Music has always been a constant presence in my life; however, in high school, it became more than that. It became the way I made sense of my feelings, found some confidence, and learned how to just be myself in a world that seemed to be constantly changing. I think I needed that outlet because high school is just... a lot. You're under this massive pressure to succeed, to fit in, to determine who you are and who you are supposed to become. For me, music became the only area of my life where I did not feel pressured or judged. I could stop and breathe when I would sing, play, or listen to music. It gave a name to the stuff I couldn't always put into words. Music helped me release frustration or sadness on difficult days and amplify joy on happy days. No matter what, music always met me exactly where I was. That sense of safety is actually what gave me the guts to finally join musical theater. It pushed me in ways I never imagined. At first, being on stage was terrifying. I was so worried about being watched, messing up a line, or just not being good enough. But every rehearsal taught me that the most growth happens when you show up even if you’re uncomfortable. Musical theatre gave me a kind of courage that makes me take risks and finally trust my own voice. That confidence has since carried over into the rest of my life, from the way I handle school and friendships to just how I carry myself every day. Most recently, music has taken on an even deeper meaning for me as I prepare for a role that demands boldness, honesty, and vulnerability. Playing Janis in the musical "Mean Girls" has challenged me to embrace parts of myself that I once held back. Janis is unapologetic, expressive, and unafraid to be different, and as I learn to portray those qualities through music, I have gained a sense of confidence in my own skin. Through this role, I’ve learned that music doesn’t just tell a story. It gives people permission to be themselves. Music has also given me a sense of belonging. In rehearsals and productions, I've found an amazing community. Everyone comes from different backgrounds and has unique personalities, yet music brings us together around a common goal. Music shows me that we can listen to one another, support each other, and work as a team. Going through that taught me patience and empathy. I’ve realized that music is not just about a person's talent, but about the bond we share. Outside of performing, music is what keeps me grounded. Certain songs bring back memories of late night study sessions, long walks to clear my head, or times when I just needed some comfort. Music helps me sort through my feelings when they get to be too much to handle, and it reminds me that I’m not alone in what I’m going through. This has changed how I treat people and how I hope to care for others in the future. High School is a time of development, and music has played a large role in developing the person I am today. It has given me confidence, community, emotional stability, and a means to communicate my thoughts and feelings authentically. Music did not just fill my schedule, it filled my life. I will continue to use what music has taught me for years to come, as it has molded not only my High School experience, but the person I am becoming.

For the longest time, the sharp, sterile smell of hospitals meant one thing to me: anxiety! It brought instant tension, like I was bracing for bad news or a needle stick. Over time, though, that feeling shifted. Somehow, that same scent now brings me comfort, because it reminds me of the moment I realized I wanted to be a nurse. That moment came when I was fourteen and broke my ankle badly enough to require emergency surgery. I remember waking up groggy from anesthesia, my ankle trapped in a stiff pink cast, feeling overwhelmed and unsure of what would happen next. What stayed with me wasn’t the pain, but the nurse who sat beside me and spoke gently, making me feel seen and safe. In a moment filled with uncertainty, she offered hope and reassurance. It was then that I understood that nursing isn’t just about medicine, it’s about presence, kindness, and caring for people at their most vulnerable. That experience inspired me to be that kind of person for others. I had already been learning those lessons long before my own hospital stay. My grandmother’s health challenges (brain surgery, seizures, and later congestive heart failure) meant she needed daily support. During summers with her, I helped manage medications, pushed her wheelchair, brushed her hair, and did her nails and makeup. Those simple routines taught me the value of patience, compassion, and simply showing up. In many ways, it feels like I’ve been preparing for this role my whole life. As the oldest of three, I naturally became the unofficial “family nurse,” the one my younger brothers turned to for comfort. Looking back, these experiences feel connected, each one preparing me for a future in nursing. That once-scary hospital smell no longer signals fear. It now feels familiar, meaningful, and full of purpose. