I learned early in life that science isn’t abstract it’s practical. It can be the difference in a safe environment and a dangerous one. It can be the difference in a healthy animal and a suffering one. It can also be the difference in a community that understands risks and one that ends up blindsided. What had drawn me to science was the fact that there is always a method to finding the answers hidden within. The first things that caught my interest were behavior of people and the environment around us. I had found my self constantly asking why and looking for the meaning of cause. This especially happened after starting my own battle with mental health and finding my emotional support dog. Why does this animal react this way, how does it know when and how to help? Why would community’s recieve the wrong information and little to no resources over other communities. I followed environmental data of my region while also playing every sport I could get into in middle school and high school. I watched wild life biology lectures over Saturday morning cartoons. I had questions and these questions pushed beyond the normal classrooms. I landed a job as a kennel tech right out of high school after starting college and was able to work under a veterinarian assistant for four years and that was a valuable experience being able to learn the ins and outs of of anything you can think of. During this time a dog I had adopted, that at the time I didn’t know wasn’t the dog that I had went to pick up originally, was the start of my passion with animal care. He needed emergency surgery that ultimately lead to the amputation of his back leg. I wanted to save him so badly I worked at the veterinary hospital for many months of checks being automatically sent for his bill charges and I recieved nothing besides a best friend for the next 16 years. It broke me when I had to make the decision involving his quality of life after finding multiple masses around his chest and throat. However passion isn’t the only point that can make this work alone and little did I know my mental health would decline forcing me to walk away from three years of college. A voice can be the main force in some situations. Living in a rural community I’ve come to realize opportunities can be slim and that misinformation can spread as fast as the wildfires that have ran through our mountains. This is when my advocacy began. Environmental hazards, school safety, public health and wildlife all became the reason I spoke up and continue to speak up. Reason being is for clarity and for rights many people do not know they have. I have spoken to officials, I’ve made sure my communities voice is heard, created many awareness posts and flyers, and have done the research displaying the data so the communities can rely on the evidence and not the rumors. My goal has never to be heard as an expert, it is to make science accessible and easily understood. I want to help close the gap of the clarity of science. As a mother of three, first generation undergraduate after a dual degree, advocate in community safety and future animal control officer I see science as both a responsibility and bridge for all who need it, we all do. My commitment with helping others and bring clarity is inseparable. With your help I can continue with one less hurdle.

I grew up learning early what it means to navigate life with challenges that most people never see. My mother passed away when I was three years old, and for decades I believed it was due to an accident. At thirty‑two, I learned the truth — she had taken her own life. That revelation reshaped everything I thought I understood about my past, my mental health, and the silence that shaped my childhood. Instead of letting that truth break me, it pushed me toward a calling I can no longer ignore: supporting children, families, and individuals who live with mental health struggles and special needs. What led me to this field is simple — lived experience. I have battled mental health challenges since early childhood, and I know the weight of carrying trauma without the right support. Becoming a single mother of three only strengthened my determination. I returned to college after a fifteen‑year gap, not because the timing was perfect, but because I wanted to show my children that “now” is always better than “never.” I want them to see that resilience is not something you’re born with; it’s something you build. My goal is to work in mental and behavioral health, specifically supporting children and families with special needs. I understand how isolating it can feel when a child struggles emotionally, developmentally, or behaviorally and a parent doesn’t know where to turn. I want to be the person who steps in with compassion, clarity, and real tools — someone who listens deeply and sees the whole person, not just the diagnosis. My lived experience allows me to connect with families in a way that is authentic and grounded. I know what it feels like to need someone who understands, and I plan to be that person for others. My volunteer experiences have taught me that support is not just about knowledge — it’s about presence. Whether advocating for vulnerable residents during power shutoffs, helping families navigate limited rural resources, or supporting children in community programs, I’ve learned that people remember how you make them feel long before they remember what you said. I’ve learned patience, empathy, and the importance of meeting people exactly where they are. These experiences have shown me that small acts of support can create long‑term change, especially for individuals with special needs who often feel overlooked. I do have financial need. As a single mother raising three children while attending college full‑time, every resource matters. I am committed to my education, but the financial strain is real. Scholarships like this one would not only ease that burden — they would allow me to focus more fully on my studies and my long‑term goal of becoming a mental health advocate and care provider. What keeps me going every day is the belief that my story can become someone else’s lifeline. I have survived loss, silence, and hardship, but I have also found purpose, strength, and direction. I want to turn everything I’ve lived through into something meaningful — something that helps children, families, and individuals with special needs feel seen, supported, and capable of healing. This is more than a career path for me. It is the work I was meant to do.

