For six years, my life was defined by a silence I didn't choose. After moving to Florida just before the 2020 pandemic, I found myself isolated by a partner who dismantled my support systems and used physical and emotional abuse to maintain control. I was forbidden from pursuing the career I wanted or the education I craved. To survive, I worked eighteen-hour days just to stay away from home, navigating long commutes to find a few hours of peace. However, resilience grows in the dark. While the world shut down, I began to engineer my reopening. Using intelligence and a few cheap pandemic plane tickets, I spent months convincing my partner that my frequent trips to Maryland were to care for sick family. In reality, I was flying toward my freedom. In 2021, I finally found the courage to leave for good, reclaiming a life where I finally felt safe. Today, my life is a defiance of the limitations once placed upon me. I am an electrical engineer for Carvana—a role I was once told I couldn’t have. I am a Political Science major at ASU with a 4.3 GPA, a GIS minor, and a path toward becoming an estate lawyer. I am no longer hiding my ambitions; I am a professional traveler managing 16-credit semesters because I know exactly how precious my freedom is. Domestic violence thrives on isolation, but I am living proof that with strategy and faith, you can build a bridge out of the darkest places. I want to use my legal future to protect the legacies and safety of women in my community. This scholarship is an investment in a woman who refuses to ever be told “no” to her education again.

My name is Shaneka Townsend, and I am a "forever student" in the making. Currently, I serve as an electrical engineer for Carvana while pursuing a Political Science degree and a GIS minor at Arizona State University with a 4.3 GPA. My journey is fueled by a desire to transition into estate law, but my purpose is driven by a much deeper mission: the empowerment of Black women who have been historically marginalized in both the courtroom and the clinic. The story of Michele L. Durant resonates with me because I am living the reality of the statistics her scholarship seeks to challenge. Black women in the U.S. borrow at higher rates and face a persistent wage gap, often earning only 63 to 65 cents for every dollar paid to white, non-Hispanic men. This financial burden is compounded when our health is sidelined. I personally live with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS), a condition that affects up to 13% of women but is frequently misunderstood or dismissed as "experimental" by insurance providers. In our community, medical gaslighting and lack of resources often turn manageable conditions into life-altering crises like diabetes and infertility. I have seen firsthand how the "policing" of our bodies isn't just a political talking point—it’s a daily reality when life-changing treatments are denied and women are left to navigate complex hormonal imbalances alone. I refuse to accept a "lose-lose" situation where our autonomy is stripped away by both policy and pathology. To make a difference, I have led a dedicated group within my church focused on bridging the gap in women’s health education. We focus on the radical idea that our health is reversible through informed nutrition and hormone rebalancing. By teaching women how to reclaim control over their bodies, I am helping them reclaim their lives. However, my impact will not stop at community workshops. My long-term goal as an estate lawyer is to provide the legal framework for middle-class Black families to build and protect their wealth. If Black women are to overcome the debt-trap and the wage gap, we need more than just health; we need the legal tools to ensure our hard-earned resources stay within our families. By combining my technical background in engineering with the advocacy of a legal professional, I will spend my career dismantling the systemic barriers that make Black women "invisible" in the healthcare and financial sectors. Whether I am advocating for better insurance coverage for endocrine disorders or helping a family secure their legacy, my mission is clear: I will ensure that the next generation of Black women has the health, the wealth, and the freedom to lead without apology.

