What I want to build is more than a career; it is a future where Native communities like mine can thrive—physically, emotionally, and politically. As a citizen of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians, my life has been shaped by the realities of growing up in a community facing systemic barriers, generational trauma, and limited access to resources. I’ve seen firsthand how these challenges impact mental health, education, and economic stability. Now, as I prepare to begin law school at the University of North Dakota, my vision is to build a life dedicated to dismantling these barriers through advocacy, education, and policy reform. My goal is to become a Tribal attorney who works alongside Indigenous nations to strengthen sovereignty, create equitable access to mental health care, and secure funding for infrastructure and programs that directly support our people. I want to build bridges between Tribal communities and state and federal governments, ensuring our voices are not only heard but prioritized in decision-making processes. By developing policies that respect cultural practices and address our unique needs, I hope to transform the way Native nations access resources for healthcare, education, and economic development. This vision is deeply personal. My own journey through adversity—growing up with an abusive mother struggling with addiction, battling my own mental health challenges, and navigating higher education as a first-generation Native student—has taught me the importance of resilience, representation, and advocacy. These experiences have fueled my desire to create change not just for myself but for future generations of Native youth, so they inherit a world with more opportunities and fewer barriers. In my community, success is rarely an individual accomplishment—it’s a collective one. By pursuing this path, I want to build hope for others who have felt the weight of systemic inequities, showing them that they, too, can achieve their dreams while honoring their cultural identity. I also want to use my platform as a former Miss North Dakota USA to continue spreading a message of strength and perseverance, inspiring young people—especially Native women—to embrace education as a tool for empowerment. Ultimately, I want to build a legacy of advocacy rooted in cultural resilience. By combining my education, my lived experiences, and my commitment to uplifting others, I hope to create meaningful change that extends beyond myself and into the communities that shaped me. This journey is not only about building my future—it’s about building a future where my people can flourish.

As a Native American woman from the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa and a future law student, I want to use my education and lived experience to make mental health care more affordable and accessible, especially for Indigenous and BIPOC communities who are disproportionately affected by trauma and systemic neglect. My unique contribution would focus on policy reform and culturally informed care. I plan to advocate for policies that expand federal and state funding for community-based mental health programs, particularly on Tribal lands and in underserved areas. This includes creating integrated care models that bring mental health professionals into schools, community centers, and clinics where people already seek support, reducing both financial and logistical barriers. Equally important, I want to work toward destigmatizing mental health in BIPOC communities by blending advocacy with culturally rooted approaches. For Indigenous communities, that means incorporating traditional healing practices, storytelling, and community-based interventions into mental health care models, ensuring treatment is not only accessible but also culturally safe and empowering. My vision is a future where no one suffers in silence because of cost, distance, or cultural stigma. Through legal advocacy, collaboration with Tribal leaders, and public education, I hope to help dismantle the systemic barriers keeping people from healing. In short, I want to make mental health care a right—not a privilege—and build systems that honor both modern therapeutic practices and the cultural traditions that have always helped our communities heal.

My journey with mental health has been complex, shaped by a childhood marked by instability, trauma, and the quiet pain of growing up in an abusive household. My mother has struggled with drug addiction for as long as I can remember. While she remains on that difficult path today, her struggles cast long shadows over my life, leaving me to navigate feelings of abandonment, anger, and grief from a very young age. I was forced to grow up quickly, learning how to survive when the world around me felt unsafe. As a member of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa, I also carry the weight of understanding that my story is not unique. Many Native communities, including my own, face disproportionately high rates of trauma, substance use, and mental health challenges—painful symptoms of generational wounds inflicted by colonization, forced assimilation, and systemic neglect. According to the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA), Native Americans experience psychological distress 2.5 times more than the general population and have suicide rates nearly double the national average. For college-age Native youth, suicide is the second leading cause of death. These statistics are more than numbers—they represent people like me, who have had to navigate the quiet battles of mental health while trying to find a way forward. When I was accepted to Harvard University, I thought I had finally broken free from my past. But I quickly learned that unhealed trauma doesn’t disappear just because you step into a new chapter. The pressures of an elite academic environment, paired with my inner turmoil, created a storm I was unprepared for. I found myself grappling with imposter syndrome, feeling like I didn’t belong, and struggling to balance my coursework while processing years of pain I had buried deep. My mental health suffered in silence, as I often felt too ashamed or “out of place” to ask for help. The turning point came when I reconnected with my cultural teachings and my community. In Ojibwe traditions, healing is not a solitary act—it’s collective, rooted in storytelling, ceremony, and reclaiming identity. I learned that resilience doesn’t mean hiding your pain; it means transforming it into purpose. By leaning on the strength of my ancestors and embracing my culture, I began to reframe my mental health journey as one of survival, growth, and possibility. That shift gave me the courage to dream bigger. In 2022, I became Miss North Dakota USA. For me, this was never just about wearing a crown—it was about creating a platform to tell my story and advocate for those who felt unseen. I wanted young people, especially Native youth, to see that it’s possible to rise above your circumstances, to be strong, bold, and steadfast in the pursuit of your dreams, no matter what pain you carry. My title allowed me to travel across the state, sharing messages about resilience, representation, and breaking cycles of trauma. I spoke openly about mental health, especially within Native communities, because I know firsthand how silence can be deadly. My experiences also gave me clarity on my purpose. Today, I am a mother to a beautiful son, which has deepened my understanding of healing and the importance of breaking cycles for the next generation. And in a few weeks, I will begin law school at the University of North Dakota. My goal is to use my legal education to advocate for Tribal sovereignty and advance policies that improve mental health care access for Native communities. I want to help dismantle the systemic barriers that keep our people from receiving adequate care and to create spaces where mental health can be discussed without stigma. My journey with mental health has shaped my goals, relationships, and worldview in profound ways. It has given me deep empathy for others who are fighting invisible battles. It has taught me the importance of connection, of cultural identity, and of using my voice for something greater than myself. Most importantly, it has fueled my vision: a world where people, especially those in historically marginalized communities, can access the resources and support they need to heal. A world where mental health is not a source of shame but a part of our collective conversation about what it means to thrive. I’ve learned that healing isn’t linear—it’s a series of small, intentional acts: speaking your truth, leaning on your people, refusing to let your pain define you. This scholarship, in honor of Ethel Hayes, aligns so deeply with my journey because it recognizes that the first step in breaking cycles of suffering is to bring darkness into the light. My mental health challenges have shaped me into someone who dreams bigger, fights harder, and uses her voice not only for herself but for others who are still searching for theirs. I carry my scars with pride—not as reminders of what I’ve been through, but as proof of how far I’ve come. And I intend to use every part of my journey to build a future where others can do the same.