I never expected to become a statistic, and for a long time I fought against the idea that my life could be reduced to numbers or odds. I swore my children would never grow up in a broken home, yet life shifted in ways I couldn’t control. What I could control was how I responded. Instead of letting the odds define me, I decided to redefine them. I chose to believe that I could raise three children on my own, return to school after fifteen years, and build a future stronger than the one I came from. Today, I am a scholar student — something I once thought was impossible. This journey hasn’t been easy. There have been nights when exhaustion won, mornings when doubt crept in, and moments when I cried quietly before pulling myself together for my kids. But every step forward reminds me why I’m doing this: stability, healing, and a future where my children see resilience modeled in real time. I want them to know that “now” is always better than “never,” and that starting over is not a failure — it’s a choice. My commitment to a medical career, specifically in mental health care, is rooted in the deepest parts of my story. I have battled mental health challenges since I was three years old, when my mother passed away at just twenty‑one. For most of my life, I believed her death was an accident. At thirty‑two, I learned the truth: she had taken her own life. That revelation shook me to my core. It felt like the ground beneath me split open, and I had to relearn the story of my own beginning. But once I caught my breath, something shifted. Instead of letting the truth break me, it pushed me toward purpose. I realized that the pain I’ve carried — the trauma, the confusion, the silence — could become the very thing that equips me to help others. I know what it feels like to grow up with unanswered questions, to navigate mental health without guidance, and to fight battles no one else can see. That lived experience is not a weakness. It is a tool. I want to work in mental health care because I understand the power of being able to say, “I’ve been there.” I know how healing it is to feel seen, understood, and not judged. My goal is to support children, teens, and mothers who are carrying burdens similar to mine — families who feel like the odds are stacked against them. I want to help break generational cycles of silence, shame, and untreated mental health struggles. I want to be the person I needed when I was younger. What inspires me to keep going every day is simple: my children, my mother’s memory, and the belief that my story can become someone else’s lifeline. I have survived too much, learned too much, and grown too much to let my experiences end with me. Through my medical career, I plan to turn everything I’ve lived through into something meaningful — something that helps others find hope, healing, and a future they can believe in. Every daughter deserves a mother and every mother deserves her life.

Losing an immediate family member changes the course of a life, but losing two — my mother and my brother — shaped not only my childhood, but the purpose I carry into adulthood. Their lives, their love, and their absence are woven into everything I am working toward today. My mother passed away when I was three years old. I was too young to understand the permanence of loss, but old enough to feel the shift in my world. Growing up without her meant growing up with questions, with silence, and with a longing for a relationship I would never get to fully experience. As I got older, I learned more about the woman she was — resilient, loving, undocumented, and determined to give her children a life better than the one she had. Even in her absence, she became my example of strength. She taught me, through stories and memories, what it means to endure hardship with grace. She is the first reason I fight to break generational cycles of silence and to build a future rooted in emotional safety and understanding. Years later, I felt as if I had lost her all over again after learning the truth behind her death that no one had told me before. An article I found while researching my family tree. The article stated that she had leaped in front of the vehicle that killed her, not that a drunk driver had hit her. This hurt me to my core because not long after, I lost my brother to suicide. His death was a different kind of heartbreak — one that forced me to confront the reality of invisible pain. He was someone who laughed easily, loved deeply, and showed up for the people he cared about. Losing him made me realize how many people carry battles no one sees, and how urgently our communities need mental‑health support long before a crisis occurs. His absence pushed me toward the path I’m on now: studying Social & Behavioral Sciences and Humanities, with the goal of becoming a trauma‑informed advocate for children, families, and rural communities. My mother and my brother are two of the reasons I refuse to give up on my education, even when life becomes overwhelming. Their stories remind me that healing is not linear, that purpose can grow from pain, and that continuing forward is an act of courage. They are the foundation of my ambition, my drive, and my perseverance — the very qualities this scholarship seeks to honor. Their losses taught me to listen closely, to notice the quiet signs, and to create the kind of emotional safety I never had growing up. They taught me that silence is not weakness, but a signal that someone needs support. And they taught me that the best way to honor the people we lose is to build something better for the people who are still here. I am applying for this scholarship because I am committed to turning my grief into purpose. My mother’s strength and my brother’s memory guide me as I work toward a future where families, children, and communities — especially rural ones like mine — have access to the mental‑health support they deserve. Their lives will always be part of my story, not as weights I carry, but as lights I follow. They are my reasons.

