Most of my life, I did not understand the difference between surviving and living. I grew up surrounded by addiction, instability, and trauma. My father died from an overdose when I was young, and my mother struggled with alcoholism and drug addiction throughout my childhood. Years after I found recovery myself, addiction took her life as well. As a teenager, I lived with friends because my mother could no longer support me. I didn't know how to process my emotions, so I carried anger, abandonment, and pain. Eventually, substances became the way I escaped myself. What began as an attempt to numb emotional pain became nine years of addiction, legal trouble, abusive relationships, and desperation. At the end of that road, I was living in a parked, crashed car, weighing sixty-eight pounds and on the brink of death. Exhausted and desperate, I looked toward the sky and prayed for another way. An hour later, I was placed in handcuffs. What looked like another consequence became the beginning of my recovery. In jail, I received support through detox and entered a drug-treatment program. After my release, I completed inpatient treatment and drug court. Getting sober did not automatically heal the reasons I had wanted to escape myself in the first place. Recovery has required me to experience emotions instead of numbing them, ask for help instead of isolating, examine my behavior, and build healthy relationships. Today, I work the Twelve Steps with a sponsor and attend therapy, where I continue exploring the experiences and emotional patterns that shaped me. I have built a community that reminds me healing does not happen alone. Recovery is not an event I completed; it is an ongoing practice of self-awareness, accountability, connection, and growth. This life will never cease to amaze me. Before my thirtieth birthday, I earned my GED after dropping out in ninth grade. Today, I work while pursuing my degree and preparing to transfer to Florida Atlantic University to study psychology and ultimately become a therapist. My greatest evidence of healing is that my life is no longer centered on surviving. I now have the capacity to show up for others. I chair recovery meetings, share my experience, serve through Hospitals and Institutions, and bring meetings into the treatment center that once helped me stay sober. I often look across that room and recognize myself in someone who is frightened, ashamed, or unsure whether another life is possible. I cannot promise that person an easy life. I can show them evidence that change is possible. Moving forward, I want to expand that service through education. My lived experience alone does not qualify me to treat someone experiencing addiction, trauma, or mental health challenges. I want to pair lived understanding with psychological education, clinical training, and evidence-based skills so I can serve others responsibly. I also want to challenge the shame that keeps people silent about mental health and addiction. My story is not something I hide. By speaking openly about where I came from and the work recovery continues to require, I hope to show that seeking treatment is not weakness and that a person is more than the most difficult chapter of their life. Addiction took both of my parents and nearly took me with them. I cannot change the endings of their stories, but I can decide what I do with mine. Thank you for considering investing in that future.

I didn’t take the traditional road to college. My story was forged through fire, scars, and perseverance. I grew up learning to survive each day as it came. My father struggled with addiction for years, cycling in and out of treatment, until one night he didn’t make it home. After overdosing, he was left at an abandoned train station. My mother, terrified of returning to the drug that killed him, moved us to Florida to stay with family. While I was at school in Boca Raton, I lived a double life. At school, everyone seemed friendly and normal. At home, there was nothing but chaos. My mother struggled with alcoholism and drug addiction for as long as I knew her. Her addiction led to evictions, and many times, we went without food. Years later, after I found recovery myself, addiction took her life as well. By my teenage years, I was living with friends because my mother could no longer support me. Angry that she chose substances and relationships over me, I eventually chose to numb my own pain, too. As the opioid epidemic took hold, I fell into the same rabbit hole I had watched consume my family. Substances became my purpose, my solution, and my best friend. It took nine years of addiction, legal trouble, abusive relationships, and desperation before I reached the end of that road. I was living in a parked, crashed car, weighing sixty-eight pounds and on the brink of death. Exhausted, hopeless, and desperate for another way, I looked toward the sky and prayed. I asked for help getting through the physical pain of getting sober and promised that if given the chance, I would stick with it. An hour later, I was placed in handcuffs. What looked like another consequence became the beginning of my life. In jail, I received medical support through detox and slept through much of the worst of my withdrawal. To me, my prayer had been answered. The facility offered a drug-treatment program, and I signed up. After my release, I entered inpatient treatment for three months and later completed drug court. Getting sober was only the beginning. Rebuilding my life took years of work and humility. Just before my thirtieth birthday, I earned my GED after dropping out of high school in ninth grade. It remains one of the milestones I am most proud of. Today, I live in an apartment I once could not have imagined having. Coming from homelessness changes the meaning of ordinary things. You do chores with gratitude because you still cannot believe you have your own sheets to wash. In 2023, I took another step I once thought impossible: I started college. Working full-time while earning my degree part-time has not been easy, but difficulty no longer tells me to quit. I am approaching completion of my associate degree and plan to transfer to Florida Atlantic University to continue studying psychology and become a therapist. My experiences alone do not qualify me to counsel someone, and that is precisely why my education matters. I want to pair lived understanding with the academic knowledge, clinical training, and professional skills necessary to serve people responsibly and effectively. Service is already at the center of my life. Today, I am deeply involved in the recovery community. I chair meetings, speak about my experience, and bring meetings into the treatment center that once helped me stay sober. The person who once needed someone to show her that another life was possible now has the privilege of doing that for someone else. Addiction took both of my parents and nearly took me with them. I cannot change the endings of their stories, but I can decide what I do with mine. My purpose is not simply to survive the life I came from. It is to use it to inspire. I want to become a therapist, teacher, and leader who helps people pursue lives they may not yet believe are possible. I know what it is like to believe your circumstances have already decided who you will become. I also know what can happen when someone is given support, opportunity, and the courage to choose differently. I cannot offer my future clients only my story. I want to offer them education, professional training, and skills worthy of their trust. My past gave me a lived understanding. My education will allow me to turn that understanding into skilled service. A scholarship would help me continue an education that once seemed impossible and move closer to a career devoted to helping others build lives beyond survival. Thank you for considering investing in that future.