One of the things that keeps “Love Island” fans like me hooked is how the show constantly tests relationships with creative, unexpected challenges. My challenge, “The Heart Swap,” takes that to the next level by combining emotional vulnerability with playful chaos—two key ingredients of the show’s magic. Challenge Overview: “The Heart Swap” is designed to test communication, trust, and compatibility among couples. Islanders must temporarily “swap” partners for a series of mini-games and emotional prompts, seeing how they handle being outside their comfort zones while under the watchful eyes of their original partners. Rules & Structure: Pairing: Each Islander is randomly assigned a new partner for the challenge (via a card draw at the firepit). Mini-Games: Each pair rotates through stations with activities like: The Compliment Exchange: Islanders give genuine compliments to their swapped partner. The Secret Reveal: Islanders share a fun (or slightly embarrassing) personal secret they haven’t yet told anyone in the villa. The Touch Test: A blindfolded Islander must guess their swapped partner based only on touch (handholding, shoulders, etc.). Audience Twist: Fans vote live on which “new pair” had the most surprising chemistry, adding a social element that heightens the drama. Debrief: Islanders reunite with their original partners for a group discussion where they reflect on what they learned about themselves, their partner, and others in the villa. Objective & Excitement Factor: This challenge shakes up villa dynamics by encouraging Islanders to interact more deeply with people outside their current pairings. It forces them to confront feelings like jealousy and attraction in a playful, structured way while also providing fans with genuine, emotionally charged content. Why It Works: “The Heart Swap” taps into why viewers love “Love Island”—watching authentic human reactions when comfort zones are tested. It sparks drama without being malicious, encourages self-discovery, and could even lead to unexpected connections (or strengthen existing ones). The blend of emotional depth and lighthearted fun makes it a challenge that fans would replay, discuss, and anticipate for seasons to come. As a longtime “Love Island” fan, I know that the best challenges aren’t just about shock value—they’re about creating those unforgettable moments that fans can’t stop talking about. “The Heart Swap” does exactly that, keeping both Islanders and audiences on their toes in the most entertaining way.

In a world that often tells us to push through pain and perform no matter the cost, choosing to prioritize my mental, emotional, and physical health has been an act of resistance—and survival. I grew up in an environment where care was conditional and instability was the norm. My mother was abusive, and by the age of thirteen, I was kicked out and forced to navigate the world on my own. The trauma I endured didn’t end when I left—it stayed in my body, mind, and spirit, shaping how I saw myself and the world around me. For a long time, I operated on survival mode. I pushed myself to excel in school, attend Harvard, and become Miss North Dakota USA—all while hiding the weight of unhealed trauma. Outwardly, I was achieving, but inwardly, I was crumbling. Panic attacks, sleepless nights, and deep feelings of inadequacy were constant companions. It wasn’t until I became a mother that everything changed. When my son Cyrus was born, I realized that I couldn’t model self-love or build a stable home if I didn’t first care for myself. I began therapy and was diagnosed with PTSD and anxiety—names for things I had carried in silence for years. Getting help didn’t feel like a victory at first; it felt like unraveling. But in that unraveling, I found strength. I learned how to breathe through anxiety instead of pushing it away. I learned to set boundaries, to say no, to ask for help. Most importantly, I learned that self-care isn’t always soft. Sometimes, it’s waking up to journal instead of doom-scrolling. Sometimes, it’s doing a 20-minute Peloton ride even when I feel like giving up. Sometimes, it’s advocating for myself in academic and professional spaces that weren’t built for Native women like me. And sometimes, it’s just being fully present with Cyrus, showing him that healing is possible and love doesn’t have to hurt. Choosing my wellness has radically reshaped how I prepare for the future. This fall, I will start law school at the University of North Dakota to study Tribal Law. My decision to enter this field is rooted in both personal pain and deep passion: I want to build systems of justice that center Indigenous well-being and sovereignty. But I know that to do this work sustainably, I must continue to choose myself, again and again. I’ve learned to schedule rest like I schedule meetings, to see therapy not as a weakness but as maintenance, and to see my lived experience not as a liability, but as a source of wisdom. Caring for myself has taught me to care more deeply for others. Whether supporting my clients in tribal communities or showing up as a present mother, my commitment to wellness radiates outward. I’ve advocated for mental health resources for youth, supported initiatives around food sovereignty and healing, and shared my story publicly to help others feel less alone. My path has not been perfect, but it has been real. I am grounded not in having all the answers, but in the daily decision to keep showing up—for myself, for my son, and for my community. I believe in the power of wellness not as a luxury, but as a right. And through this scholarship, I hope to continue building a life—and a world—where that belief becomes a reality.

