media spaces. I plan to pursue a career as a multimedia journalist focused on community-centered reporting and cultural representation. Too often, journalism speaks about communities instead of with them. My goal is to practice journalism that listens first, reports responsibly, and amplifies voices that might otherwise go unheard. In five years, I hope to be producing digital and broadcast stories that build trust between journalists and the communities they serve. Journalism, to me, is an act of service. It informs, connects, and gives people the opportunity to see themselves reflected with accuracy and respect. Through my education and experiences, I am committed to using journalism not only to report stories but to ensure every voice has the opportunity to be understood.

My faith has been a steady foundation in my life, shaping how I understand purpose, responsibility, and perseverance. It has given me strength in moments of uncertainty and clarity when the path ahead felt unclear. More than anything, my faith has taught me that success is not only measured by achievement, but by character, integrity, and the way we treat others along the way. As a first-generation college student from a Mexican immigrant family, I have experienced challenges that often require more than persistence alone. There have been moments where I had to navigate unfamiliar systems, academic planning, and responsibilities without guidance. During those times, my faith has grounded me. It has reminded me that I am not alone in my journey and that even when I do not have all the answers, I can move forward with trust, patience, and purpose. One of the most meaningful ways my faith has shaped me is through service. I have volunteered for multiple years at Vacation Bible School in my town, helping teach and guide younger children in a faith-centered environment. Working with children, many of whom come from immigrant families, has shown me the importance of compassion, patience, and encouragement. I have also led a journalism program for elementary students, where I helped bilingual students find confidence in their voices and express their ideas. In both experiences, I have seen how faith is not only spoken, but lived through service, kindness, and leadership. My faith has also shaped how I view integrity. It has taught me that success means little if it is not built on honesty, humility, and respect for others. In a world where it can be easy to prioritize achievement alone, my beliefs remind me to stay grounded in who I am and the values I carry. I strive to lead with those values in every responsibility I take on, whether in school, service, or future career goals. As I move forward in my education, I plan to pursue a path in education, communication, or community-focused work where I can help others navigate challenges similar to my own. My faith will continue to guide me in this work by reminding me to serve with purpose and to treat every opportunity as a chance to positively impact someone else’s life. I also hope to approach my future career with an open mindset, seeking ways to create programs, opportunities, or systems that support first-generation students. Ultimately, I believe my faith will be the foundation that keeps me grounded as I grow professionally. It will guide my decisions, shape my leadership, and remind me that true success is measured not only by what I build, but by how I uplift others while building it.

Some of my earliest memories are not of playgrounds or cartoons, but of sitting in medical waiting rooms beside my grandmother, holding paperwork I was barely old enough to read while listening to nurses call unfamiliar names over the intercom. She speaks primarily Spanish, lives with Alzheimer's disease and diabetes, and since I was seven years old, I have accompanied her to doctors’ appointments to translate between her and healthcare providers. What began as helping a family member quickly became the relationship that shaped who I am and how I connect with others. As her memory began to fade, I learned that relationships are not defined only by conversation, but by presence. There were days when she forgot my name, yet still reached for my hand because she felt safe with me. In those moments, I understood that human connection goes beyond words. It lives in patience, consistency, and trust. Translating for my grandmother required more than language skills. I had to interpret fear, confusion, and vulnerability. Doctors spoke in medical terminology, while she looked at me for reassurance. I learned to slow conversations down, ask questions others were hesitant to ask, and advocate for someone whose voice might otherwise be overlooked. Through her, I discovered that communication is not simply exchanging information. It is making sure someone feels seen and understood. This relationship changed the way I build connections in every part of my life. At school, I gravitated toward students who felt excluded or unheard, particularly Spanish-speaking classmates navigating language barriers. While helping teach journalism to younger students, I translated lessons so everyone could participate fully. Watching students grow more confident once they understood the material reinforced something my grandmother had already taught me. Connection creates belonging, and belonging creates confidence. My grandmother also reshaped my understanding of strength. Caring for her means helping monitor her health, encouraging her to leave the house when anxiety makes her feel trapped, and finding creative ways to help her hold onto memories, such as recording videos for her to watch when she feels confused. These experiences taught me empathy grounded in action. Love is not passive. It requires showing up repeatedly, even when situations are difficult or emotionally heavy. Because of her, I approach relationships with intentionality. I listen closely and notice when someone withdraws from a conversation. I recognize how culture, language, or circumstance can make people feel invisible. Instead of waiting for connection to happen naturally, I actively create spaces where others feel welcome. This perspective directly shapes my future goals. I hope to become a journalist who amplifies underrepresented voices and tells stories that bring communities closer together. Journalism, at its core, is built on relationships. It is about earning trust, listening deeply, and representing people with dignity. My grandmother showed me that stories matter because people matter, especially those whose experiences are often misunderstood or ignored. In a world increasingly connected through technology yet often divided by misunderstanding, authentic human relationships remain essential. My grandmother’s illness has taken pieces of her memory, but it has given me a lasting understanding that connection is an act of care. It requires patience, advocacy, and compassion long before recognition or reward. The relationship I share with her did not just influence who I am, but it also continues to guide how I move through the world. Every conversation I have, every community I join, and every goal I pursue is rooted in the belief that strong relationships have the power to change lives, because one already changed mine.