I didn’t take the traditional road to college. No, my story was forged through fire, scars, and perseverance. I grew up learning to survive each day as it came. My father struggled with addiction until one night, he overdosed and was left at an abandoned train station. My mother moved us to Florida, but addiction followed us. Her alcoholism and drug addiction brought chaos, evictions, and times without food. Years after I found recovery for myself, addiction took her life too. By my teenage years, I was living with friends because my mother could no longer support me. Angry and hurting, I eventually chose to numb my pain too. As the opioid epidemic took hold, I fell into the same rabbit hole I had watched consume my family. Substances became my purpose, my solution, and my best friend. After nine years of addiction, legal trouble, abusive relationships, and desperation, I was living in a parked, crashed car, weighing sixty-eight pounds and on the brink of death. Exhausted and desperate, I looked toward the sky and prayed. I asked for help surviving the physical pain of getting sober and promised that if given the chance, I would stick with it. An hour later, I was placed in handcuffs. What looked like another consequence became the beginning of my life. In jail, I received help through detox and entered a drug-treatment program. After my release, I completed three months of inpatient treatment and later successfully completed drug court. Getting sober was only the beginning. Rebuilding my life took years of work and humility. Just before my thirtieth birthday, I earned my GED after dropping out of high school in ninth grade. Today, I live in an apartment I once could not have imagined having. Coming from homelessness changes the meaning of ordinary things. You do chores with gratitude because you still cannot believe you have your own sheets to wash. In 2023, I took another step I once thought impossible: I started college. Working full-time while earning my degree part-time has not been easy, but difficulty no longer tells me to quit. I am approaching completion of my associate degree and plan to transfer to Florida Atlantic University to study psychology and ultimately become a therapist. My experiences alone do not qualify me to counsel someone, which is precisely why my education matters. I want to pair lived understanding with the academic knowledge, clinical training, and professional skills necessary to serve others responsibly. Service is already at the center of my life. Today, I chair recovery meetings, share my experience, and bring meetings into the treatment center that once helped me stay sober. The person who once needed someone to show her that another life was possible now has the privilege of doing that for someone else. Addiction took both of my parents and nearly took me with them. I cannot change the endings of their stories, but I can decide what I do with mine. My purpose is not simply to survive the life I came from. It is to use it to inspire. I want to become a therapist who helps people pursue lives they may not yet believe are possible. My past gave me a lived understanding. My education will allow me to turn that understanding into skilled service. A scholarship would help me continue an education that once seemed impossible and move closer to a career helping others build lives beyond survival.