My journey with mental health has shaped every part of who I am — my goals, my relationships, and the way I understand the world. For most of my life, I didn’t have the words to describe what I was feeling. I grew up in a family where mental health wasn’t talked about, where pain was something you carried quietly, and where the truth was often softened or hidden to protect the people left behind. Because of that, I learned early to push my feelings down and keep moving, even when everything inside me was falling apart. When I was three years old, my mother died. I grew up believing she was hit by a drunk driver while walking to the store. That story shaped my entire childhood — the idea that life could change in an instant, that tragedy could come out of nowhere. But decades later, when I started researching my family history, I found newspaper articles that told a different story. They said she had stepped in front of the vehicle. Learning that truth as an adult shattered something in me deep down to my core. It forced me to confront not only her pain, but the silence surrounding it. It made me realize how deeply mental health struggles can hide behind the stories families tell to survive. That discovery came at the same time I decided to return to college after more than ten years away. I walked into that semester hopeful, determined, and ready to rebuild my life. But almost immediately, my sister’s health declined, and the cancer she had been fighting began to win. She and I shared the same father — a man who caused my mother so much pain — and because of that, she was the only person who truly understood the complicated layers of our family history. Losing her that December broke me in a way I still struggle to put into words. She was my biggest cheerleader, the one who pushed me to go back to school, the one who believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. Before losing my sister, about five years before we lost our brother to suicide. Before that, my other sister's husband to suicide. I lost my mom's brother, my uncle, my best friend, and someone who looked after me my whole life. My grandparents raised us, but he was someone I never ever thought I would lose. Their have been many deaths inbetween these ones but these are the main ones that effected me most. Unexpected loss made me walk away from college the first time, but I refused to let it take my future again. This time, I recognized I couldn’t carry everything alone. I reached out for therapy — something I never would have done years ago. Asking for help was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but it was also the moment I realized that healing isn’t weakness. It’s courage. It’s choosing to face the truth instead of running from it. Therapy changed the way I see myself and the world. It taught me that mental health isn’t something to hide or be ashamed of. It taught me that silence can be just as loud and damaging as the pain itself. And it made me want to be someone who helps others feel safe enough to speak their truth. My experiences have shaped my goals in a very real way. I want to work in healthcare, supporting children, families, and vulnerable community members who are navigating grief, trauma, or emotional uncertainty. I want to create spaces where people feel seen and understood — the kind of spaces I needed growing up. I want to help break the stigma around mental health, especially in communities where silence has been the norm for generations. My understanding of the world is rooted in compassion now. I pay attention to the quiet signs, the things people don’t say, the weight they carry behind their eyes. I know what it feels like to hold everything in, and I know how life-changing it can be when someone finally says, “You don’t have to carry this alone.” I spent years trying different odd jobs, thinking outside the box, hoping something would feel like home. Nothing ever did. But helping someone see a better future — helping them understand that the past doesn’t have to define them and that those chains can be broken — that’s where I feel a sense of purpose. That’s where I know I’m meant to be. Believing that things happen for a reason, wouldn't one question why so many of my family members have been taken so soon? It can not all be for nothing. I’ve carried enough darkness to know what it costs, and I’m determined to spend the rest of my life helping others break free from theirs. Mental health has shaped me, but it has also strengthened me. Other than my children, mental health has given me purpose, direction, and a deep commitment to helping others bring their own darkness into the light.

