I’ve always noticed things other people walk right past. When I was little, maybe eight, I remember riding in the car with my mom. We stopped at a red light, and I looked out the window and saw a man sleeping on the sidewalk. He had a thin blanket pulled over him, and people kept walking past like he wasn’t there. I just sat there wondering how we live in a world with all these buildings, all this money, but people still have nowhere to go. When I got older, I realized it’s not just about not having money. It’s about the way the system works. I started noticing things like benches with bars down the middle so you can’t lay down, or spikes in areas where people might rest. It made me feel like the world was more focused on pushing people away than helping them. The first time I actually got involved was when I started volunteering at soup kitchens, open fridges, and local programs. At first, I thought I’d just be serving food or helping organize donations. But it ended up being so much more. I talked to people and heard their stories. Some were parents doing everything they could for their kids. Some were veterans. Some had been living stable lives until one thing happened that sent everything downhill. It made me realize homelessness isn’t a personal failure. It can happen to anyone if life hits hard enough and there’s no one there to catch them. That’s one of the reasons I want to study psychology. I want to really understand people and not just what they’re going through, but why. Whether it’s mental health struggles, generational poverty, or trauma, I want to get to the root of it. My dream is to open a soup kitchen or shelter that’s more than just a place to eat. I want it to be a place where people can get therapy, job training, and support so they can rebuild their lives. These people deserve a chance to become who they want to be, and I want to be the one who delivers it to them. I know I can’t fix every problem. But I believe small things matter. A warm meal, a safe place to rest, or a conversation that makes someone feel less alone. That’s the kind of impact I want to have. It’s why I’m so serious about turning this passion into my career.

Ever since I was little, I’ve noticed the things around me that just didn’t feel right. One thing I could never ignore was how many people didn’t have a place to live. I remember being eight years old, riding in the car and looking out the window, seeing people sleeping on sidewalks or in parks. I didn’t understand how we had so much money in the world but still had people with nowhere to go. As I got older, I realized it wasn’t just about not having enough—it was about people in power not caring enough to fix it. Instead of helping, they put up benches you can’t lay down on or spikes in places where people might rest. It always made me mad because it felt like they were doing more to push people away than actually help them. That’s when I knew I wanted to help people. My first real chance to do that came when I started volunteering at soup kitchens, open fridges, and other community programs. At first, I thought it would just be me handing out food or organizing stuff. But it ended up being so much more. I got to talk to people, hear their stories, and really see how quickly life can change for anyone. Some were parents trying to do the best they could for their kids. Some were veterans. Some had been living normal lives until one thing happened that made everything fall apart. Those conversations made me see that homelessness isn’t someone’s fault—it’s something that can happen to anybody when the system fails them. As I started thinking about my future, I realized that I wanted to do more than just volunteer every once in a while. That’s why I want to study psychology. I want to understand people better—not just what they’re going through, but why. If we can get to the root of what’s causing people’s struggles, like mental health, generational poverty, or trauma, then maybe we can create real solutions. My dream is to open a soup kitchen or homeless shelter that’s more than just a place to get food. I want it to be a place where people can get therapy, job training, and community support so they can actually rebuild their lives. I know I can’t fix everything, but I believe small actions matter. The smile from someone getting a warm meal, the relief in their eyes when they realize they’re not alone—those are the moments that remind me why I do what I do. For me, it’s never been about doing something “big” to get noticed. It’s about showing up for people, even in small ways, until compassion becomes something that’s normal, not rare.

I will never forget the day I stood in front of my school and helped lead a walkout for abortion rights. What made that moment unforgettable wasn’t just the cause — it was seeing almost the entire school walk out alongside me in support. Watching my classmates come together for something I helped organize filled me with a mix of pride, hope, and determination. It showed me that when women unite, their voices can shake even the biggest walls. I felt a deep sense of community and strength in that moment — knowing we were standing up not just for rights, but for respect and autonomy. That experience taught me the power of leadership and the importance of creating spaces where women can raise their voices together. It fueled my commitment to empowering women in every part of life. My name is Saniyah, and I am passionate about pursuing a career in criminal psychology. I want to understand how trauma and environment shape behavior and use that knowledge to help people who have been marginalized or misunderstood by the justice system. This path excites me because it combines my interest in psychology with a desire to contribute to a fairer and more compassionate society. I believe that by addressing the root causes of criminal behavior, we can promote healing and reduce recidivism. In my future career, I hope to make an impact by supporting underserved communities, especially women who have experienced trauma or injustice. I want to be a criminal psychologist who not only provides expert assessments but also advocates for programs that empower women to rebuild their lives and reclaim their agency. Supporting women’s empowerment is something I take seriously both in and out of school. Beyond the walkout I helped organize, I participate in the Black Student Union and Delta Gems, where I work to uplift young women through mentorship and leadership opportunities. I also plan to create programs in college that focus on mental health, self-confidence, and leadership skills specifically for young women. Empowerment is about building each other up and creating spaces where women can thrive — and I want to be a part of that every step of the way. This scholarship would not only help me continue my education but also support my mission to empower women through my work and leadership. I am ready to keep using my voice, my passion, and my drive to make a difference.