Recovery means I get to wake up every morning with breath in my lungs, no longer wanting to crawl out of my skin. It means I choose to relieve myself from selfishness, and I get the privilege of caring about the people around me. Today, I’m writing this on a Saturday, grateful for laundry and sheets to wash because I remember when I didn’t have such luxuries. Yesterday, I chaired my favorite commitment at the treatment center that once helped me get me on my feet. Looking across the room, I saw myself: alone, scared, coming off the streets, praying for another way, and having that prayer answered. I once applied for this scholarship when my recovery looked very different. I will never regret the years I spent growing up and getting to know myself, but I am incredibly grateful for where my recovery stands today. Years ago, a parked, crashed car led me to sobriety. More recently, after praying for sober support and community, a meeting held in a stranger’s car took my recovery to another dimension. Today, I’m not just working the steps with my sponsor; I’m learning to embody them. I chair my homegroup, serve through H&I, and return to the treatment center that once helped me. Recovery means giving back what was once so freely given to me.

My experience with substance abuse has fundamentally reshaped my beliefs, relationships, and career aspirations. I was born into addiction. My father overdosed when I was three years old, and in 2022, my mother did as well. For a long time, I believed addiction was inevitable, that it was something written into my life rather than something I could overcome. By sixteen, I had dropped out of high school and was fully consumed by substance abuse; from that, nine years followed by instability, homelessness, and a loss of self. Living through that changed the way I see the world. Today, I see people are not defined by their lowest moments, but by their willingness to rise above them. Recovery taught me that healing is possible, but it requires honesty, accountability, and support. It also showed me the importance of grace both for myself and for others who are struggling. Substance abuse also deeply impacted my relationships. At my lowest point, I was disconnected, unreliable, and unable to be present for the people who cared about me. Addiction isolated me and distorted my ability to trust and be trusted. In recovery, I had to learn how to rebuild those connections from the ground up. I learned how to communicate honestly, set boundaries, and show up consistently. Today, I am someone my loved ones can depend on, something I once couldn’t say. These experiences have directly shaped my career aspirations. Having lived through addiction, I understand the internal battle that many people face but cannot always express. I know what it feels like to believe there is no way out, and I also know that there is. This perspective has inspired me to pursue a career in social work, aiming to become a therapist. I want to help others navigate their own paths to recovery and healing, not just through education, but through genuine understanding and compassion. After earning my GED at 29, I enrolled in college and am currently at the tail end of my associate’s degree, with plans to transfer into a social work program in 2027. My journey has given me more than a second chance; it has given me a purpose, meaning, and the never-ending pursuit of growth. Substance abuse once held me back from experiencing all that life has to offer. Today, recovery has allowed me to rebuild, and my goal is to use that experience to help others do the same. Thank you for reading my story and considering being a part of it.

I was born into chaos. Addiction was not just something I witnessed in my parents; it was the lens through which I first understood the world. Losing both of my parents to addiction carved a wound that still aches. By sixteen, I had dropped out of high school, carrying an addiction of my own. While others were slipping into prom dresses and writing yearbook messages, I fell further into darkness. What I thought was my end, having been arrested, was, in truth, the beginning of my second chance. It forced me to stop running. Treatment for three months, a year of drug court, and the humbling process of accountability gave me something I hadn’t felt ever: hope. For the first time, I began to believe that maybe my story didn’t have to end in the same place it started. Recovery became a daily choice. Therapy peeled back the layers of pain I had buried. Forgiveness softened the edges of shame. And slowly, I began to rebuild brick by brick. When I earned my GED at twenty-nine, it felt less like a piece of paper and more like reclaiming a piece of myself I never thought possible. Now, nearly eight years sober, I am a college student pursuing a degree in social work with a fire that cannot be extinguished. Books were some of my first healers. Dystopian stories like 1984 showed me how systems can strip away humanity and taught me to question, resist, and imagine something better. Romance novels like Fourth Wing whispered that the “weakest” can be the wisest, and that strength is not always loud; it is found in a persistent heart that refuses to give up. These stories helped me reimagine my own life. They reminded me that resilience is not just survival, it is transformation. And so, my passions grew clear. I want to dedicate my life to building spaces where women feel safe, seen, and supported. I know what it’s like to be sexualized before you’re ready, to be harassed in public spaces, to cry out for protection and receive silence in return. I know the ache of carrying wounds the world doesn’t acknowledge. And I also see the power of being met with compassion, the healing that begins when someone finally says, “Don’t give up, you are capable of greatness.” Social work is not just a career path. It is a calling born from the fire. It is the chance to take everything I have endured and alchemize it into something that matters for the woman who feels unsafe in her own skin, for the student drowning in mental health struggles, and for the mother who doesn’t believe she has another chance at life. I want to be proof that another way is possible. My journey is not polished. It is scarred and raw, stitched together with perseverance. But it is also luminous because it holds vision. I see a future where my pain becomes a bridge for others, where my voice joins the chorus of women rising to create change. Education is the tool, compassion is the guide, and impact is the destination. The past will always be a part of me, but it no longer defines me. What defines me now is the drive to turn ashes into something sacred, to give others the second chances I was given, and to help build a world where healing is not the exception, but the expectation.

