Growing up in an extremely homophobic household and community, I spent years hiding my identity as a lesbian. Within the Mashadi community where I was raised, beliefs about sexuality weren’t just rigid they were absolute. Homosexuality wasn’t merely frowned upon; it was described as sinful, shameful, and unacceptable. Those who lived openly risked ostracism or even excommunication. I witnessed this firsthand as a child, watching people who came out as gay suddenly vanish from the community. Their families would never utter a word about them again, acting as if they had never existed. It was a silent but powerful warning: this is what happens to people like you. Throughout my childhood, every time I developed a crush on a girl, I rationalized it in my mind, convincing myself I was simply admiring a friend. When my friends gushed about boys and asked me who I liked, I never had an answer. I told them I was focused on school or extracurriculars, anything that could justify my silence. I became skilled at policing my own thoughts. If I so much as noticed that a girl was pretty, I shut the thought down immediately. I monitored my words, my expressions, even the way I looked at people. Over time, I convinced myself that my feelings didn’t exist. Suppression became survival. I managed to exist in that state until I was fourteen, when I met a girl named Eden. She made everything impossible to ignore. It didn’t take long for me to realize that my feelings weren’t harmless admiration. I liked her. I really liked her. And with that realization came overwhelming fear. I knew exactly what would happen if anyone found out. I would be disowned by my parents, never see my little brother again. I would be excommunicated from the only community I had ever known, erased just like the others before me. My fear extended beyond family and community. My faith, Judaism, had been presented to me in a way that framed my very existence as sinful. I had been taught that homosexuality was punishable by death in the Torah. I read rabbinical commentaries insisting that people like me must suppress our desires. The message was clear: I could exist, but only if I remained silent. I often found myself asking, how was that fair? Why was I expected to live a life without love while everyone around me was encouraged to marry and build families? The thought of being denied something so fundamental left me hollow. If I couldn't love whats the point of living at all? Writing became my refuge long before it became my passion. In a household where even small mistakes were met with yelling, I learned that approval was fragile. I tiptoed through my own home, trying to be smaller, quieter, easier to love. In my imagination, however, I could create worlds where mistakes didn’t define a person’s worth. I built stories where characters impossible challenges and still persevered. As I grew older, those imagined worlds turned into words on a page. Through writing, I began to process emotions I had long suppressed. What once felt like shame slowly transformed into purpose. I realized I wanted to use storytelling to give voice to those who have been silenced to create space for people who have been told they are wrong for simply existing. Today, writing is no longer just an escape; it is an act of courage. I write so others can see that their truth deserves to be spoken, not hidden.

One of the most influential figures in my life has been my high school English teacher, Mr. Pickering, who taught me from ninth through eleventh grade. When I first entered his class, I was struggling with depression and felt completely disconnected from school, from my classmates, and even from myself. It was a dark period where I doubted my abilities and felt like nothing I did mattered. Mr. Pickering noticed early on that I was withdrawn, and instead of ignoring it, he made a point to reach out. He didn’t push or lecture he simply created a space in his classroom where I felt seen, heard, and valued. His passion for literature was infectious. He had a way of presenting texts that made them come alive, encouraging us not just to read but to really think, question, and feel. Slowly, I found myself becoming more engaged in his class. Discussions that I once would have avoided became spaces where I could share my thoughts, and I started to rediscover a part of myself I thought I had lost. One of the most pivotal moments was when he suggested I join the creative writing club. I was hesitant at first I didn’t think anyone would want to read my writing but he encouraged me gently, saying that the only way to grow as a writer was to take risks and share my voice. Joining that club was transformative. I met people incredible people who have now been my friends of 3 years who share my interests. Mr. Pickering offered guidance, critique, and praise in ways that motivated me to improve constantly. Under his mentorship, I developed my writing skills to a level I hadn’t imagined possible. Now in my 12th grad year, I have published seven articles in a the Jerusalem Post (a newspaper abroad in the middle east), an achievement I never would have thought possible back when I was struggling to find motivation. Beyond academics, Mr. Pickering’s influence extended to how I approach life. He taught me resilience, the importance of passion, and the value of believing in oneself even when circumstances feel overwhelming. His belief in me helped me apply to and get accepted into Northeastern University, where I will hopefully if I get enough scholarships major in journalism a field I might never have considered had it not been for his encouragement and the confidence he instilled in me. Looking back, I realize that Mr. Pickering wasn’t just my teacher; he was a mentor, a guide, and a lifeline during some of my most difficult years. His impact goes beyond the classroom. He changed the trajectory of my life, and I carry the lessons he taught me every day: the courage to engage, the joy of reading and writing, and the understanding that even in moments of darkness, support and guidance can light the way forward.