Mental health advocacy has been a central part of both my personal life and professional journey. As a Native woman and mother working in Tribal government consulting, I have seen firsthand how deeply mental health impacts our communities—especially when compounded by historical trauma, poverty, and limited access to care. In my role, I’ve helped Tribes design wellness initiatives using federal funding, including programming that addresses substance use, suicide prevention, and culturally grounded healing practices. But some of the most important advocacy has come outside the office: sitting with clients who are overwhelmed, checking in on coworkers, and encouraging community leaders to rest and heal without shame. Mental health shaped my personal life, too. I am a survivor of childhood abuse, and I’ve had to build my own path to healing without the support of a mother. I’ve navigated postpartum anxiety, grief, and burnout while raising my son and supporting others. These experiences have taught me to lead with compassion, and to normalize rest, therapy, and emotional honesty in every space I enter. This fall, I will begin law school at the University of North Dakota, where I will focus on Tribal law and policy. My goal is to advocate for systems that are trauma-informed, community-centered, and inclusive of mental health. Whether drafting legislation, defending Tribal rights, or supporting Indigenous clients, I will carry my mental health advocacy into every courtroom and policy room I enter. I believe healing is justice—and I plan to build a career that uplifts both.

Leadership isn’t about having the loudest voice in the room—it’s about listening, building trust, and creating meaningful change. I’ve come to understand this through my work consulting with Tribal Nations across the country, where I’ve led initiatives that directly impact the health, sovereignty, and future of Indigenous communities. One of the most pivotal moments in my leadership journey came when I was tasked with managing the implementation of COVID-19 relief funding for several Tribal governments. These projects were more than numbers on a spreadsheet—they were lifelines. The funding supported everything from food sovereignty initiatives and emergency housing to museum renovations and broadband expansion. I coordinated with Tribal leaders, federal agencies, and local contractors to ensure projects aligned with both compliance requirements and cultural values. The challenges were immense. Many Tribes lacked internal administrative infrastructure, and timelines were tight. I often found myself navigating bureaucracy while also translating federal language into something accessible and actionable. I led interagency meetings, built reporting systems, and created policies and procedures that are still in use today. I had to earn the trust of communities that have historically been excluded from meaningful participation in federal systems—and I did that by showing up with humility, consistency, and deep respect. The impact of this work was tangible. One project helped a Tribe acquire and repurpose a closed-down grocery store into a nutrition center for elders and children. Another supported mold remediation in Tribal housing, improving health outcomes. These weren’t just policy wins—they were human ones. What I’ve learned from these experiences is that leadership is about service. It’s about being a bridge between systems and people, and using your skills to make those systems work better for the people who’ve historically been left behind. This fall, I will begin law school at the University of North Dakota with a focus on Tribal law. I plan to become an attorney who advocates for Indigenous sovereignty, equitable healthcare, and policy reform that centers Native voices. My leadership experience in Tribal financial consulting has prepared me to step into rooms where decisions are made and ensure our communities are not only represented—but prioritized. As a young Native mother, a first-generation law student, and a former Miss North Dakota USA, I carry many identities. But at the core, I am someone committed to creating systems that reflect the strength, wisdom, and rights of Indigenous people. This scholarship would support me in that journey. With every brief I write, every meeting I lead, and every future policy I help shape, I will bring the same drive, ambition, and purpose that has defined my leadership so far.