There was a time when I wasn’t sure I would graduate high school. Not because I lacked the motivation, but because life kept putting obstacles in my way. There were days when I had to choose between helping at home and showing up to school exhausted. Days when the stress from financial pressure and personal challenges made it hard to focus. But I kept going. And now, as I prepare to enter college, I can say that graduating high school is my greatest achievement so far. I was raised by a single mother who had me as a teenager. She worked hard to provide for us, but we struggled. We often lived paycheck to paycheck, had to rely on outside help for food, and didn’t always have stable access to resources. I didn’t have tutors, college advisors, or even someone who had done this before to guide me through the process. But I did have a deep desire to change my life and to create something better for both me and my family. Graduating taught me that I am capable of more than I ever imagined. It showed me that success is not just about perfect scores or awards. It is about persistence. I stayed committed to school while balancing home responsibilities, extracurriculars, and financial challenges. I participated in leadership groups, mentored younger girls through community organizations, and worked to create safe spaces for others through peer-led mental health and equity programs. That journey taught me to turn my struggles into motivation. I learned that I don’t have to wait for someone to give me a path forward. I can build it myself. Graduation was not just a ceremony for me. It was a promise to myself that I will keep going. I plan to study psychology in college and eventually become a trauma-informed therapist who serves youth from underrepresented communities. Mental health support is something I needed more of growing up, and I want to be that support for someone else. My goal is to open community-based wellness centers that combine therapy, education, and mentorship for students who often feel forgotten. I am doing everything I can to fund my education. I work, apply for scholarships, and plan carefully, but the financial gap is still significant. Receiving this scholarship would help ease that burden and allow me to focus on what truly matters: learning, growing, and giving back. Graduating high school may seem like a typical accomplishment to some, but for me, it is the foundation of a future that once felt out of reach. It represents the strength I’ve built and the life I’m determined to create. I am proud of how far I have come, and I am even more excited for where I am going.

In sixth grade, I started tutoring a younger student in reading, just because I saw she was struggling. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that small moment would shape how I saw myself and my role in the world. Helping her feel confident, watching her improve, and seeing her smile when she finally read a full page without hesitation taught me something powerful. Giving back doesn’t have to be loud or flashy to matter. Sometimes, the biggest impact starts with one person, one moment, and one act of care. Since then, I’ve been dedicated to creating spaces where people feel seen, heard, and supported. Whether that’s organizing meetings for the Black Student Union, mentoring younger girls through Delta Gems, helping lead mental health discussions with my peers, or simply being the person someone knows they can talk to, I take pride in serving my community. I do it because I know what it feels like to not have those spaces. I know what it’s like to be the quiet one in the room who just needs someone to notice. And I’ve made it my mission to be that person for others. As I continue my education, I plan to major in psychology with a focus on youth and community mental health. My goal is to become a trauma-informed therapist and advocate who works with young people, especially those from underrepresented and underserved backgrounds. I want to build programs in schools and community centers that address mental health with care, empathy, and cultural understanding. Too many students carry emotional weight that goes unnoticed, and I want to help them feel lighter, more confident, and more hopeful. But I also want to keep serving in more immediate ways. I plan to start peer mentorship and wellness groups during college, especially for first-generation students like me. I want to share what I’ve learned and build spaces where students can grow together. In the long run, I hope to create a nonprofit organization that provides accessible mental health resources, mentorship, and leadership development for teens in low-income areas. My impact won’t come from one big moment. It will come from consistency, compassion, and being someone who shows up. Whether that’s in a one-on-one conversation, a community event, or a therapy session years from now, I want the people around me to feel supported and empowered because of the work I do. I never met the person this scholarship honors, but I feel connected to her legacy. I believe that compassion and service are some of the most powerful tools we have to change the world. They are what guide me, even when things are uncertain. And they are what I hope to carry with me for the rest of my life.