On April 22, 2026, the world became a significantly dimmer place. That was the day I lost Jon, a man who was, quite simply, the most beautiful soul I have ever encountered. To the world, Jon was a member of the LGBTQ+ community who lived with the heavy, often invisible burdens of bipolar disorder and depression. To me, he was the neighbor who became family, the protector of my cat, Jamaica, while I traveled for work, and the person whose laughter could cut through the stress of my busiest days as an engineer. Jon was the kind of person who radiated light even when he was sitting in the dark. We met as neighbors in Orlando, and despite his personal battles, his capacity for care was unmatched. Even after he moved away, our bond remained unshaken. We were close—the kind of close where distance doesn't dilute the friendship. I knew he struggled, but I loved him fiercely through every peak and valley. His death has left a void that feels less like a hole and more like a permanent change in the atmosphere of my life. Dealing with this loss has been an exercise in surviving the "unthinkable." Honestly, I am still in the thick of it. Seeing the prompt for this essay brought a fresh wave of the sadness that has become my constant companion over the last few weeks. I am doing the best I can, but the "best" often looks like just breathing through the anger. I am angry that he is gone. I am angry that the light he gave so freely to others couldn't stay lit for himself. I am sad that our future catch-ups and shared stories are now frozen in time. However, amidst the grief, I found a small, bittersweet comfort. In speaking with his other friends after his passing, they told me that Jon spoke about me constantly. He held me in high regard; he loved me too. Knowing that the love I felt for him was fully reciprocated is a gift, but it also fuels my resolve to ensure his life—and his struggle—means something more than a statistic. This loss has taught me that "checking in" is only the first step. I was the friend who checked in. I was the friend who loved him without judgment. But Jon’s passing taught me that individual love, while vital, cannot replace a broken systemic infrastructure. Everyone deserves to be loved and cared for, but they also deserve a mental health system that is as accessible as a grocery store and as robust as any other life-saving medical field. We need better systems in place to support those whose brains are fighting against them. As a Black woman pursuing a career in law, Jon’s life and death have deeply influenced how I view my future work. I want to advocate for a society where mental health isn't a "hidden" battle fought in the shadows of a neighbor's apartment, but a publicly supported human right. Jon’s struggle with bi-polarism was a part of him, but it wasn't all of him. He was a person of immense value who deserved to grow old. Overcoming this loss isn't about "getting over" Jon; it's about integrating his light into my walk. It has taught me to make time—not just "when I can," but intentional, prioritized time—for the people I love. It has taught me that in a world that moves as fast as a jet-setting engineer's schedule, we must slow down enough to look into someone's eyes and truly see them. Jon was my light. And while I am angry he left me, I am eternally grateful he chose to be my friend. I will carry his name into my classrooms at ASU, into my future law practice, and into every conversation about mental health. I will make sure the world knows that we need to do better, because people like Jon are too precious to lose. I love you Jon and I hope I've made you proud down here.

In the world of electrical engineering, logic is king. Every circuit has a path, and every problem has a technical solution. For years, I have navigated this world as an engineer for Carvana, traveling across the country to solve complex problems. But recently, life presented me with a problem that a schematic couldn't fix. When my father suffered a stroke, my family—like many middle-class Black families—found ourselves standing on the edge of a financial and legal cliff we weren't prepared for. It was in the sterile rooms of hospitals and the confusing world of insurance and "out-of-pocket" costs that I realized my next mission wasn't in power systems, but in the legal system. I am currently a Political Science major at Arizona State University with a minor in Geographic Information Systems. My goal is to attend law school and specialize in estate law. My desire to become an attorney isn't fueled by a love for litigation, but by a commitment to advocacy for the unprepared. In my community, estate planning is often viewed as a luxury for the wealthy rather than a necessity for the middle class. I want to change that narrative, ensuring that families—regardless of their background—understand how to protect their legacies and care for their loved ones long after they are gone. In the legal field, technical expertise is expected, but kindness, listening, and empathy are often overlooked. I plan to integrate these interpersonal skills into my practice by shifting the way I represent a client. To me, listening is a diagnostic tool. In engineering, you listen to a machine to find the fault; in law, you must listen to a person to find their fear. By practicing deep, empathetic listening, I can help clients navigate the sensitive topics of mortality and legacy without the shame of what they "should" have known sooner. Empathy will be the foundation of my work. I know what it feels like to realize your family isn’t ready for the inevitable. By bringing that lived experience into my legal work, I can represent clients not just as a technician of the law, but as a partner in their peace of mind. A more equitable legal system is one where information is accessible and where the attorney-client relationship is built on a bridge of trust rather than a wall of jargon. I am currently pushing through a 16-credit course load because I feel the urgency of this mission. My community needs advocates who can translate the cold language of law into the warm embrace of security. With my lovely pets waiting for me at home, I am reminded every day of the importance of home, family, and the legacies we leave behind. I am ready to move from engineering power to empowering people through the law.