Loss has shaped my life in ways I never expected, and it has become one of the biggest forces behind who I am today. I’ve lived through more loss than I ever imagined I would. When I decided to look into my bloodline, I never knew who my maternal grandfather was. I jumped into genealogy with both feet. While searching, I found newspaper articles about my mother’s death that told a story I had never heard. My whole life, since I was three, I was told she was hit by a drunk driver while walking to the store. The article said she jumped in front of the vehicle. Learning that changed everything. It shifted how I saw my past, my family, and even myself. I already had so many questions, and suddenly there were even more—questions I know I may never get answers to. I found all of this out right as I started my first semester back in college after more than a decade away. I walked into that semester hopeful and ready to finally focus on myself and my future. Then almost immediately, my sister’s health started to decline, and the cancer she had been fighting began to win. It felt like grief was hitting me from every direction—old grief I thought I understood and new grief I wasn’t ready for. What makes all of this even heavier is that the man who caused so much of my mother’s pain is also my father. My sister and I shared him, and because of that, she was the only person who truly understood the complicated layers of our family history. She knew exactly what I carried, and I knew what she carried too. Understanding the truth about our mother didn’t make losing her easier—it made it more real. It made me see my mother as a woman who struggled, who wanted love, who wanted to be a mother, and who didn’t get the life she deserved. Losing my sister on December 15th broke something in me. She was my biggest cheerleader. She wanted me to finish school more than anyone. She believed in me in a way I didn’t always believe in myself. When she passed, it felt like the one person who shared my exact story was suddenly gone. But her belief in me didn’t disappear. If anything, it pushed me harder. Unexpected deaths made me walk away from college the first time, and I’ll be damned if I’m walking away again. The difference now is that I finally knew I needed help, and I reached out for therapy instead of trying to carry everything alone. These losses changed the way I move through the world. They made me pay attention to the quiet things—the things people don’t say out loud, the pain they carry silently. They taught me to be gentle with people, because you never know what someone is holding inside. They also pushed me toward a future in healthcare, where compassion matters just as much as skill. I want to support children, families, and vulnerable people who are going through their own storms. I want to be the kind of person who notices when someone is struggling quietly, because I know exactly what that feels like. Loss has shaped me, but it hasn’t stopped me. It’s given me purpose, resilience, and a deep drive to turn everything I’ve lived through into something meaningful. Every class I take is a promise—to my mother, to my sister, and to myself—that I will build a life rooted in compassion, strength, and impact.

My “Pie in the Sky” dream is to build a career in healthcare where emotional support is treated as just as important as physical care — especially for children and families navigating grief. It’s a dream that feels big and a little intimidating, but it’s also the one thing in my life that feels undeniably right. I want to create spaces where people feel safe, understood, and never alone in their pain. That dream didn’t come from one moment, but from a lifetime of loss, resilience, and the determination to turn pain into purpose. I’ve lost my mother, my brother, my brother‑in‑law, and several cousins to suicide. Those losses could have hardened me, but instead they opened my eyes to how deeply people struggle in silence. I learned early that emotional pain doesn’t always look dramatic — sometimes it looks like someone trying to hold everything together until they can’t anymore. Living through that kind of grief taught me how important it is to notice the quiet signs, to listen without judgment, and to show up for people before they reach a breaking point. The moment that truly sparked my dream came after my sister passed away. I watched my daughter try to navigate her grief in ways I didn’t immediately recognize. She was hurting, but she didn’t have the words for it. Seeing her struggle quietly lit something in me. It made me realize how many children carry emotional weight they don’t know how to express, and how easily their pain can be overlooked even by the people who love them most. Supporting her through that time changed me. It made me want to help families understand what their children are going through and help children feel seen and supported when their world feels too heavy. My dream is to become a healthcare professional who blends compassion, emotional awareness, and advocacy. I want to work directly with children and families, helping them navigate grief, stress, and mental health challenges with dignity and support. I want to create a space where people feel safe to speak their truth, where they don’t feel judged or dismissed, and where they can begin to heal. To reach this dream, I know I’ll need to continue my education, gain more hands-on experience, and surround myself with mentors and communities that value emotional wellbeing. I’ll need courage — the courage to keep going when the path feels long, the courage to speak up for people who feel voiceless, and the courage to believe that my story can make a difference. I’ll also need community, because healing and growth don’t happen alone. I learned this while advocating for seniors and medically impaired residents in the Kern River Valley during repeated PSPS shutoffs. I didn’t stop pushing for answers until our concerns were finally acknowledged by the people in office. I’m determined, but I know I’ll need accountability to keep taking steps forward even when doubt creeps in. My “Pie in the Sky” dream is big, but it’s rooted in love — for my family, for my daughter, and for every child who deserves to feel understood. I’m ready to take the next brave steps to make it real.

I’ve spent most of my life supporting others through emotional pain, partly because I know what it feels like to carry it. My family has been deeply affected by suicide, and losing my mother, my brother, my brotherinlaw, and several cousins changed the way I see mental health forever. Those losses didn’t make me shut down — they made me more aware, more compassionate, and more determined to be someone others can turn to before they reach a breaking point. Because of what I’ve lived through, people naturally come to me when they’re overwhelmed or struggling. I’ve sat with friends during panic attacks, talked loved ones through moments of fear, and been the steady person someone calls when they don’t know who else to reach out to. I don’t judge, I don’t rush them, and I don’t make them feel like a burden. I know how much it matters to feel heard. After my sister passed away, I watched my daughter try to navigate her own grief in ways I didn’t immediately recognize. Seeing her struggle quietly lit something in me. It made me realize how many children carry emotional weight they don’t have the words for, and how easily their pain can go unnoticed. Supporting her through that time showed me how important it is for families to have someone who understands both the emotional and developmental sides of healing. That experience is a major reason I’m pursuing a career in healthcare — I want to help children and families feel seen, supported, and understood. These moments are the reason I’m committed to working in a field where emotional wellbeing is treated as a core part of care. I want to be the kind of healthcare professional who notices the quiet signs, who listens without judgment, and who helps break the silence that keeps so many people suffering alone. My goal is to create a safe, compassionate environment for patients and families dealing with stress, grief, or mental health challenges. I’ve seen the impact that one caring person can make, and I’ve tried to be that person for others. This scholarship would help me continue my education and move closer to becoming the kind of healthcare worker who brings empathy, understanding, and hope to every person I meet.