To me, recovery is a quiet revolution of repeatedly choosing myself. It’s not just about getting clean and sober; it’s about becoming whole. Recovery is the daily decision to show up, even when it’s hard or the past still whispers through dreams. Recovery is rebuilding a life from the ashes of what once was, with tenderness, truth, and unshakable hope. Therapy sessions taught me how to speak my truth. Recovery is pursuing a degree after dropping out at sixteen and earning my GED over a decade later, thinking I would never be smart enough to go back to school. It’s movement, nutrition, boundaries, and forgiveness. Recovery is about learning to feel everything I once tried to numb and trusting that I won’t be consumed by those feelings. Recovery is about service. It's about reaching out to those still struggling and saying, “There’s a way through this.” Recovery is about connection. It’s progress, not perfection. It’s being proud of a version of myself that younger me thought was impossible. For me, recovery isn’t just a chapter. It’s the foundation of my life, and that's why I now pursue a career in social work. Healing is possible. I know because I’m living proof.

My journey with mental health began before I had the words to describe what I was feeling. Growing up in a home where both of my parents battled addiction, survival became my default mode. I lost my father to an overdose when I was just three years old, and my mother passed the same way almost three years ago. Their struggles deeply impacted my beliefs, my relationships, and my decisions. I wish I could say I didn't follow in their footsteps, but that wouldn't be true. By sixteen, I had dropped out of high school and was consumed by a crippling addiction. I was living in chaos, unable to think about dreams or education while trying to make it through the day. What finally saved me was something unexpected: being arrested. It forced a pause, one I didn’t know I needed. Treatment introduced me to therapy, structure, and the idea that I didn’t have to stay stuck in the story I was born into. I completed a drug court program and began building a life I had never thought possible. Through therapy, I learned how to name my experiences, how to process the trauma I carried, and how to build healthy relationships. I had to unlearn the belief that I was broken or beyond help and replace it with the truth that healing is possible, that people are resilient, and that change begins with support and self-compassion. These beliefs didn’t come overnight; they were earned through years of inner work, reflection, and dedication. Recovery reshaped every relationship in my life. I no longer seek connection through codependency or shared dysfunction. I’ve learned to trust slowly, to set boundaries, and to value emotional safety above all. The people I hold close today reflect the honest and intentional person I’ve become. I’ve also found meaning in mentoring others, particularly women, which has deepened my belief that our pain can have purpose when we choose to use it to serve others. Earning my GED at twenty-nine was a milestone, not just academically, but emotionally. It symbolized possibility. I’m now working toward my associate degree in Social Work with plans to transfer and pursue a bachelor’s, and eventually, a master’s degree. I aspire to become a licensed clinical social worker with a focus on addiction, trauma, and women’s mental health. I want to create trauma-informed programs where people, especially women, feel seen, safe, and supported. Mental health challenges still exist in my life, but they no longer define or derail me. They remind me of what I’ve survived and am capable of. My struggles have shaped me into a more empathetic listener, patient learner, and committed future practitioner. I’ve seen how untreated pain can steal potential, and how a safe space or caring person can redirect an entire life. My vision is rooted in advocacy, community, and healing. I want to build systems that don’t just treat symptoms but address the roots of poverty, trauma, addiction, and marginalization. I want to be part of reshaping what support looks like for those who are told they’re “too far gone” or “unworthy of help.” Because no one is, and everyone deserves our help. My story is one of loss, but also one of growth. Mental health recovery has impacted every belief I hold, every relationship I nurture, and every goal I set. It’s why I’m still here, showing up, and dreaming big. And it’s the foundation for everything I plan to build moving forward.