My mother was 17 when she had me, and from the very beginning, we grew up together. She was still figuring out her future while trying to give me one. I watched her work long shifts, study late into the night, and stretch every dollar to make things work. We didn’t have much, but what we did have was love, grit, and the belief that I could go further than she ever had the chance to. That belief is what pushes me every day. As a first-generation college student, I’ve had to navigate the college process on my own. There were no older siblings to guide me and no family members who had done it before. Still, I stayed focused because I know how much this means. My education is not just for me. It is for the mom who sacrificed her dreams so I could chase mine. It is for the younger version of me who didn’t always believe this would be possible. I plan to major in psychology because I want to help others heal and grow, especially young people who come from communities where mental health is often ignored. I have seen firsthand how much unspoken pain can weigh someone down. My goal is to become a therapist who makes mental health support accessible and affirming, particularly for underserved youth. Financially, I have taken on as much responsibility as I can, working, saving, and applying for every opportunity available. But college is expensive, and I cannot do it alone. This scholarship would allow me to focus on my studies instead of the stress of how to pay for them. I am ready to take this next step, not only to change my own life but to create change for others too.

Some of the first lessons I ever learned about the world came from books. When I was little, books were a way to understand people I’d never met and places I had never been. As I got older, they became something else too — proof that there was more out there for me, even when things felt limited. One book that especially shaped me was The Other Wes Moore by Wes Moore. Reading about two boys with the same name but completely different paths made me look closer at the choices around me. It showed me how our environments shape us, but they don’t have to define us. That book pushed me to take my own story seriously. As a Black first-generation student from a working-class background, I’ve often felt like I was walking a path without a clear map. But I’ve also learned that I can help draw one for others. Through volunteering with younger students, organizing in Black Student Union, and mentoring through Delta Gems, I’ve turned my experiences into something useful. I help others feel seen, heard, and valued — because I know what it’s like to go without those things. One of the most important lessons I’ve learned came from failure. I used to think being a leader meant doing everything myself. In 11th grade, I tried to plan a community donation drive by myself without delegating or asking for support. I ended up overwhelmed and the event fell short of what it could have been. But it taught me how to collaborate and trust others. Since then, I’ve become better at building teams, sharing responsibilities, and letting go of the need to do it all. Our next event — a student-led panel on mental health — reached more students than we expected. That wouldn’t have been possible if I hadn’t learned from the mistake I made earlier. Mentorship has been everything to me. From teachers who stayed late to help me write college essays, to older students who showed me how to navigate tough classes and real-life stress, I’ve learned what it means to support and be supported. That’s why I try to show up for others now. Whether I’m helping underclassmen pick their classes, giving rides to Delta Gems meetings, or just listening when someone needs to vent, I try to offer the same guidance I was lucky enough to receive. What makes me unique isn’t just my background. It’s how I’ve used it. I’ve taken hard moments and turned them into motivation. I’ve used what I’ve learned to help others — through school leadership, community service, and peer support programs. I’ve created events that teach others about identity and advocacy, and I’ve spoken up for students who didn’t feel like they could speak for themselves. I don’t just want to succeed for me. I want to succeed so I can help others rise, too. In the future, I plan to study psychology with a focus on community health and trauma recovery. I want to work with youth, especially in underserved communities, to help break cycles of generational harm and build systems of healing. Books gave me knowledge, but community gave me purpose. I want to keep giving back, because I know what a difference it makes when someone believes in you

“I think we should talk about the people who don’t make it into the textbooks.” That’s what I said during a Black Student Union planning meeting earlier this year, and it changed the direction of everything we’d been working on. As a student leader and founding member of several cultural and equity-focused organizations at my school, I’ve always believed in lifting up voices that are often overlooked. That small suggestion led to one of the most impactful events I’ve helped organize: an “Unsung Heroes” assembly where we spotlighted lesser-known Black changemakers. It was student-led, educational, emotional, and it sparked real conversation across our school community. Most of the work I’ve done comes from that same instinct: noticing a gap, listening to what people need, and figuring out how to fill it. Whether it’s serving on the Student Voice Committee to help redesign outdated policies, stepping up in our mentoring group, or guiding discussions about equity with the school board, I’ve learned that leadership has never been about having all the answers. It’s about showing up with intention and helping others feel seen and heard. One of the most meaningful examples of this was helping start a peer mental health support initiative. After seeing so many students silently dealing with grief, stress, and anxiety—especially students of color—I worked with staff and fellow students to organize group circles with trained teen facilitators and trusted adults. These sessions became spaces of healing and empowerment, and they even pushed our school’s counseling department to invest in more culturally responsive resources. The change wasn’t instant, but it was real. And it started because we spoke up. Looking ahead, I want to continue this kind of work by studying psychology and community health in college. My goal is to become a trauma-informed therapist or youth advocate who builds real support systems for communities that are often overlooked. I want to help create spaces that feel safe, inclusive, and affirming—whether that’s through mental health clinics, mentoring programs, or school-based initiatives that center students’ voices and interests. Chris Jones’s legacy reminds me that one person can make a lasting difference in their community. I want to be that person too. Not just for recognition, but because I know all too well what it feels like to need someone who believes in you, and I want to be that for others, regardless of background. With this scholarship I can be one step closer to achieving my goal.