I was born with congenital CMV, a virus that can cause blindness, deafness, and developmental delays. Although doctors warned my mother of severe risks, I was born being able to hear fully, doctors called it a miracle. At age two, however, we discovered I was completely deaf in one ear. Because my hearing loss is invisible and I speak fluently, most people assume I hear perfectly. That assumption has shaped much of my experience navigating the world. In elementary and middle school, there were moments when teachers called my name from across the room and I did not respond. I genuinely did not hear them. More than once, I was reprimanded for “ignoring” instructions or “not paying attention.” I remember the embarrassment of being yelled at in front of classmates for something I could not control. At the time, I did not always know how to explain myself. I felt frustrated and ashamed, as if I had done something wrong simply because I could not hear. Socially, hearing loss created challenges that were quieter but just as painful. In group settings, especially in loud cafeterias or crowded hallways, I would miss pieces of conversations. I often asked friends to repeat themselves. Over time, some grew impatient. A few friendships faded because they were tired of repeating jokes or comments. It is difficult to explain the loneliness of standing in a group and laughing a second too late or not at all because you missed the punchline. Hearing loss may not be visible, but isolation can be very real. For years, I minimized these experiences. I worked harder to compensate. I positioned myself strategically in classrooms, watched people’s lips, and studied body language. Eventually, I learned to advocate for myself to tell teachers I needed to sit closer to the front, to explain why I might miss something spoken from behind me, and to ask confidently for repetition without apology. I also recognize that I was fortunate. I had access to evaluations, support, and speech development. Many children with hearing loss do not. Some lack early intervention services, hearing devices, speech therapy, or access to sign language instruction. Without those resources, small challenges can become lifelong barriers. These experiences have shaped my goal of one day creating a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting deaf and hard-of-hearing children, particularly those in underserved communities. My charity would focus on providing access to hearing aids, therapy services, tutoring, and communication education. I would also create mentorship programs connecting older students with hearing loss to younger children, so no child feels alone in their experience. In addition, I want to build support networks for parents navigating a diagnosis, ensuring they have information and guidance from the beginning. Being deaf in one ear has taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of access. I know what it feels like to be misunderstood because of something invisible. I also know how transformative proper support can be. Through my education, I plan to advocate for policies and programs that ensure children with disabilities are not dismissed, overlooked, or blamed for circumstances beyond their control. My hearing loss has not limited me but it has given me purpose. I want to make sure that no child is ever yelled at for something they cannot hear, and no friendship is lost simply because access was never provided.