Both of my parents struggled with addiction, and I lost them to it. My father passed away from an overdose when I was just three years old. Two years ago, I lost my mother in the same tragic way. Addiction didn’t just surround my life; it infected it from the beginning. By the age of sixteen, while other teenagers were planning for prom and preparing for college applications, I had already dropped out of high school and was entirely consumed by a crippling addiction. After years of self-destruction, I was arrested, which ultimately saved my life. Incarceration removed me from the chaos long enough to begin healing. After being released, I checked myself into a treatment program for three months and then completed a year of drug court that included mandatory drug testing and weekly group therapy. During this time, I got honest with myself and began doing the deep work that recovery requires. I found the clarity to choose a different path through structure, accountability, and peer support. Through this process, I was committed to staying clean. I signed up for therapy. I spent years working on my emotional and physical health, rebuilding from the ground up. At twenty-nine, I earned my GED. That small piece of paper represented something bigger than education; it symbolized self-worth, perseverance, and possibility. Now, eight years sober, I’m a college student pursuing a degree in Social Work, working full time, and walking toward a life with purpose. Getting here took forgiveness, therapy, and an unwavering commitment to change every single day. The decision to pursue a career in mental health wasn’t made lightly; it was born from lived experience and a calling after being lucky to survive. I know what it feels like to want to give up or not start in the first place. I understand how mental illness, addiction, and trauma can cloud every decision, goal, and relationship. But I also know how life-changing it is when someone shows up and says, “You are worthy and capable of anything.” My goal is to become a licensed clinical social worker specializing in addiction, trauma, and women’s mental health. I’ve supported others in recovery, led peer groups, and mentored women transitioning into sobriety. These moments have shown me how powerful connection and understanding can be. I want to be the someone I once needed, who listens, holds space, and reminds others of their worth. Mental health challenges can make pursuing education feel impossible—I’ve lived that truth. However, with the proper support and inner resilience, healing becomes a foundation rather than a barrier. I believe everyone deserves that chance, and through this career, I intend to spend my life helping others find it.

Growing up in a world that often sees women as objects rather than whole people left deep marks on me that are not easily erased. Being sexualized at a young age, harassed in public spaces, and overlooked in moments when protection or support was needed shaped a quiet determination to one day create something different, not just for myself, but for every woman who’s ever felt unsafe, unseen, or silenced. The path to healing began in 2017, when sobriety became not just a decision, but a lifeline. That choice started a new chapter defined by growth, self-respect, and purpose. Sobriety opened the door to therapy, movement, education, and a reconnection to self. Wellness became a daily commitment, not just a goal. Over time, routines turned into rituals of care, and survival turned into forward motion. May 2025 marked eight years free from addiction, and each year has been built on resilience and an unwavering desire to rewrite the story. Pursuing a degree in Social Work isn’t about earning a title; it’s about becoming a changemaker. Education is one piece of a larger mission: to create spaces where women feel safe in their bodies, stories, and futures. Too many carry wounds they never asked for, navigating systems that weren’t built with their healing in mind. The goal is to help transform those systems to meet women where they are, support their growth, and challenge the conditions that keep them in survival mode. Work and school now fill the days, and each assignment, shift, and study session is a brick in the foundation of something much bigger. Even when it’s exhausting, it’s purposeful. It’s proof that rebuilding is possible. The vision is clear: to serve women impacted by trauma, addiction, and mental health struggles, and to build programs rooted in community, empowerment, and safety. Real healing happens when women feel seen, believed, and supported. That’s the future being built one relationship, one safe space, one act of advocacy at a time. There is also a long-term commitment to policy and systems-level change. While direct work with individuals is vital, lasting transformation comes from shifting the environments that perpetuate harm. This means continuing education beyond the bachelor’s level, working toward a master’s degree or higher, and taking on leadership roles in community advocacy and social justice. The past will always be part of the story, but it no longer holds the pen. What drives this journey now is the belief that women deserve more safety, opportunities, and love without conditions. The work ahead is challenging, but so is change. And change is exactly what this life is committed to creating.