I didn’t grow up hearing college stories at the dinner table. I grew up watching my parents build our story from scratch. In my household, going to college was unheard of, let alone even applying. But I did it anyway. As a first-generation student, I had to figure everything out on my own. There were no college visits, no admissions coaches, no financial aid experts sitting at home with me. I spent nights researching deadlines, writing and rewriting essays, and decoding FAFSA instructions like they were in another language. I leaned on my curiosity and persistence because that’s what I had—and it turned out, it was enough. Getting into college is the personal achievement I’m most proud of, not just because of the acceptance letters, but because of what they represent. They’re proof that my hard work, late nights, and constant questions led to something real. Every school that said “yes” reminded me that I wasn’t crazy for dreaming bigger than my circumstances. The impact has been huge. For one, I’ve become a role model for my younger siblings and cousins. Now, college doesn’t feel like a distant concept for them—it feels possible. I’ve also become more confident in my ability to handle unfamiliar challenges. Whether it’s balancing leadership roles in school organizations, speaking up for equity, or advocating for others, I carry the belief that I can navigate tough spaces. College didn’t just give me a destination—it gave me the courage to lead. Being the first means the path was unpaved, but it also means I get to leave footprints behind. I’m proud that I didn’t wait for someone else to show me how—it took courage to do this alone, and I know that strength will carry into everything I do moving forward. This journey wasn’t easy, but it’s mine. And I wouldn’t trade the lessons for anything. Looking ahead, I plan to use my education to create change in communities like the one I grew up in. I’m especially passionate about mental health and social justice, and I want to combine those interests by studying psychology and advocating for youth who feel overlooked. I know what it’s like to feel unseen in academic spaces, and I want to make sure others don’t have to go through it alone. My experience has taught me that representation matters, and I’m committed to being that presence for someone else. Getting into college was just the first step. I’m not done yet.

Billie Eilish saved my life. When I was 12 years old, I struggled immensely with self-confidence. I didn’t believe I could make an impact on the world, and I definitely didn’t think my voice mattered. One day, on the way to school, I stumbled across a song called “my boy.” To some, it might seem like just a silly song made by a 16-year-old girl who didn’t know what she was talking about. But for me, it was the song that turned my life around. I remember hearing listening the song and something clicked. It was the first time I realized that music could be fun and meaningful, that it could reflect the complexities of being young and misunderstood. I started diving deep into her music and instantly fell in love with each song. I remember counting down the days until her next release. Then it came—November 13, 2019, the day “Everything I Wanted” was released. This song resonated with me deeply, touching on feelings of being an outcast yet still prevailing. The lyrics, “I tried to scream, but my head was underwater,” echoed my own struggles with feeling like I was drowning in my emotions, unseen and unheard. Listening to this song, I remember feeling like everyone was against me. But it became, and still is, my rock. It reminds me that I’m not alone in how I feel. If someone as successful as Billie can share these emotions and still be the incredible person she is, then so can I. Fast forward to now—I am 17 years old and still deeply in love with Billie as a person and as an artist. I’ve been to five of her concerts and will be seeing her again in October. Her music continues to guide me, especially as I face new challenges. "Getting Older" has become another anchor for me. Growing up has always been one of my biggest fears, and it’s even more daunting now that I’m about to graduate high school and navigate the world on my own. But this song gives me peace. When she sings, “Things I once enjoyed just keep me employed now,” it reels me in, reminding me that aging isn’t a bad thing. In fact, it’s one of the most beautiful things that can ever happen to someone. If it weren’t for that one day in sixth grade when I discovered “my boy,” I probably wouldn’t even imagine myself applying for scholarships, let alone colleges. Billie’s music has given me the courage to dream bigger, to believe that my voice matters, and to trust that I can make an impact on the world—just like she has.