My name is SaNoah LaRocque, and my life has been touched by sepsis in a way that’s both personal and painfully distant. A few years ago, my mother was hospitalized with a severe case of sepsis. She spent nearly a month in the hospital—fighting a condition that I had, at the time, only heard about in passing. As her daughter, I wanted so badly to be at her side, to understand her prognosis, and to help her recover. But that wasn’t possible. My mother is a long-time drug user and has been estranged from me for most of my life. The reality is, even when I knew she was in critical condition, I couldn’t get the updates I needed. She wouldn’t share them. I was left in the dark, piecing together information from secondhand conversations, unanswered texts, and painful silence. Still, I didn’t stop trying. I spent hours researching sepsis—its symptoms, its dangers, its long-term impacts. I tried to gently suggest recovery tools and support options once she was discharged. I looked into outpatient programs, nutrition plans, and even small lifestyle changes that could help someone recovering from such a traumatic illness. But as with much of her life, she wasn’t ready. Sepsis was just one chapter in a much longer story of struggle, addiction, and refusal to heal. Even though she wouldn’t let me help her, the experience changed me. I now know what sepsis looks like. I know how quickly it escalates. I know what questions to ask and what signs to watch for. I’ve shared that knowledge with others in my community—especially in Native spaces where access to medical advocacy can be limited and where chronic conditions are often underdiagnosed. My experience with my mother’s hospitalization taught me how to hold space for a crisis I couldn’t control, and it reminded me of the importance of education, empathy, and prevention. I’m still not in contact with my mother. That’s a wound that stays with me, but I’ve made peace with the fact that some people can’t be saved until they choose to be. What I can do is continue to build a life rooted in understanding, community, and support for others. That’s what I aim to do as I pursue higher education and a career in Tribal law and public health advocacy. My journey may not include reconciliation, but it absolutely includes purpose. Sepsis took my mom to the brink, and it took me to a place of reflection and clarity. I know now that even when we can’t heal every person we love, we can still choose to turn pain into awareness—and that kind of knowledge can save lives.

I didn’t grow up playing golf. In fact, I didn’t pick up a club until about four years ago. But once I did, something shifted. What started as a summer pastime quickly became something much more—a form of therapy, a path to well-being, and a way for me to reconnect with myself, my family, and my homelands. I live on the Turtle Mountain Reservation in North Dakota. For most of the year, our world is blanketed in snow and bitter wind. Winters stretch across eight months, often isolating our people indoors, where movement is limited and mental health can decline. When summer finally comes, it feels sacred. The green grass becomes a gathering place. And for many of us, the golf course becomes a space for community healing. Golf, here, isn’t just a sport—it’s a reprieve. It’s a way to get outside, move our bodies, and laugh with one another. I fell in love with the quiet focus of the game, with the challenge of steadying my breath before a swing, and the joy of watching the ball arc into a blue sky that had felt so distant all winter long. The sport taught me patience, self-awareness, and how to keep showing up—swing after swing, no matter how far off course I may go. But being a female-identifying golfer, especially in a sport that’s long been dominated by men, hasn’t always felt easy. I’ve been underestimated, overlooked, and even dismissed. At times, I’ve felt like I had to prove I belonged on the course. But instead of backing down, I leaned in. I let the game sharpen me—quietly, steadily, powerfully. Now, when I step up to the tee, I don’t need anyone else’s permission to take my space. Today, I share the course with my 15-month-old son, who toddles beside me as I line up my shot. I want him to grow up seeing women not only participating in sport, but thriving in it. My partner has taken up the game too, and golf has become something we share as a family. It’s one of the few places where time slows down and we are fully present with each other—no screens, no distractions, just us, the breeze, and the rhythm of the game. As a Native woman, a mother, and a golfer, I play not only for myself but for the future I’m trying to build—for my family and for my community. I want more Indigenous girls to see themselves on the green. I want more moms to feel welcome pushing a stroller down the fairway. I want more of our people to know that wellness doesn’t have to be a distant dream—it can start with a single swing, under the summer sun, on land our ancestors once walked. Golf is more than a hobby for me—it’s a tool for healing, a way to reclaim joy, and a tradition I hope to pass down for generations.

My name is SaNoah LaRocque, and I am a proud citizen of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians. I am preparing to begin law school at the University of North Dakota, where I will concentrate in Tribal Law. My career goal is to advocate for Native American communities by helping strengthen Tribal sovereignty, access to resources, and self-governance through policy and legal advocacy. My path toward law and advocacy has been shaped by both personal experiences and professional work. Growing up, I moved frequently, attending thirteen schools before graduating high school. I saw firsthand the systemic inequalities that Native people face, especially in education. Despite these challenges, I stayed firmly rooted in my cultural identity. As a high school student in Grand Forks, North Dakota, I challenged a discriminatory graduation policy by founding #LetTheFeathersFly, a campaign that helped Native students win the right to wear eagle feathers at graduation. Later, as a student at Harvard, I continued my advocacy through movements like #NoDAPL and by serving as a visible Native voice in an environment where Indigenous perspectives were rarely seen or understood. Today, I work as a Financial Analyst assisting Tribal Nations in managing federal funding and building stronger communities. This work has deepened my passion for using policy and law as tools to uplift Native communities. Through my legal education, I aim to become a strong advocate capable of navigating complex systems on behalf of Tribal governments and citizens. I believe that strong leadership rooted in cultural understanding is critical for Indigenous communities to thrive. Beyond professional goals, I am a mother to a young son. I hope that through my work, I can create a better world for him and for the generations that follow—a world where Native youth see examples of Native leadership in every field, where sovereignty is respected, and where community values are honored. My long-term vision includes serving as legal counsel for a Tribal Nation, helping draft policies that advance economic development, healthcare access, cultural preservation, and education opportunities. I also plan to mentor Native students interested in law and leadership, ensuring that our future leaders are supported and prepared to carry our communities forward. Education has been the single most transformative force in my life. It allowed me to dream bigger, to advocate louder, and to believe that I could make a difference. Receiving the Charlene K. Howard Scholarship would not only support me as I continue my journey but also honor my commitment to using my education for the betterment of others. Like Charlene Howard, I believe deeply in the power of education to change lives—not just for individuals, but for entire communities. In addition to my academic and professional work, I have been fortunate to partner with nonprofit organizations focused on serving Native American communities. Through volunteer work with groups supporting Indigenous youth and cultural preservation, I have helped organize community events, deliver educational workshops, and support fundraising efforts for programs that provide resources to underserved Native students. These experiences strengthened my belief in the power of collective action and showed me firsthand how nonprofits can fill critical gaps in access to education, healthcare, and cultural support. Working alongside passionate leaders committed to service inspired me to continue building a career that prioritizes community impact. Thank you, miigwetch for considering my application.