Some might say I wasn’t supposed to make it, but I did. And now I’m building a life that helps others do the same. My journey hasn’t been traditional, but it’s been intentional. Each choice I’ve made getting sober, going back to school, and committing to my mental and physical health has been a step toward creating a life rooted in purpose. I’m not just pursuing a degree in Social Work for the sake of a career; I’m pursuing it because I know what it means to need support and the power of having someone show up when it matters most. In May 2025, I celebrated eight years of sobriety. That milestone represents a personal revolution that began when I stepped out of survival mode and into long-term healing. From that point forward, everything changed. I enrolled in therapy to confront my past and learn emotional tools I was never taught. I joined a gym and focused on healing my body as much as my mind. I started eating to fuel my life rather than numb it. These weren’t easy changes, but they were necessary. Slowly, I began to rebuild not just my health, but my self-worth. Returning to school as a full-time employee in my 30s hasn’t been difficult. There are late nights, financial worries, and moments of doubt. But there’s also a fire inside me that won’t go out. I’m determined to become a licensed social worker and eventually earn at least a master’s degree if not a doctorate. I want to dedicate my life to helping others break generational cycles of trauma, addiction, and hopelessness. I want to work with people who feel invisible and remind them they are worthy of care, compassion, and possibility. My ultimate goal is to combine clinical social work with community engagement. I envision creating programs that serve individuals and entire communities, particularly safe spaces for people to heal together, support one another, and grow into their power. I know how isolating pain can be, and I also know how healing it is to be witnessed by others who understand. I want to build spaces that offer both. This path has not been easy. I’ve had to fight for every bit of stability and success I now have. But I wake up every day with gratitude and grit, knowing that what I’m building will serve others in ways I once needed myself. With support, I can continue transforming pain into purpose and helping others do the same.

Prioritizing my mental, emotional, and physical health has been one of the most transformative decisions of my life. While my past included struggles with addiction and loss, what truly defines me today is the healing I’ve chosen and the wellness-centered life I’ve built step by step, from the inside out. When I first got sober, I knew that staying clean would require more than just abstinence. I needed to rebuild myself holistically. That meant starting therapy to unpack years of trauma and emotional suppression. Through counseling, I began learning to set boundaries, regulate emotions, and understand myself with compassion instead of judgment. It was the first time I felt like I had the tools to manage my life healthily and sustainably. Alongside therapy, I joined a gym and hired a personal trainer. Physical movement became more than a fitness goal; it was an act of self-respect. Strength training helped me reconnect with my body while improving my energy, confidence, and discipline. I learned how exercise can directly support emotional and mental clarity, especially when dealing with stress or self-doubt. Wanting to deepen my understanding, I enrolled in a life and health coaching certification program. That course changed everything. I learned about meal timing, how nutrition impacts mood and performance, and how to build goals based on values rather than perfectionism. Positive psychology taught me to shift my mindset from “What’s wrong with me?” to “What’s working, and how can I build on it?” These concepts gave me fundamental, applicable skills I use every day. Now, wellness is the foundation of my life. I plan my meals for energy and stability, move my body with intention, reflect through journaling and mindfulness, and, most importantly, check in with myself mentally, emotionally, and physically to stay aligned. These habits don’t just help me function; they help me thrive. This commitment to wellness has completely reshaped how I prepare for my future. As a psychology student, I approach my education through the lens of holistic care. True healing requires addressing all parts of a person, including the emotional, physical, mental, and spiritual. Whether writing a paper or volunteering in my community, I do so with the awareness that health is the gateway to possibility. In the future, I plan to bring this whole-person approach into my career as a therapist. I want to guide others in reconnecting with themselves, building self-trust, and creating lives rooted in wellbeing. I know from experience that change is possible, and I want to be part of that change for others. Choosing wellness was the turning point that gave me back my life. Today, everything I do is guided by that choice, which continues to shape who I am and who I’m becoming.

Books have been one of my life's most consistent sources of comfort, growth, and transformation. At times when I felt utterly alone, they gave me a place to belong. They offered not only escape, but also an understanding and, perhaps most importantly, hope. From the pages of dystopian novels to the intimacy of romance, each book has shaped how I see the world, myself, and what I believe I can achieve. My love for dystopian stories like 1984 by George Orwell stems from their ability to make me question everything: power, truth, freedom, and the structure of society. Books in this genre challenged me to think critically and look beyond the surface of what I’m told. They’ve made me deeply aware of how systems fail the most vulnerable and instilled in me a responsibility to question injustice and be a part of something better. Injustice that lives in books, but is inspired by real-world problems, is a huge reason I was drawn to the field of social work. I want to help change the systems that keep people stuck in cycles of pain and poverty. I also find strength in stories where the underdog wins. In Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros, Violet begins as what others see as the weakest character: small, fragile, and underestimated. But her intelligence, determination, and resilience turn her into one of the most potent forces in the story. That narrative resonates with me deeply. I spent much of my early life being seen as weak, broken, or lost due to addiction and trauma. But like Violet, I’ve learned that resilience and intellect are often born in the fire of adversity. These stories have taught me that the labels society puts on us don’t define us; we get to write our stories. Then there are books like The Ravenhood series by Kate Stewart, which masterfully blends romance and suspense while exploring themes of justice, loyalty, and redemption. What drew me in wasn’t just the mystery or the love story. No, the Ravens’ mission was to protect their community and fight for a safer, more just world. That mission aligns with my own goals. I want to be a part of something bigger than myself, where my work impacts more than just individuals, it ripples out into families, neighborhoods, and future generations. Books have healed me in many ways. They’ve given me words when I couldn’t find my own. They’ve helped me process my grief, trauma, and transformation. They’ve taught me to dream again and reminded me that healing is possible not just for me, but for anyone willing to fight for it. In many ways, reading saved me before I could save myself. Today, I’m on a path to becoming a social worker, not just because of my past, but because of the vision I now carry for the future, one where empathy, advocacy, and education lives. The stories I’ve read have shaped that vision. They’ve taught me to think critically, feel deeply, and believe fiercely in the good we can do for others. Like the characters I admire, I intend to stand for something meaningful and leave behind a story worth telling.

