I never imagined domestic violence would be part of my story. But it was—not just through my own lived experience, but through the pain I witnessed in the women who raised and surrounded me. My aunts, my grandmother, and my friends all carried scars in silence. I learned early that survival sometimes looked like staying quiet, keeping the peace, and holding everything together—even when you were falling apart inside. As I got older, I realized just how deeply those unspoken stories shaped me. I was taught to endure, to be strong, to “push through”—but not necessarily how to heal. And so, I spent years navigating my own toxic relationship, questioning my worth, trying to be everything for everyone while losing pieces of myself along the way. When I finally walked away, it wasn’t because I wasn’t scared. It was because I knew I had to choose myself—and show my daughter that she could too. In 2019, I became the first in my family to earn a college degree. It took me nearly eight years—filled with stops, starts, job changes, parenting, and heartbreak. Six months before I crossed that stage, I lost my grandmother. She had raised ten children on love, grit, and a sixth-grade education. She never saw me graduate, but I carried her with me every step. That degree wasn’t just mine. It belonged to every woman in my bloodline who never got the chance to begin or didn’t believe it was possible. In 2020, I launched my trauma-informed coaching business, committed to helping women and youth from underserved communities—many of whom are battling the same cycles I once felt trapped in. I’ve led free grief support sessions, created a healing-centered curriculum, and mentored women rebuilding after pain. I’ve seen how powerful it is when someone finally feels seen. Heard. Believed. What I do is more than work—it’s my calling. My goal is not just to succeed but to be significant. To be the person I once needed when I was breaking in silence. I want to continue designing programs that reach African American women impacted by domestic violence and trauma, offering culturally informed support that honors their stories and leads to real, lasting transformation. Too many of us are carrying emotional wounds passed down through generations without the tools or support to heal them—leading to broken homes, mental health struggles, and the loss of identity. I believe my purpose is to be the bridge: between pain and healing, silence and truth, survival and self-sovereignty. And my education is a critical part of that mission. If my life can serve as proof that it’s never too late to rise, then every hardship I’ve faced will have meaning. I don’t just talk about transformation—I live it. And I know my story, my work, and my degree will continue creating ripple effects far beyond me.

I never planned on being a single mother. Honestly, I was afraid of it. I’d seen what it looked like—women in my family and community doing the best they could while sacrificing their dreams, juggling bills, and raising children with little to no support. I feared the weight of that responsibility. But when life handed me that very reality, something shifted. My children became the fire that kept me going, even when everything around me was falling apart. It hasn’t been easy—it's been everything I feared and everything I never knew I was capable of. But it’s also been worth it. My children are my biggest supporters and my deepest motivation. They know the sacrifices we’ve had to make, and they’re still cheering me on. In 2019, I became the first in my family to graduate from college. It took me nearly eight years—years filled with stops, restarts, setbacks, and determination. I was parenting, working multiple jobs, studying late into the night, and doing my best to survive. Just six months before I walked across that stage, I lost my grandmother—the woman who raised ten children with nothing but faith, resilience, and a sixth-grade education. She never got to see me graduate, but her strength carried me through. I finished for her. For my kids. For every woman in our family who gave up her dreams so someone like me could chase mine. Then in 2021, just four weeks before I gave birth to my son, I lost my fiancé to gun violence. I barely had time to grieve. Four weeks later, still bleeding from childbirth, I went back to work—because survival didn’t give me the option to pause. That moment didn’t destroy me. It redefined me. Those losses and life experiences birthed a mission in me. I started a trauma-informed coaching business that supports women and youth in underserved communities—people who often carry silent pain while still showing up for everyone else. Through free grief support groups, no-cost coaching sessions, mentorship, and healing-centered workshops, I help others rediscover themselves and build emotional and financial resilience. This work is deeply personal. I’ve been the one in need of help, unsure of where to turn. I’ve been the woman trying to hold it all together while quietly falling apart. That’s why I show up the way I do—because I know what’s at stake. Today, I’m back in school pursuing my bachelor’s degree in Human Services with a concentration in Psychology. I rely solely on a Pell Grant, but out-of-pocket costs for textbooks and Prior Learning Assessments (PLA) are overwhelming. This scholarship would relieve that burden and allow me to keep doing the work I was called to do—without burning out. Being a single mother and a first-generation student hasn’t just shaped me—it’s ignited a passion to rewrite the story, not just for my family, but for everyone watching who needs proof that it’s possible to rise. Thank you for believing in students like me—and in the legacies we’re working so hard to build.

I am different because I’ve lived through what many people fear would break them — and I came out of it not bitter, but bold. I’m a 40-year-old African American woman, a first-generation college student, a single mother of two, and a survivor of deep grief and generational hardship. But what makes me different is not just what I’ve survived — it’s how I’ve chosen to turn my pain into purpose, my losses into legacy, and my authenticity into service. Six months before I became the first in my family to earn a college degree, I lost my grandmother — a mother of ten with only a sixth-grade education. She was my biggest supporter. She told me, “You’ll do what I never had the chance to do.” I kept that promise. Then, in 2021, just weeks before giving birth to my son, I lost my fiancé. It nearly shattered me. But in that storm, I heard a quiet truth: I can finish what they never got to start. That became my mission. And that’s what makes me different. I stopped waiting for the “right time” to become who I was called to be. I show up in rooms now as my full self — grief, growth, and all — because I know someone is watching me try, and they need to see that it’s still possible to rise. I’m currently pursuing my bachelor’s in Human Services with a focus on Psychology. I launched a trauma-informed coaching business, created a healing-centered curriculum, and offer free coaching and grief support groups to people who feel unseen, unheard, and overwhelmed. I’ve mentored youth, volunteered at community events, and continue to serve families in under-resourced communities across Ohio — not because I have it all figured out, but because I understand what it means to feel alone in the process. I do this not for recognition, but for the ones I’ll never meet — the girl reading my post who thinks she’s the only one struggling. The mom sitting in her car crying before work who doesn’t yet know she has more strength than she believes. The young man who shows up to a support group and finds safety in simply being heard. That’s how I leverage my uniqueness: I live out loud so others know they’re not alone. I lead with transparency, I serve with empathy, and I model what it means to show up imperfectly and still be powerful. I embrace my difference — not as a flaw, but as a mirror for others to see what’s possible for them too. Right now, I’m unemployed, living off savings, and maxed out on student loans from my long road to earning my associate degree. Still, I keep serving. I keep sowing seeds in my community because I know the harvest isn’t just mine — it’s ours. This scholarship wouldn’t just support my education. It would support the mission I carry forward every day: to change narratives, break cycles, and build spaces of healing for people who’ve been taught to hide their pain. That’s the heart of service — and that’s the legacy I’m building. Thank you for honoring bold, authentic service. I am honored to be considered.