Question 1. I am starting law school August of 2025. I applied to the University of North Dakota and Mitchell Hamline University and was fortunate to be accepted into both institutions! I have paid my seat deposit at the University of North Dakota and plan to start law school there this fall. Question 2. My area of concentration is Tribal Law, with specific interest in Tribal sovereignty and the implementation of public policy in Indigenous communities. I believe this education lends itself directly to maintaining Tribal sovereignty and aiding in self-governance efforts. During law school, I will focus on the historical relationship Tribes hold with the United States through treaties, jurisdictional barriers, and bureaucratic barriers present in Indian Country. My focus stems from my lived experience as a citizen of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians. My identity as an Anishinaabe woman has informed every facet of my identity, and I have worked diligently to become a community leader and advocate. From serving as the first Native woman to hold the title of Miss North Dakota USA to engaging in discussions at Harvard's Institute of Politics, I have seen how Indigenous voices are underrepresented and misunderstood. My life's passion lies in taking place amongst the professionals working toward reshaping the legal profession so that we may understand them through an Indigenous lens. This academic work aligns with my long-term goal of using my education as a tool to empower my people. My legal career will allow me to advocate for Native communities, thereby being a role model and mentor for the next generation of youth. My perspective is shaped by tradition, culture, community, and commitment to my people. Question 3. Today I work as a Financial Analyst for a company that offers financial services for Indian Country. Through my work, I have assisted Tribes in using grant dollars toward the betterment of their communities. Because Tribes hold a distinctive relationship with the United States Federal Government, a large portion of my work has been navigating Federal guidance and ensuring compliance on behalf of my clients. This work allowed me to realize that my passion for upholding Tribal communities and advocating for sovereignty is the calling of my life. I am going to law school so that I may receive the education I need to become a strong voice in advocating for Tribal sovereignty. In studying law, I will have the necessary tools to delve deeper into the unique relationship Tribal Nations hold with the Federal Government. Question 4. I attended high school in North Dakota—a state marked by racism towards Native people. At graduation, I was banned from wearing an eagle feather on my graduation cap. As an eagle feather is a distinction bestowed upon our people during times of triumph, I took issue with this ban. I established #LetTheFeathersFly, a campaign that garnered support from across Indian Country. The campaign even caught the attention of First Lady Michelle Obama, who shared my story. Eventually, the school district allowed Native American students to don eagle feathers upon graduation. I proudly stood onstage as a graduation speaker, wearing my eagle feather in front of the men who previously told me "no." In that moment, I felt my community and ancestors behind me. This experience asked me to be brave—to stand proudly and advocate for my people. From each challenge arose an opportunity to grow as a leader. Question 5. If I had the means to support a philanthropic initiative, I would establish a Native Youth Empowerment and Leadership Fund. My initiative would provide scholarships for youth to pursue education in law, public service, healthcare, and STEM. I am a mother to a one-year-old son, so I would give specialized support for Native mothers pursuing education (childcare stipends, emergency grants). As someone involved in culture my whole life, I would invest in the arts by funding cultural preservation projects (language, traditional arts, historical education). Finally, as someone passionate about Tribal sovereignty, I would develop grants for tribal youth councils, powwow dance programs, and young leaders’ summits. The cause of Native youth development is dear to my heart. My upbringing was less than ideal. There were times I wanted to give up. However, strong role models made all the difference. I aspire to be this role model for other youth. My story is not unique. I wish to give Native youth the same gifts I was given. Engaging in building this community is the basis for which I shape my life.

