Every time we watched Forrest Gump, my dad would tell me to close my eyes during the scene where Jenny is playing the guitar. I didn’t question it, I just did it. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized how many ordinary moments like that I shared with him, and how they became part of something much bigger in my life. Forrest Gump was just a movie I would always ask to watch with my dad, but it stopped being just a movie and became a part of how I understand life. When I was little, I loved Forrest Gump simply because it made me feel happy. I liked the humor, Forrest’s innocent way of speaking, his friendship with Bubba, and the way he would suddenly appear in major moments of history without ever trying to be “important.” I didn’t realize it then, but my dad saw something deeper in it. He would pause it sometimes and talk about how Forrest kept going no matter what people thought of him or what challenges he faced, whether it was running across the country for years or standing by Lieutenant Dan when everything in Dan’s life felt like it had fallen apart. At the time, I would just listen without fully grasping what he meant. As I got older, those conversations started to mean more. My dad was diagnosed with ALS in 2020, when I was in sixth grade. Over the next few years, I watched him face a disease that slowly took away his ability to do the things he once did so easily. Even in the hardest moments, he never stopped showing up for me. He never stopped teaching me in his own way. Watching Forrest Gump together became different after his diagnosis. The movie I once saw as simple and comforting began to feel deeply meaningful. Forrest’s life is not defined by perfection or even control. Instead, it is defined by persistence. He keeps moving forward even when life is confusing or unfair. That idea became something I held onto as I watched my dad navigate his illness with strength and determination. Like Forrest, he didn’t let circumstances define his worth or his purpose. He continued to show love and faith in the life he still had. One of the most powerful lessons I learned from both the movie and my dad is that success is not always measured in achievement. Sometimes, it is measured in kindness and the ability to keep going when it would be easier to stop. Forrest Gump taught me that life does not have to be understood perfectly to be meaningful. My dad taught me that, too. Now, when I think about my future and my education, I carry that lesson with me. I want to continue learning not just for career advancement, but for growth, resilience, and the ability to contribute something meaningful to the world around me. Education, to me, is not just a path forward but it is a way to honor the values my dad lived and the lessons I learned sitting beside him watching a movie that quietly shaped my understanding of life. Forrest Gump will always be more than a film to me. It is a reminder that even when life changes in ways we never expect, like Forrest losing people he loves or my dad facing ALS, we can still move forward with purpose and love.

“Bring a snack and a drink and come join me for an hour.” I got that email late one night from my sophomore year math teacher, Ms. Bourgeois. I had been staring at my Algebra II study guide for hours, completely overwhelmed and ready to give up. But there she was, offering her lunch period just to help me understand. That was Ms. Bourgeois. At the start of the year, I thought her class would just be about math. Instead, it became a place where I learned something much more important, how to see my worth beyond grades and achievements. Her classroom didn’t feel like any other. There were stuffed Tiggers everywhere on shelves, desks, even a giant inflatable one she brought in during Christmas and never took down. At first, it seemed random. But over time, I realized it wasn’t. Tigger was her way of bringing joy into the room, a reminder not to take everything so seriously. More than that, it was her way of taking care of us. If someone was having a bad day, she wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. She would just quietly place a small Tigger on their desk as a simple, unspoken way of saying, “I see you.” In a world where it’s easy to feel invisible, that small gesture meant everything. I didn’t fully understand her impact on me until the day I found out I didn’t make Ambassadors. I remember feeling discouraged, like it somehow reflected my worth. But before those thoughts could take over, Ms. Bourgeois pulled me into a hug and reminded me that one decision didn’t define me and that they were the ones missing out on an amazing girl. Something shifted in that moment. For the first time, I started to see failure differently. Not as a reflection of who I am, but as just one moment that wouldn’t determine my future. That mindset didn’t stay in her classroom. It followed me into everything I did. I began showing up with more confidence, pushing through challenges instead of backing away, and reminding others of their worth the same way she reminded me of mine. Ms. Bourgeois didn’t just teach math, she changed what being a teacher meant to me. She created a space where students felt supported, valued, and encouraged to grow. Whether it was staying after school to help us or quietly placing a Tigger on someone’s desk, she showed me that people learn best when they feel cared for. At the end of the year, I gave her a painting of Tigger as a thank you. It felt small compared to everything she had given me. But when she told me she would hang it up and always think of me, I realized something: her impact didn’t end in her classroom. It became part of who I am. Because of Ms. Bourgeois, I see things differently now. I don’t let one moment define me. I notice the power of small acts of kindness. And as I move into the next chapter of my life, I carry her example with me, trying to be someone who lifts others up. I know I’ll never look at Tigger the same way again. Not just as a childhood character, but as a quiet reminder of hope, love, and the lasting impact one person can have on another. She didn’t just change how I learned. She changed how I live.

There are those moments in life that turn everything upside down, moments that put your life into before and after. When my father was diagnosed with ALS in 2020, in my 6th-grade year, everything changed. He was always the gruff, athletic, rambunctious man who coached me in sports, screamed the loudest during my games, and called me his "supergirl." But over the next three years, I watched him lose his ability to walk, talk, and lastly, breathe. He passed away when I was a freshman in 2023. Throughout all of that, the only steady constant in my life was my mom. She stood by me emotionally, spiritually, and monetarily. She became my dad's full-time caregiver, taking care of his machines, meds, and emotional well-being, as well as standing me up during the bereavement and fear. Even though our family was under financial and emotional pressure, she didn't want my education to be affected. She took on extra work and placed us in the PATHS program so that I could remain at my Catholic school, even when tuition was out of the question. She never doubted my future. It's because of the sacrifices that she made that I am as diligent. I pay tribute to her by staying committed in school and staying involved in the community. I am a two-club secretary, a Minister for Holy Communion, a student government member, and an active softball player. I have chosen to serve and lead because I understand how precious it is to give back, the same way that she gave everything for me. Witnessing my dad's illness also impacted my dream: I want to study kinesiology and become an athletic trainer or physical therapist. Witnessing first-hand how much of an impact the compassionate, healthy caregivers had on my dad's life, I knew that I wanted to be that type of caregiver to others. I want to heal people, the way we were healed. Losing a parent as a teenager is a wound that never really heals. There are simply too many days I find myself still grabbing my phone to forward my dad a picture of my report card or a video of a softball game. There are evenings that I silently cry, wanting only a few more minutes with him. But I let that heartache motivate me. I know that my father would be proud to see who I am turning into, and I know my mother's sacrifices must be rewarded with success. I think of her waking up all night. To take care of my dad or of her sitting by his bedside every night. I remember how she stood by me during the bleakest times with elegance and resolve. That is what I maintain as my legacy. As I look ahead to college and the future, I understand that the ride will not always be an easy one. But already, I have been through fire and out the other side. My history has given me depth, direction, and an agenda. I will use what I have learned and turn it into a life of purpose. Whether I'm on the field helping an injured athlete or in the clinic rehabbing with someone who's had surgery, I'll be doing it with love, dedication, and the same selflessness that I observed in my mom. This scholarship would not only lift the financial weight that remains—it would be a reminder that our resilience matters. I’m not just working for myself. I’m working to make my mom proud and to honor the love of a father who still pushes me forward every day.