Mental illness has never been a stranger to me. Looking back now, I can see that my own experience with it began when I was just three years old. At thirty‑four, while researching my family tree, I found an old newspaper report about my mother's death. She hadn't died from a hit‑and‑run involving a drunk driver, as I was always told. She stepped in front of that vehicle during a moment of mental distress she felt she couldn’t navigate. After finding that article, I returned to therapy and shared a dream I'd had my entire life, one I’d never told anyone. Describing the scene, I now know it may have been my three‑year‑old self witnessing what happened. I grew up in a family where trauma was inherited and never discussed. I learned survival long before I knew the words for it, and how to read the room to navigate emotional storms as if they were mine to carry. For many years, I felt something heavy lived in the background of my family, forcing me to grow up quickly to keep myself and others steady. Mental illness doesn’t just affect the individual who carries it. It hangs onto the limb of the family tree, touching every leaf. It alters childhood while teaching you to read silence like a second language. I learned early how to sense when someone was slipping, when to soften my voice, and how to hold space even when I couldn’t hold it for myself. Back then, I didn’t know what I was navigating wasn’t normal or even had a name. I’ve come to realize the things I unknowingly inherited caused the anxiety, panic attacks, and the understanding that depression isn’t something every child knows. All of it stems from generational trauma, untreated mental illness, and systems that failed my family long before I was born. Living in a rural area made everything harder. Resources are minimal, stigma is loud, and asking for help feels like admitting weakness — something no one in my family believed they could show. So we didn’t talk about it. We endured it and paid the price, which included losing my brother. We never saw it coming. Today, I am studying to become the advocate I once needed — a socialworker who sees early signs, listens without judgment, and understands the weight a child carries when the adults around them are drowning. My path to a dual degree gives me the tools to understand both the mind and the world that shapes it. I want to work with children and families navigating grief, trauma, and broken systems in rural areas like mine, where support is often out of reach. My education doesn’t just lead to a career; it places me at the front of the line to continue the healing work I’ve been doing my whole life. This is my way of breaking cycles so they don’t repeat. This scholarship will help me continue work that honors the truth that mental illness affects whole families and will help me build the skills to show up for children who feel invisible, overwhelmed, and unheard. Mental illness shaped my past, but advocacy is shaping my future. I’m ready to turn everything I’ve lived through into something that helps someone else breathe easier.

For most people, twenty‑five years is a lifetime. For me, it’s the amount of time I’ve had the same best friend — my soul sister, my constant, the person who has walked beside me since we were nine years old. It still blows my mind to think we’ve been inseparable since fourth grade, but when a friendship is built the way ours is, time just folds into itself. We met on a random recess day when a couple of girls were being mean to me. I didn’t know how to defend myself, but she did. She stepped in without hesitation, like she had already decided I was worth protecting. That moment set the tone for everything that came after. From that day forward, we were as close as sisters. Her family took me in like I was one of their own. I always joke that I was the adopted child they never wanted, but the truth is, they gave me a sense of belonging I didn’t always have. Our birthdays are only two weeks apart, and our siblings eventually learned to love each other because they realized we weren’t going anywhere. We were a package deal. As we grew up, life didn’t spare either of us. When her parents separated, she carried a weight no kid should have to carry, and all I knew to do was sit with her through it. Later, when my older sister was fighting cancer, she was the one constantly calling and checking on her — even when she didn’t have to. And the day my sister passed away, she didn’t hesitate. At the drop of a hat, she came to me because she knew I needed her. She showed up to the funeral without knowing a single person there, and even brought her new boyfriend along. Watching him stand beside her, supporting me, told me everything I needed to know about the kind of man he was. Not everyone would sit through a funeral for someone they never met, but she did it out of love for me. That’s who she is. We even started college together. I’ll be honest: without her, I probably wouldn’t have made it past the paperwork. She has the brains, and I have the mouth that bites if anyone messes with her. We balance each other in a way that only twenty‑five years of friendship can create. When we became mothers, our lives intertwined even more. With our second children, we were pregnant at the same time — she had a boy, and I had a girl. I was there for both of her births, and she was ready to be there for mine, but my sisters refused to leave the room. So she waited nearby, on call, just in case I needed her. Our kids now know each other as cousins, and my son once asked, “If Aunt Lauren is our aunt, why isn’t she Nana’s daughter?” I had to explain that sometimes friends become family — and in our case, they always have been. She is my best friend because she has shown me loyalty, devotion, and sacrifice in ways I can never repay. She has shaped my resilience, pushed me to stay ambitious even when life knocked me down, and reminded me that I’m capable of more than I think. Her impact on my life is the reason I keep going — in school, in motherhood, and in every version of myself I’m still becoming. True friendship is rare. Ours is something I will never take for granted.