The most meaningful way I have contributed to my community was through my relationship with a girl named Valorie, who was deaf in both ears and could not speak. Because she did not have access to proper services, she also never learned sign language. For three years my entire middle school experience I spent time with her consistently, building a connection that changed both of us. I was born with congenital CMV, a virus that can cause blindness, deafness, and developmental delays. Doctors advised my mother to terminate the pregnancy due to the risks, but she chose not to. I was born with hearing, and at age two we discovered I was completely deaf in one ear. I was fortunate. I received the support I needed early on, and today I speak fluently and excel academically. Most people would never know I have hearing loss unless I tell them. When I met Valorie, I immediately understood how different her experience was from mine. She did not have access to speech therapy, hearing technology, or sign language instruction. She could not communicate in traditional ways, and as a result, she was often isolated. I saw how easily people overlooked her not intentionally, but because they did not know how to engage with her. I did not want her to feel invisible. At first, communicating was difficult. She could not speak or sign, so we had to find other ways to connect. We relied on facial expressions, gestures, drawing, pointing, and trial and error. There were moments of frustration when we misunderstood each other, and I had to learn patience in a way I never had before. Instead of giving up when communication felt hard, I stayed. I adapted. I paid attention to small cues eye movements, body language, changes in expression. Over time, we built our own way of understanding each other. We did activities together arts and crafts, games, simple routines and slowly she became more expressive around me. I began to recognize what made her excited, what made her nervous, and how to comfort her. What started as volunteering turned into a deep friendship built on consistency and trust. The biggest challenge was knowing that her isolation was preventable. If she had access to early intervention services or sign language instruction, her world could have been larger and more connected. That realization was painful but it also motivated me. It showed me how critical access is. From Valorie, I learned that inclusion is not about convenience; it is about commitment. It requires slowing down, adjusting, and sometimes being uncomfortable. I learned that communication is more than words. Most importantly, I learned that simply showing up consistently can transform someone’s confidence and sense of belonging. This experience shaped how I plan to contribute in the future. I hope to create a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping deaf and hard-of-hearing children access the services they need speech therapy, hearing devices, sign language education, tutoring, and mentorship. I also want to create support networks for parents so no child grows up without the tools to communicate. Valorie changed the way I see the world. She taught me that when society fails to provide access, individuals must step forward. Even though we lost communication when I went to high school as I went to a different school I think about her often. I plan to continue stepping forward advocating, mentoring, and building systems that ensure no child feels unheard simply because they lack support.

I am a senior at the Hebrew Academy of Nassau County (HANC), where I have maintained a 93.32 GPA and honors. Beyond academics, I have always sought ways to engage with my community and make a meaningful difference in the lives of others. Volunteering, tutoring, and leading 3 school clubs and being in 11 in total have been central to how I define myself, but the experience that has shaped my vision most profoundly comes from my own experience as someone who is deaf in one ear. I was born with congenital CMV, a virus that can cause severe disabilities including blindness, deafness, and developmental delays. Doctors even advised my mother to terminate the pregnancy due to the risks. She chose not to, and I was born developing typically, with only partial deafness discovered at age two. I speak fluently, excel academically, and have never let my hearing affect my abilities but I know that many children born with similar conditions do not have the same resources or opportunities. This experience inspired my vision for a charity focused on supporting deaf and hard-of-hearing children. The mission of my charity would be to provide these children with the services, tools, and community support they need to succeed in life. Many children face barriers to early intervention, hearing aids, speech therapy, tutoring, and specialized educational programs. My organization would work to remove those barriers, ensuring that children receive the services they need as soon as possible. Volunteers would play a critical role in the charity’s work. They could mentor and spend quality time with deaf children, help with educational programs, and organize creative workshops or social events that foster confidence and social skills. The charity would also offer support groups for parents, connecting them with guidance, community, and resources to navigate the challenges of raising a child with hearing loss. In this way, the organization would provide both practical assistance and emotional support to children and families, helping them feel empowered and included. Through my volunteer work with organizations such as Chai Lifeline, Fountain of Kindness, and tutoring programs, I have seen how hands-on support can transform lives. I want my charity to extend that kind of impact specifically to deaf children, who often struggle in silence without sufficient access or attention. By combining services, mentorship, and parent support, my organization would help ensure that every child has the chance to thrive, regardless of the challenges they face. Ultimately, my charity reflects my belief that access and support can change lives. Growing up deaf in one ear taught me that challenges do not define limits—opportunities do. I hope to use my experiences and skills to create a space where deaf children can receive the resources, community, and encouragement they need to succeed academically, socially, and emotionally. Through this work, I aim to give other children the same advantages I was lucky to receive, and to help them thrive in a world where they are seen, heard, and valued.