Every year, thousands of lives are lost or forever changed due to the preventable decision to drink and drive. Alcohol-impaired driving not only endangers the life of the person behind the wheel, but it puts passengers, pedestrians, and other drivers at risk. It’s a public safety issue with deep roots, often tied to cycles of addiction, trauma, and lack of access to transportation or resources. Nowhere is this more personal to me than on the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians reservation, where I’ve seen firsthand how drinking and driving can devastate families and communities. This essay explores the consequences of drunk driving, strategies for prevention, and how our community can raise awareness and promote change. Driving under the influence of alcohol significantly impairs motor skills, reaction time, and decision-making. It increases the risk of car accidents, injuries, and fatalities. According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA), over 13,000 people died in alcohol-related crashes in the U.S. in 2021 alone. Beyond the tragic loss of life, individuals caught driving under the influence may face legal consequences, including arrest, jail time, heavy fines, and loss of driving privileges. The costs are not just personal—they affect society at large. Emergency response services, hospitals, and law enforcement are overwhelmed by alcohol-related incidents. Victims and their families must deal with emotional trauma, financial loss, and long-term health consequences. In smaller, tight-knit communities, such as those on reservations, the impact is even more profound. One accident affects an entire community. I grew up knowing the drinking problem on the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa reservation was more than just statistics—it was part of everyday life. Alcoholism is a disease that has long plagued Native communities, stemming from generations of trauma, historical injustice, and a lack of access to adequate mental health and addiction services. For many, alcohol becomes a way to numb pain. But too often, it leads to tragedy. I’ve lost community members to drunk driving accidents—some were behind the wheel, others were innocent victims. I remember one young man in particular. He was full of life, athletic, and always smiling. After a night of drinking, he got into a car with a friend who had been drinking too. The vehicle rolled off a rural road just outside of Belcourt. He didn’t survive. It shook the community, but sadly, it wasn’t the first time or the last. What hurts the most is how normalized it has become—how often you hear about someone getting their third DUI, or how many people don’t have access to taxis, Ubers, or public transportation, so they drive anyway. It’s a layered problem that goes beyond personal choice. It’s tied to lack of infrastructure, limited economic opportunities, intergenerational trauma, and the need for healing in our Native communities. While the roots of the problem are complex, some steps can be taken immediately to reduce the risks. One of the most important strategies is to plan ahead. If you know you’ll be drinking, arrange for a sober ride. On the reservation, where ride-share services are limited or unavailable, this often means leaning on friends or family to help. Community ride programs, safe ride volunteers, or tribal transportation initiatives could fill this gap. Education is another powerful tool. Young people especially need to understand the risks. Teaching about the effects of alcohol, the legal consequences of DUIs, and the emotional toll of loss from drunk driving should be part of the school curriculum. Even more important is creating safe spaces where people can talk about addiction, mental health, and why they turn to alcohol in the first place. It’s also crucial to support those struggling with alcohol dependency. Judgment and punishment alone don’t solve the problem. Counseling, culturally grounded healing programs, and access to recovery support can make a lasting impact. To truly tackle drinking and driving, our communities must come together. On the Turtle Mountain reservation and in other Native communities, this could include: -Culturally Relevant Awareness Campaigns: Messaging that is rooted in Native values—honoring ancestors, protecting children, and caring for community—can be more impactful than generic ads. Elders and community leaders can play a key role in sharing stories and urging youth to make better choices. -Tribal Safe Rides Program: During powwows, community events, and weekends, a tribal-run ride service could help people get home safely. Even a volunteer shuttle with a rotating schedule could save lives. -Partnerships with Law Enforcement and Health Services: Rather than focusing solely on punishment, there could be a partnership between tribal police and health professionals to refer DUI offenders to counseling and addiction treatment instead of just jail time. -Youth Leadership Programs: Investing in peer-to-peer education gives young people a voice and ownership of the issue. Youth councils can lead awareness campaigns, host events, and become role models. -Sobriety Incentive Programs: Programs that offer rewards or recognition for sobriety milestones can help support those in recovery and show that the community stands behind them. Drinking and driving is a heartbreaking and preventable issue that has taken too many lives—especially in Native communities like the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa. The trauma, grief, and loss we’ve experienced due to alcohol-related accidents are staggering. But with awareness, culturally rooted prevention strategies, and a willingness to address the deeper issues surrounding alcohol use, we can make a change. I believe in the strength of our people and our ability to rise above the challenges we face. By speaking openly about the impact of drinking and driving, creating safe alternatives, and lifting up those in recovery, we can protect our families, honor those we’ve lost, and build a healthier, safer future for the next seven generations.

Returning to school has been one of the most rewarding and demanding decisions I’ve ever made. It has pushed me beyond my comfort zone, tested my discipline, and forced me to balance more roles than I ever imagined—mother, professional, student, and future law school applicant—all at once. One of the greatest challenges I’ve faced has been balancing my full-time job with the academic rigor required to prepare for law school. I work in service to Tribal Nations, helping Tribes secure and manage federal funding, draft policy, and move community-focused projects forward. It’s work I care deeply about, and I carry a real sense of responsibility in it. But it also requires long hours, deadlines, and a high level of attention to detail. Adding LSAT prep and the law school application process on top of that was no small task. Complicating things even further was the birth of my son. Becoming a mother while navigating a full workload and preparing to return to school presented physical, mental, and emotional challenges I hadn’t fully anticipated. I work remotely, which is a blessing, but it also means I had to learn to take client calls with a baby on my hip, study logical reasoning during nap times, and write personal statements between feedings and diaper changes. I chose to exclusively breastfeed, which added another layer of time and energy to my daily schedule. There were many moments when I questioned whether it was possible to do it all. Another challenge I faced was internal—the quiet pressure of self-doubt. Law school is competitive and demanding, and as a Native woman, I am entering a space where people who look like me are still underrepresented. I’ve had to constantly remind myself that I belong in those rooms, that my lived experience matters, and that my path, while unconventional, is just as valid as anyone else’s. Financial pressure was also real. Applying to law school isn’t just time-consuming—it’s expensive. Between LSAT prep materials, testing fees, and application costs, the financial burden added stress to an already full plate. But I was fortunate to find support through mentors, peers, and scholarship opportunities that kept me motivated and focused. Despite these challenges, I’ve never wavered in my commitment to this path. Every obstacle has reinforced my determination. I’m not returning to school just for myself—I’m doing it for my son, for my community, and for the generations of Native people who deserve stronger legal advocates in their corner. My experiences have taught me resilience, creativity, and grit, and I know those same qualities will serve me well in law school and beyond. Returning to school while raising a child and working full-time hasn’t been easy—but it’s been deeply meaningful. It has taught me that I am capable of more than I ever imagined, and it’s shown me how much strength can come from purpose. I’m proud of how far I’ve come, and I’m ready for what’s next.