I’ve never been the kind of person who follows every Taylor Swift release or knows every lyric by heart, but even from a distance, I’ve always respected the way she turns her life into something honest and unfiltered. That’s why the performance of hers that moved me most wasn’t one filled with dancers or special effects — it was her “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” performance on Saturday Night Live. Even as someone who doesn’t listen to her regularly, that moment stood out to me because of how stripped‑down and vulnerable it was. It was just her, a guitar, and a story she refused to shrink. There was something powerful about watching a woman reclaim a narrative that once hurt her. She didn’t hide behind production or spectacle; she stood in the truth of her own experience and let it be seen. That kind of courage resonates with me because I know what it feels like to carry a story that once felt too heavy to name. I know what it means to speak about something painful and finally feel the weight shift. Her performance reminded me that healing isn’t always loud — sometimes it’s quiet, steady, and rooted in finally telling the truth. It made me think about the moments in my own life when I’ve had to face things I didn’t want to look at, and how powerful it can be to finally say, “This happened, and it shaped me, but it doesn’t define me.” What moved me most wasn’t the song itself, but the way she held her own space. She didn’t apologize for the length, the emotion, or the history behind it. She let the story breathe. That kind of self‑possession is something I’m learning to practice in my own life — especially as I study Social and Behavioral Sciences and Humanities with the goal of becoming a mental health advocate for children and families. I want to help others find their voice the way she found hers in that moment. Even though I’m not a Swiftie, I understand what it means to turn pain into purpose. I understand what it means to stand in front of people and share something that once felt too big to carry alone. Watching her do that reminded me that vulnerability can be a form of strength, and that telling your story — even the hardest parts — can open the door for someone else to tell theirs. That’s why this performance stays with me. Not because I know every lyric, but because I recognize the courage it takes to stand in your truth. And that’s the kind of courage I want to bring into my work, my education, and the communities I hope to serve.

Mental illness has never been a stranger to me. Looking back now, I can see that my own experience with it began when I was just three years old. At thirty‑four, while researching my family tree, I found an old newspaper report about my mother's death. She hadn't died from a hit‑and‑run involving a drunk driver, as I was always told. She stepped in front of that vehicle during a moment of mental distress she felt she couldn’t navigate. After finding that article, I returned to therapy and shared a dream I'd had my entire life, one I’d never told anyone. Describing the scene, I now know it may have been my three‑year‑old self witnessing what happened. I grew up in a family where trauma was inherited and never discussed. I learned survival long before I knew the words for it, and how to read the room to navigate emotional storms as if they were mine to carry. For many years, I felt something heavy lived in the background of my family, forcing me to grow up quickly to keep myself and others steady. Mental illness doesn’t just affect the individual who carries it. It hangs onto the limb of the family tree, touching every leaf. It alters childhood while teaching you to read silence like a second language. I learned early how to sense when someone was slipping, when to soften my voice, and how to hold space even when I couldn’t hold it for myself. Back then, I didn’t know what I was navigating wasn’t normal or even had a name. I’ve come to realize the things I unknowingly inherited caused the anxiety, panic attacks, and the understanding that depression isn’t something every child knows. All of it stems from generational trauma, untreated mental illness, and systems that failed my family long before I was born. Living in a rural area made everything harder. Resources are minimal, stigma is loud, and asking for help feels like admitting weakness — something no one in my family believed they could show. So we didn’t talk about it. We endured it and paid the price, which included losing my brother. We never saw it coming. Today, I am studying to become the advocate I once needed — a socialworker who sees early signs, listens without judgment, and understands the weight a child carries when the adults around them are drowning. My path to a dual degree gives me the tools to understand both the mind and the world that shapes it. I want to work with children and families navigating grief, trauma, and broken systems in rural areas like mine, where support is often out of reach. My education doesn’t just lead to a career; it places me at the front of the line to continue the healing work I’ve been doing my whole life. This is my way of breaking cycles so they don’t repeat. This scholarship will help me continue work that honors the truth that mental illness affects whole families and will help me build the skills to show up for children who feel invisible, overwhelmed, and unheard. Mental illness shaped my past, but advocacy is shaping my future. I’m ready to turn everything I’ve lived through into something that helps someone else breathe easier.