Growing up in an extremely homophobic household and community, I spent years hiding my identity as a lesbian. Within the Mashadi community where I was raised, beliefs about sexuality weren’t just rigid they were absolute. Homosexuality wasn’t merely frowned upon; it was described as sinful, shameful, and unacceptable. Those who lived openly risked ostracism or even excommunication. I witnessed this firsthand as a child, watching people who came out as gay suddenly vanish from the community. Their families would never utter a word about them again, acting as if they had never existed. It was a silent but powerful warning: this is what happens to people like you. Throughout my childhood, every time I developed a crush on a girl, I rationalized it in my mind, convincing myself I was simply admiring a friend. When my friends gushed about boys and asked me who I liked, I never had an answer. I told them I was focused on school or extracurriculars, anything that could justify my silence. I became skilled at policing my own thoughts. If I so much as noticed that a girl was pretty, I shut the thought down immediately. I monitored my words, my expressions, even the way I looked at people. Over time, I convinced myself that my feelings didn’t exist. Suppression became survival. I managed to exist in that state until I was fourteen, when I met a girl named Eden. She made everything impossible to ignore. It didn’t take long for me to realize that my feelings weren’t harmless admiration. I liked her. I really liked her. And with that realization came overwhelming fear. I knew exactly what would happen if anyone found out. I would be disowned by my parents, never see my little brother again. I would be excommunicated from the only community I had ever known, erased just like the others before me. My fear extended beyond family and community. My faith, Judaism, had been presented to me in a way that framed my very existence as sinful. I had been taught that homosexuality was punishable by death in the Torah. I read rabbinical commentaries insisting that people like me must suppress our desires. The message was clear: I could exist, but only if I remained silent. I often found myself asking, how was that fair? Why was I expected to live a life without love while everyone around me was encouraged to marry and build families? The thought of being denied something so fundamental left me hollow. Writing became my refuge long before it became my passion. In a household where even small mistakes were met with yelling, I learned that approval was fragile. I tiptoed through my own home, trying to be smaller, quieter, easier to love. In my imagination, however, I could create worlds where mistakes didn’t define a person’s worth. I built stories where characters impossible challenges and still persevered. As I grew older, those imagined worlds turned into words on a page. Through writing, I began to process emotions I had long suppressed. What once felt like shame slowly transformed into purpose. I realized I wanted to use storytelling to give voice to those who have been silenced to create space for people who have been told they are wrong for simply existing. Today, writing is no longer just an escape; it is an act of courage. I write so others can see that their truth deserves to be spoken, not hidden which is what made me want to prusue journalism.

Growing up in an extremely homophobic household and community, I spent years hiding my identity as a lesbian. Within the Mashadi community where I was raised, beliefs about sexuality weren’t just rigid they were absolute. Homosexuality wasn’t merely frowned upon; it was described as sinful, shameful, and unacceptable. Those who lived openly risked ostracism or even excommunication. I witnessed this firsthand as a child, watching people who came out as gay suddenly vanish from the community. Their families would never utter a word about them again, acting as if they had never existed. It was a silent but powerful warning: this is what happens to people like you. Throughout my childhood, every time I developed a crush on a girl, I rationalized it in my mind, convincing myself I was simply admiring a friend. When my friends gushed about boys and asked me who I liked, I never had an answer. I told them I was focused on school or extracurriculars, anything that could justify my silence. I became skilled at policing my own thoughts. If I so much as noticed that a girl was pretty, I shut the thought down immediately. I monitored my words, my expressions, even the way I looked at people. Over time, I convinced myself that my feelings didn’t exist. Suppression became survival. I managed to exist in that state until I was fourteen, when I met a girl named Eden. She made everything impossible to ignore. It didn’t take long for me to realize that my feelings weren’t harmless admiration. I liked her. I really liked her. And with that realization came overwhelming fear. I knew exactly what would happen if anyone found out. I would be disowned by my parents, never see my little brother again. I would be