When I became the first girl to join my high school’s official women’s wrestling team, I quickly learned what it felt like to compete in a sport no one seemed to notice. It was discouraging to train relentlessly and step onto the mat knowing few people in our town even knew we existed. However, everything began to change because of a news article and a local radio sports commentator. Our town’s newspaper and radio station started including our women’s wrestling team in their weekly sports recaps. As they mentioned us more often, people began showing up for us. Classmates, parents, and teachers who had never watched women’s wrestling before came to meets to support us. What once felt overlooked suddenly felt valued. That experience showed me the power of sports broadcasting; it is not just entertainment, but a tool for visibility, connection, and encouragement. During our first year, only two girls, including me, were on the team. After the increased media coverage and growing community support, our program expanded year after year. Watching the transformation helped me realize that sports broadcasters and journalists do more than report scores; they shape which stories are told and whose efforts are recognized. I saw firsthand how coverage can give athletes confidence, grow programs, and build community pride. This realization inspired me to pursue Sports Broadcasting and Sports Journalism. I want to be someone who highlights athletes and teams that might otherwise go unnoticed, just as someone once did for us. Sports naturally bring people together, but it takes passionate storytellers to amplify those moments and make audiences feel connected to the athletes behind the competition. The aspect of this field I am most passionate about is storytelling that promotes inclusion and representation in all sports. Many athletes, especially women’s teams, smaller programs, and emerging sports, work just as hard as high-profile teams yet receive far less recognition. I want to use broadcasting as a platform to give equal attention to those athletes, telling stories that inspire young competitors to believe their efforts matter. When athletes see themselves represented in the media, they feel seen, and when communities see those athletes, they learn to support them. In the future, I hope to cover high school and collegiate athletics in ways that highlight underrepresented athletes and inspire the next generation to participate in sports they may not yet see themselves reflected in. My experiences teaching journalism to younger students and working with media projects have strengthened my desire to pursue this career path. I enjoy interviewing people, capturing moments, and translating the energy of competition into stories that others can experience. Sports broadcasting allows me to combine my love for athletics, communication, and community impact into one meaningful career. David (DK) Kim dedicated his life to celebrating sports and bringing people together through broadcasting and community involvement. His passion reminds me that sports media is ultimately about people’s stories, perseverance, and the connections formed through shared experiences. I hope to honor that legacy by becoming a broadcaster who not only reports on sports but helps athletes feel supported, valued, and part of something bigger than themselves. Just as sports broadcasting transformed my team's story, I hope to use my voice to ensure that every athlete, no matter their sport or spotlight, has the opportunity to be seen, supported, and celebrated.

Just recently, our church celebrated its first anniversary. Looking back, I am proud of having the opportunity to be involved in sharing recaps of our services, creating graphics for future events, and helping teach the younger youth of our church how to get involved in spreading our church's message. Church social media often gets overlooked, but I believe it is important to share online how our church can help the community. Not many are ready to be involved in a church, but they are always welcome to watch our services online. We do our best to be able to let our community know that we are here for them. I do not get paid for managing our church's social media or for preparing our church service rundown for many hours, but it pays to know that someone looking at our posts or following the lyrics on the screen could have their life changed. I did not always know my purpose in life, but by being able to connect with others through social media and broadcasting, I have found that the workload is worth it. For my future career, I plan to continue making content, managing social media, and being involved in broadcast media; these are things I currently do voluntarily. I plan to use my skills to help people be more informed about their community and how their community can be of support. I find that when people are afraid to call and ask, they will look online for information; I aim to make the information people are seeking more obtainable and easy to find. There have been instances of community events that I learned about through social media, posters, and more; because of those multi-media communications, there have been many events that have helped me grow and learn as a person. I also want to continue my passion for teaching the youth. I grew up curious about communications, and I want to encourage those who are curious as well. I believe that learning about communications has no age limit, and I want to encourage those who may be young but are interested in learning. I was lucky enough to have a mentor in my life who taught me all I know about our church's creative department, and now I want to be a mentor as well. I am eager to share the skills I have learned with other kids who are yearning to discover their talents and purpose.