I still remember the day my grandmother—who raised ten children with only a sixth-grade education—held my hand and told me, “You’re going to finish this, baby. You’ll do what I never could.” Six months later, she was gone. And though she never saw me walk across that stage, I carry her voice in every step I take. My biggest dream is to create trauma-informed afterschool programs across Ohio that give kids in underserved communities the tools to heal, grow, and break cycles of pain. I want these programs to teach emotional resilience, financial literacy, and mental wellness—offering students the kind of support most of us never had growing up. I’m currently pursuing my bachelor’s degree in Human Services with a concentration in Psychology. My plan is to graduate and use my education to expand my trauma-informed coaching business into full-scale afterschool programs — starting in districts most affected by violence and poverty. I’ve already begun laying the groundwork. I created a trauma-informed curriculum, hosted free grief support groups, and offered no-cost coaching to individuals in emotional distress. I’ve mentored youth, volunteered at community events, and continued to show up even when life felt heavy. I do this because I know what it feels like to need help and not know where to turn. This journey has not been easy. It took me almost eight years to finish my associate degree because life demanded everything—working multiple jobs, parenting alone, and coping with deep loss. In 2021, I lost my fiancé, the father of my son, just weeks before giving birth. I’m currently unemployed and living off savings while searching for work that fits around my school and parenting responsibilities. On top of that, I am maxed out on student loans from my long path to education. But I refuse to let finances be the reason I fall short of this dream. Austin, your story resonates deeply with me. You’ve faced your own road of obstacles on the way to achieving your dreams, and now you’re using your platform to help others keep chasing theirs. That kind of leadership matters. Your generosity reminds me that our past doesn’t disqualify us—it prepares us. I’m not here asking for a handout. I’m asking for a hand up. I have the drive, the vision, and the heart. I just need the resources to keep building what I’ve started. If I’m selected for this scholarship, it will be more than an award—it will be fuel. Fuel to continue showing my children, my community, and everyone watching in silence that it’s never too late to rise, rebuild, and make an impact that matters. Thank you for the opportunity and for believing in Ohio students like me.

I never imagined I’d be starting over at 40—but here I am, and this time, it means everything. Life has handed me losses I didn’t ask for. I became a first-generation college graduate in 2019, earning my associate degree just six months after losing my grandmother—the matriarch of our family who raised ten children with only a sixth-grade education. Her dream was to see me walk across that stage, and even though she wasn’t there, I carried her legacy with me. I still do. Just two years later, in the middle of building a new chapter, I lost my fiancé—the father of my son—only weeks before giving birth. That kind of pain rewires you. It made me question everything. But somewhere between grief and grit, I realized I wasn’t just surviving. I was being shaped. And now, I understand that this moment—returning to school—isn’t about starting over. It’s about stepping into who I was always meant to be. In 2025, I’m pursuing my bachelor’s in Human Services with a focus on Psychology. I chose this path not just because I want to help others—but because I know what it feels like to be broken, lost, and still expected to carry on. I’ve lived the very struggles I now feel called to address: trauma, single motherhood, financial instability, and the quiet grief that too many of us carry alone. That’s why I launched a trauma-informed coaching business in 2020. Since then, I’ve created a curriculum designed for schools and community programs, hosted free grief support groups, and offered no-cost coaching sessions to those navigating deep emotional wounds. I’ve mentored youth, served underserved communities, and shown up as a safe space for people who didn’t know where else to turn. My values—authenticity, service, and healing—weren’t shaped in a classroom. They were carved through lived experience. But now, I’m ready to expand my impact with formal training, research, and the credentials to open doors that have stayed shut for far too long. My vision is to launch trauma-informed afterschool programs in high-need districts—places where young people can learn emotional resilience, build self-worth, and access tools that help break generational cycles. I want to offer what I wish I had: safety, support, and someone who understands. Right now, I’m unemployed and relying on savings as I seek flexible work that aligns with my school schedule and parenting responsibilities. A scholarship like this would do more than ease a financial burden—it would allow me to keep going without sacrificing my well-being or my mission. It would also honor the spirit of this award: that it’s never too late to rewrite your future. Debra S. Jackson’s story reminds me of my own. Her decision to return to school at 40 wasn’t just about education—it was about courage. I share that courage. I’m not doing this for a title. I’m doing it to leave something behind that lives longer than I do. There are people I may never meet who are watching me from afar—young mothers, women facing heartbreak, or adults wondering if it’s too late. I want them to see my journey and believe again. To know that they can begin, even now. Because I did. And I’m not done yet.