excommunicated from the only community I had ever known, erased just like the others before me. My fear extended beyond family and community. My faith, Judaism, had been presented to me in a way that framed my very existence as sinful. I had been taught that homosexuality was punishable by death in the Torah. I read rabbinical commentaries insisting that people like me must suppress our desires. The message was clear: I could exist, but only if I remained silent. I often found myself asking, how was that fair? Why was I expected to live a life without love while everyone around me was encouraged to marry and build families? The thought of being denied something so fundamental left me hollow. If I couldn't love whats the point of living at all? Writing became my refuge long before it became my passion. In a household where even small mistakes were met with yelling, I learned that approval was fragile. I tiptoed through my own home, trying to be smaller, quieter, easier to love. In my imagination, however, I could create worlds where mistakes didn’t define a person’s worth. I built stories where characters impossible challenges and still persevered. As I grew older, those imagined worlds turned into words on a page. Through writing, I began to process emotions I had long suppressed. What once felt like shame slowly transformed into purpose. I realized I wanted to use storytelling to give voice to those who have been silenced to create space for people who have been told they are wrong for simply existing. Today, writing is no longer just an escape; it is an act of courage. I write so others can see that their truth deserves to be spoken, not hidden.

Growing up in an extremely homophobic household and community, I spent years hiding my identity as a lesbian. Within the Mashadi community where I was raised, beliefs about sexuality weren’t just rigid they were absolute. Homosexuality wasn’t merely frowned upon; it was described as sinful, shameful, and unacceptable. Those who lived openly risked ostracism or even excommunication. I witnessed this firsthand as a child, watching people who came out as gay suddenly vanish from the community. Their families would never utter a word about them again, acting as if they had never existed. It was a silent but powerful warning: this is what happens to people like you. Throughout my childhood, every time I developed a crush on a girl, I rationalized it in my mind, convincing myself I was simply admiring a friend. When my friends gushed about boys and asked me who I liked, I never had an answer. I told them I was focused on school or extracurriculars, anything that could justify my silence. I became skilled at policing my own thoughts. If I so much as noticed that a girl was pretty, I shut the thought down immediately. I monitored my words, my expressions, even the way I looked at people. Over time, I convinced myself that my feelings didn’t exist. Suppression became survival. I managed to exist in that state until I was fourteen, when I met a girl named Eden. She made everything impossible to ignore. It didn’t take long for me to realize that my feelings weren’t harmless admiration. I liked her. I really liked her. And with that realization came overwhelming fear. I knew exactly what would happen if anyone found out. I would be disowned by my parents, never see my little brother again. I would be excommunicated from the only community I had ever known, erased just like the others before me. My fear extended beyond family and community. My faith, Judaism, had been presented to me in a way that framed my very existence as sinful. I had been taught that homosexuality was punishable by death in the Torah. I read rabbinical commentaries insisting that people like me must suppress our desires. The message was clear: I could exist, but only if I remained silent. I often found myself asking, how was that fair? Why was I expected to live a life without love while everyone around me was encouraged to marry and build families? The thought of being denied something so fundamental left me hollow. At my lowest, I wondered what kind of life I could have if I was never allowed to fully be myself. Writing became my refuge long before it became my passion. In a household where even small mistakes were met with yelling, I learned that approval was fragile. I tiptoed through my own home, trying to be smaller, quieter, easier to love. In my imagination, however, I could create worlds where mistakes didn’t define a person’s worth. I built stories where characters impossible challenges and still persevered. As I grew older, those imagined worlds turned into words on a page. Through writing, I began to process emotions I had long suppressed. What once felt like shame slowly transformed into purpose. I realized I wanted to use storytelling to give voice to those who have been silenced to create space for people who have been told they are wrong for simply existing. Today, writing is no longer just an escape; it is an act of courage. I write so others can see that their truth deserves to be spoken, not hidden.