To experience addiction through the outside looking in was nothing compared to walking through fire myself. At the age of three, my father lost his battle with his demons, and now, two years ago, my mother also overdosed. I wish I could say I didn't follow in their footsteps, but I never could learn without touching the stove. By the age of sixteen, I dropped out of high school because I was fully submersed in a crippling addiction. That run lasted nine long years, which felt like an entire life in hell. Every single day, I wanted to crawl out of my own body. A progression of horror led me to be homeless, hopeless, and with a deteriorating body. Somedays, it isn't fathomable how one could still be alive when I reflect on those times. Every time I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. The dark side chewed me up, pimped me out, and spit me out like I was nothing. Yet I kept on. On my last day out, a friend and I lived in a parked crashed car, praying for a better way. The promise I made still rings true today. While I looked up into the sky, I said, “If you help me with the physical pain to get sober, I will stick with it.” An hour later, my freedom was ripped away from me by the local sheriff's department. The universe provided what was prayed for and detoxed me fully, which helped with the physical sickness. Two weeks into my incarceration, a drug treatment program was the perfect place for me. The program provided meetings, lessons on what was happening chemically, and peer support. By the time I was released after a month, there was no other option than to stick with it. Within twenty-four hours, I checked myself into a local state-run treatment center for three months because I still couldn't trust my thoughts. After fully completing the program, I still had to answer to the state, which granted me one year of drug court with mandatory drug testing and weekly groups. I genuinely believe everything was meant to happen in the order it did. Being ripped away from society and forced to be sober for some time saved my life. Granted, I could have gone back any time, but the reality is I never experienced life sober since, by my teenage years, I was already drowning. I completed drug court successfully, worked my steps, and became a role model to others. Today, after eight years of sobriety, my solution looks different from those in the traditional pathway. My solution is spirituality and the neverending pursuit of growth. I obtained my GED at twenty-nine, which led to me signing up for college. At the end of 2026, I will have an associate's degree with a goal to transfer to my local university through the social work pathway. Being a therapist will allow me to help others break the chains that hold them back from believing in themselves. My existence is a gift meant to prove that healing is possible, and I want to dedicate my life to showing others the way forward. Thank you for considering my story and my dream.

Recovery means life. Sobriety means freedom. I followed both of my parents into addiction from a very young age. My father overdosed when I was 3 years old and my mother recently overdosed in November of 2022. I traveled down the rabbit hole and into chaos from the age of 16, till I was 26. I found myself desperate, coldhearted, hungry, homeless and hopeless. On the last day of my decade-long binge, I looked up to the sky and prayed to God for help with the physical toll it would take to get clean. I promised that I would stay sober if my physical suffering was somehow lessened. A few hours later I was put into handcuffs and removed from society, in which I was lucky enough that they detoxed me. When I was released, I stayed in a 90-day rehab, got a sponsor, worked my steps, went to meetings and started to build this new life that I had never experienced before. Recovery and sobriety is the most precious gift this life has ever given to me. After dropping out at 16, I have finally found the confidence to enroll in college. Today I work a full-time job, take care of my body, nourish my mind, and I am capable of being there for the ones I love. Without recovery, I would more than likely be dead. My major will be psychology, where I aim to inspire as many souls as possible through my life experience. Thank you.