Mental illness has never been a stranger to me. Looking back now, I can see that my own experience with it began when I was just three years old. At thirty‑four, while researching my family tree, I found an old newspaper report about my mother's death. She hadn't died from a hit‑and‑run involving a drunk driver, as I was always told. She stepped in front of that vehicle during a moment of mental distress she felt she couldn’t navigate. After finding that article, I returned to therapy and shared a dream I'd had my entire life, one I’d never told anyone. Describing the scene, I now know it may have been my three‑year‑old self witnessing what happened. I grew up in a family where trauma was inherited and never discussed. I learned survival long before I knew the words for it, and how to read the room to navigate emotional storms as if they were mine to carry. For many years, I felt something heavy lived in the background of my family, forcing me to grow up quickly to keep myself and others steady. Mental illness doesn’t just affect the individual who carries it. It hangs onto the limb of the family tree, touching every leaf. It alters childhood while teaching you to read silence like a second language. I learned early how to sense when someone was slipping, when to soften my voice, and how to hold space even when I couldn’t hold it for myself. Back then, I didn’t know what I was navigating wasn’t normal or even had a name. I’ve come to realize the things I unknowingly inherited caused the anxiety, panic attacks, and the understanding that depression isn’t something every child knows. All of it stems from generational trauma, untreated mental illness, and systems that failed my family long before I was born. Living in a rural area made everything harder. Resources are minimal, stigma is loud, and asking for help feels like admitting weakness — something no one in my family believed they could show. So we didn’t talk about it. We endured it and paid the price, which included losing my brother to suicide. We never saw it coming. Today, I am studying to become the advocate I once needed — someone who sees early signs, listens without judgment, and understands the weight a child carries when the adults around them are drowning. My path to a dual degree gives me the tools to understand both the mind and the world that shapes it. I want to work with children and families navigating grief, trauma, and broken systems in rural areas like mine, where support is often out of reach. My education doesn’t just lead to a career; it places me at the front of the line to continue the healing work I’ve been doing my whole life. This is my way of breaking cycles so they don’t repeat. This scholarship will help me continue work that honors the truth that mental illness affects whole families and will help me build the skills to show up for children who feel invisible, overwhelmed, and unheard. Mental illness shaped my past, but advocacy is shaping my future. I’m ready to turn everything I’ve lived through into something that helps someone else breathe easier.

In 2010, I was a high school senior who finished all my credits four months early through independent studies. I pushed myself to work double time because the alternative was sitting alone with my anxiety and panic attacks, and at seventeen, I didn’t yet have the tools to manage them. I still walked the stage with my class — but only after a lot of pep‑talking and deep breaths. That fall, I enrolled at Bakersfield College, proud to be the first in my family to take that step toward a different future. I wanted to be the one they could look at and be proud of. What most people didn’t know was that my path to that stage was shaped by a loss I carried quietly. When I was fourteen, the father figure I had — my uncle — passed away suddenly. His death didn’t just break my heart; it broke the sense of safety I had been building my life around. After he died, school became harder to face. The hallways felt louder, the eyes felt heavier, and the world felt sharper without the one person who had always made me feel steady. Independent studies became the only way I could keep going without completely falling apart. By the time graduation came, I almost didn’t walk across the stage at all. It wasn’t stage fright — it was grief. The idea of stepping into a milestone he should have been there for felt unbearable. The only way I found the courage was by wearing a remembrance necklace with his photo inside. I refused to walk without it. That necklace wasn’t just a keepsake; it was the last piece of him I could carry into a moment he should have witnessed. When I finally stepped onto that stage, I wasn’t walking alone. I was walking with him, for him, and toward a future he always believed I deserved. I started college that fall with hope, but life unraveled quickly. During my last semester, I was couch surfing, grieving another loss, and watching the little stability I had left crumble. I didn’t have a safety net, and eventually I ran — not because I didn’t care about school, but because survival demanded all my energy. Over the next twelve years, I lived a lot of life. I became a mother to three children, each four years apart. I broke a generational pattern by having my first child at twenty‑one instead of as a teenager. My oldest son is also the reason I stopped relying on alcohol, which is significant in a family where alcoholism has been a familiar escape for generations. Choosing sobriety was choosing a different legacy. Returning to college wasn’t just about earning a degree — it was about reclaiming the future I once ran from. Education matters to me because it represents stability, self‑determination, and the chance to model resilience for my children. I want them to see that even when life knocks you off your path, you can rebuild, reroute, and rise again. The legacy I hope to leave is one of breaking cycles — of silence, of instability, of generational patterns that were handed to me without my consent. Education is my way of carving a new path, one that leads not just to a degree, but to a life defined by purpose, healing, and possibility.