My name is SaNoah LaRocque, and I’m a citizen of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians. I’m a mother, a full-time professional, a former Miss North Dakota USA, and a future law student. My passion lies in public service, specifically in supporting Tribal Nations as they navigate federal systems, protect their sovereignty, and build stronger, more self-determined futures. I plan to continue that work through a career in law and public policy, using my education to make a meaningful and lasting impact in Indian Country. Over the last several years, I’ve worked closely with Tribal governments across the country, helping them manage federal funding, design community-driven projects, and stay in compliance with changing regulations. The work I do isn’t just technical—it’s personal. I’ve helped Tribes replace outdated HVAC systems in health centers and schools, plan food distribution centers to combat food insecurity, and renovate museums and cultural spaces that preserve language and history. Every project is a chance to invest in our people. I don’t take that lightly. But I’ve also seen where the real barriers lie. I’ve watched Tribal leaders get delayed by bureaucratic red tape, misunderstood by federal agencies, and restricted by laws and policies that fail to account for the realities of Indigenous life. These experiences made it clear to me that we need more Native voices in legal and policy spaces—people who understand both the cultural context and the legal framework. That’s why I’m going to law school. I plan to specialize in Tribal Law and federal Indian policy so I can return to Indian Country with more tools to support the work already being done. I want to help draft stronger laws that reflect tribal values, support Tribal Nations in litigation and negotiations, and help create policy frameworks that empower self-governance. Whether I work for a Tribe directly or in a broader advocacy role, my goal is the same: to help Indigenous communities protect what’s ours and create what’s next. Balancing work, motherhood, and LSAT prep hasn’t been easy. Since the birth of my son, I’ve taken client calls with him on my hip, studied logical reasoning during nap time, and written personal statements between diaper changes. But I’ve never lost sight of why I’m doing this. I want my son to grow up in a world where Native children see themselves reflected in leadership, law, and opportunity. I want him to know that his culture is not just something to be proud of—it’s something to build a future on. The impact I hope to make is not about individual success. It’s about collective progress. I believe in Tribal sovereignty, in cultural preservation, in Indigenous excellence, and in the power of policy to shape lives. I want to use my education to uplift Native voices, expand resources for Tribal Nations, and help make the systems around us more equitable, more effective, and more just. This work is my calling—and law school is just the next step.

My passion for public service is rooted in where I come from and who I serve. As a citizen of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians, I’ve seen firsthand how underinvestment, complex federal policies, and generations of systemic neglect have created barriers for Native communities. But I’ve also seen the power of resilience, the strength of culture, and the impact of intentional, community-based service. This is where my passion began—and where it continues to grow. I currently work full-time in service to Tribal Nations across the country, helping Tribes manage federal funding, design projects that reflect their unique priorities, and build sustainable infrastructure. From securing resources for HVAC replacements in tribal buildings to drafting agreements for food distribution centers, every part of my work is guided by a deep commitment to Indigenous self-determination. I don't do this work because it's easy—it rarely is. I do it because it's necessary, and because I believe our communities deserve excellence, advocacy, and long-term support. But I’ve also come to recognize the limitations of what I can do in my current role. There are deeper issues—policy gaps, legal complexities, and institutional barriers—that I want to address directly. That’s what inspired me to pursue a legal education with a focus on Tribal Law and federal Indian policy. I want to be equipped not only to support programs, but to shape the legal and policy structures that impact Native Nations every day. Law school will give me the tools to become a more effective advocate for my community. I plan to return to Indian Country as a legal advisor, public policy strategist, or tribal attorney—someone who not only understands the law, but understands how to apply it in culturally grounded, community-driven ways. Whether I’m writing codes, litigating land and sovereignty issues, or supporting tribal governments in self-governance efforts, my goal is to amplify Native voices and expand opportunities for our people. Public service isn’t just a career path for me—it’s a calling. It shows up in the way I approach motherhood, in the way I support other Native women in their education and business journeys, and in the way I continue to show up for my community, even on the hard days. My education will not take me away from this purpose—it will deepen it. In a time when so many Native communities are reclaiming language, land, and legacy, I want to be one of the people helping make that possible—not from the sidelines, but from within. That’s what public service means to me: using every skill, every opportunity, and every ounce of energy to help build a future where our people don’t just survive, but thrive.