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- For me, “human touch” means the emotional connection that health professionals create, the kind that makes patients feel safe, heard, and cared for. Especially when they’re at their lowest and most vulnerable. It’s not just about holding a hand or a reassuring pat on the shoulder. It shows up in the way a nurse really listens, how a doctor explains things, or even just the simple act of staying present with someone who’s scared. That’s what I think turns cold, routine medical care into something warmer. True compassionate care. I experienced the impact of human touch firsthand as a patient. After my ankle surgery, I was scared and overwhelmed. What helped me most wasn’t just the medical treatment, but the nurse’s gentle voice and the way she saw me as a person, not just another patient. Her calm presence eased my nerves and reminded me that I wasn’t alone in that sterile, anxious space. In those moments, I realized how powerful emotional support can be during recovery, especially when you are feeling helpless or uncertain. I saw the same effect with my grandmother. Helping her with hygiene and daily routines like brushing her hair, doing her nails, or sitting with her during quiet moments wasn’t only about helping physically. It gave her a sense of dignity and comfort, even after illness had taken so much away from her. Through her, I learned that small acts of care can restore comfort and confidence, even when circumstances are tough. Human touch also shows up in everyday moments, something I learned as a big sister. When my younger siblings scraped a knee or felt nervous before a doctor’s visit, simply being there for them made the biggest difference. Offering reassurance, holding their hand, and letting them know they weren’t alone helped ease their fear. It never took big speeches or dramatic gestures. Sometimes, just showing up is enough. In patient care, human touch builds trust. When people sense genuine concern, they open up more. They ask questions, share their worries, and feel more confident in their treatment. As a future nurse, I believe human touch isn’t optional, it’s essential. Technical skills matter, but real healing happens when you care for the whole person, not just their symptoms. That’s the kind of care I want to provide, and the kind of nurse I hope to become.

Hoboken has always felt familiar to me. Even though I grew up in Bayonne, I spent so much time in Hoboken that it never felt separate. My mom worked there too, so I was always tagging along. Some of my earliest memories are simple ones like running around Pier A Park, sitting by the water at Sinatra Park, or walking down Washington Street after a doctor’s appointment. Those little routines made the city feel like part of my everyday life. Growing up between the two towns, I started paying attention to the way people treated each other. Someone was always checking on a neighbor, helping a mom lift a stroller onto the bus, holding a door, or sharing snacks at the playground. No one acted like they were doing anything special. It was just how people were. Those moments stuck with me. They taught me to pay closer attention to people because you never really know what someone is going through. That became clearer once my own struggles started. When I was little, I was diagnosed with PANDAS, a rare autoimmune condition that affects your brain after infections like strep. I went from being a typical kid to someone who struggled with anxiety, ocd, tics, and sensory issues practically overnight. On the outside I looked fine, but inside I felt nothing like myself. Some mornings I woke up already exhausted. Headaches, joint pain, and flare ups made me miss activities I cared about, and every time it happened, I felt like I was falling behind my friends. Even after treatment, things didn’t go back to normal right away. It took a long time to find my footing again. But the quiet examples of kindness I grew up seeing pushed me to keep trying. I joined theater even though I was nervous. I joined cheer even when I wasn’t sure I could keep up. I sang at community events and volunteered at senior centers and summer camps. Helping my younger brother, who has special needs, changed me the most. He doesn’t need you only when you feel strong. He needs you every day. That taught me patience and what it really means to show up for someone. All of that is why I want to become a nurse. I know what it feels like to be confused by your own body or overwhelmed by emotions you can’t explain. I also know what a difference it makes when someone responds with patience instead of frustration. My dream is to be that kind of support for someone else, especially kids who feel the way I once did. For my family, this scholarship would ease a huge financial burden. My parents work hard, but college is expensive. Having this support would let me focus on learning without constantly worrying about money. Growing up near Hoboken taught me to care, to notice people, and to show up. I want to bring that same mindset into nursing and help people feel safe, understood, and never alone.