Balancing work and caregiving has been the most humbling and transformative journey of my life. As a mother to my son, Cyrus, and a professional working in service of Tribal Nations, I have had to learn—through trial, error, and grace—how to show up fully in two roles that demand everything from me. Each role has shaped my character, tested my endurance, and deepened my understanding of what it means to lead, to serve, and to persist. These experiences have not only defined my daily life, but they’ve become the foundation upon which I’ve built my career goals. When I became a mother, I felt both the overwhelming love that only a parent can understand and the immediate pressure of learning how to manage motherhood alongside a demanding professional life. At the time, I was already immersed in a career supporting Tribal Nations with financial planning, infrastructure projects, and COVID-19 relief. My work had impact, and I was proud of it—but caregiving added a new layer of responsibility, one that didn’t clock out at the end of the day. The biggest challenge was navigating the emotional weight of wanting to be everything for everyone. I didn’t want to choose between being a present mother and a passionate professional. But the reality is that balance often feels more like a series of negotiations than a perfect equation. I’ve taken meetings with my son on my lap, typed grant proposals during nap time, and learned to measure productivity in moments, not hours. The struggle wasn’t just time management—it was redefining success. And in that redefining, I found strength. The significance of these experiences lies in what they taught me about resilience, focus, and purpose. I learned that my son doesn’t need a perfect mother—he needs a present one. And my community doesn’t need perfection either—they need advocates who care deeply, listen intently, and show up with lived experience. Caregiving made me more empathetic, more organized, and more mission-driven. It revealed the gaps in support systems for working mothers and illuminated how few spaces are built with us in mind. That realization didn’t discourage me—it motivated me to become part of the solution. This is why I’ve chosen to pursue a legal education, with a focus on Tribal Law and public policy. I want to be in the rooms where decisions are made about Native communities and Native families. I want to advocate for systems that honor the realities of caregiving, particularly in Indian Country, where extended family networks, culture, and caretaking are deeply intertwined. My goal is not just to build a career—it is to help rebuild systems that work for us, not against us. In addition to law school, I also run a Native-owned children’s boutique on the reservation, creating culturally grounded space for families like mine. It’s not just a business—it’s an extension of my values and a tribute to my son, who inspires everything I do. Through my work, I’ve had the honor of supporting Tribes with projects that enhance public health, education, and economic development. But I know that to continue growing in this work—and to advocate on a larger scale—I need the legal tools and policy training that law school will provide. Caregiving has taught me that leadership doesn’t always look like a boardroom. Sometimes, it looks like a mother rocking her child to sleep while drafting an interagency agreement. Sometimes, it looks like persistence through exhaustion, and vision in the face of doubt. These experiences haven’t just shaped my career goals—they’ve given them meaning. I’m not just working for a better future. I’m raising one.

My decision to continue my education was born out of a deep desire to serve my community and create meaningful change, particularly in Indian Country. As a citizen of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians, I’ve witnessed both the resilience and the challenges our people face. I grew up with a strong sense of identity and responsibility, watching my grandparents work diligently to provide better opportunities for the next generation. Their example, paired with my own experiences navigating systems that were never built with Native people in mind, inspired me to seek a legal education focused on Tribal Law. I want to be an advocate for sovereignty, for culturally grounded policy, and for Indigenous futures. Education, for me, is not just a personal pursuit—it’s a tool for collective empowerment. The path hasn’t been easy. One of the greatest obstacles I’ve faced has been balancing my academic and professional goals with motherhood. Becoming a mother shifted everything. Suddenly, I wasn’t just working for myself—I was working for my son, Cyrus. His presence in my life gave me new purpose, but also new challenges. There were times I doubted whether I could do both—pursue higher education and be the kind of mother I wanted to be. I’ve had to navigate financial limitations, time constraints, and the emotional toll of feeling stretched thin. There have been nights where I studied with one hand while holding him in the other, moments when I had to pause everything to meet his needs, and days when the weight of responsibility felt overwhelming. Yet in those moments, I also found clarity. My son is my greatest motivation. I want him to grow up seeing his mother unapologetically chasing her dreams, standing firm in her values, and using her voice to uplift others. I want him to know that education is not just about personal success—it’s about using your gifts to serve your people. That vision keeps me grounded, even when the journey is difficult. Managing both roles—student and mother—requires careful prioritization, a strong support system, and a whole lot of grace. I’ve learned to be strategic with my time, to accept help when it's offered, and to give myself permission to not be perfect. I rely on my community—family members, friends, mentors—who remind me that I’m not alone in this. I also try to integrate my roles rather than separate them. I bring my son to community events, study while he naps, and remind myself that he is learning from my actions every day. Motherhood has made me more focused, more determined, and more compassionate. It’s taught me resilience in a way no textbook ever could. Continuing my education is not just about earning a degree. It’s about honoring where I come from and preparing for where I’m going. It’s about showing my son—and all Native youth—that we belong in these spaces, and that our voices matter. My journey is deeply personal, but it’s also part of something much larger than me. And that’s what keeps me moving forward.