Being a first‑generation student has never felt like a title I earned. It felt more like something I stepped into because no one else in my family had the chance. I grew up learning how to translate paperwork before I learned how to translate literature. I learned how to read the tone of a caseworker’s voice before I ever learned how to read a syllabus. Education wasn’t handed to me — it was something I had to reach for while holding everything else together. Most of my life has been shaped by instability: unstable housing, unstable systems, unstable promises. I’ve lived in places where the walls were thin and the air wasn’t safe, and still found ways to keep my grades steady. I’ve been a caregiver while trying to be a student, and an advocate while trying to be a daughter, niece, community member, and the most important of all a mother. None of that fits neatly into a scholarship checkbox, but it’s the truth of how I got here. I’ve kept my grades strong while caregiving and pushing back against systems that weren’t built for people like me. I don’t just study social science — I move through it every day. My dreams aren’t simple or single‑layered. I want to be the kind of scholar who can hold creative work in one hand and legal strategy in the other, someone who can talk about policy and still make room for poetry of relation. I want to build spaces where people who’ve been pushed aside aren’t just included but centered. I want to write memoirs that honor the people who came before me, and I want to build community archives that bring buried stories back into the light. This scholarship isn’t just money to me. It’s a signal that the work I’m doing matters. It would help me stay on track with my studies at Cerro Coso College, prepare for transfer, and get the tools I need to keep growing — not just for myself, but for the people I serve. It would also help me develop From the Dust into something real and useful for others walking the same hard roads. I’m not chasing perfection. I’m chasing purpose. I show up with heart, strategy, and a stubborn refusal to be silenced. I’m not only the first in my family to do this — I’m the one carrying the match, trying to light a path forward.

It started my freshman year, at the time I didnt know what "it" was, I just knew at times the world made me seem so small with nothing to reach for while gasping for air. Over time, I would be labelled with a high case of depression and severe anxiety/panic attacks. I completed the next three years of high school through independent studies, learning how to manage my newly diagnosed condition. The downfall was the fact that I was being raised by my grandparents after my mother's death when I was three years old, so mental health wasn't something they could just "throw some dirt on" and walk it off. Do not get me wrong, they did a wonderful job caring for my sister and i in a loving faith-based home, but for them to finally decide to seek help in helping me, it had been nearly six months of me not saying one word. They assumed I was going through a faze. Eventually, with professional help, I began to find my voice again. Therapy taught me that silence wasn’t weakness, but a signal that I needed support. Slowly, I learned to manage my depression and anxiety through structure, journaling, some tricks, and speaking up when I needed help. I've realised there are many children who go through the same situations as I did, and some parents, unfortunately, don't acknowledge the red flags or even know what those red flags are. I know how isolating mental health struggles can get, and I feel that it's my life's direction to dedicate my career to supporting those very children and their families. By raising awareness in rural communities where resources are very few, I would ensure that families like my own have access to care and understanding because my goal is to have the future generation live life without the lifelong battles of mental health by defining the signs so parents can see them quicker and assess the problems with resources and knowledge. As a single mother to three children who to this day can admit to reaching out to therapy when I know it's needed, such as the recent death of my sister, who fiercely fought a five-year cancer battle. Stage 4 isn't something you want to hear when you barely found out you have cancer, and prepping each other for the inevitable doesn't make it any easier. Just as I started my second shot at college, my world was spinning yet again, but I knew I could not walk away this time; this is not only my future but the stability my children need and deserve. I walked away from my first three years of college due to mental health, and unfortunately, I never thought I would look back. Here I am, 13 years later, starting out with an embarrassing 1.34 GPA and nearly halfway through, I've brought it up to a 3.0 and have worked my way into being a Scholar. I'm living proof that mental health does not define you, and with this opportunity, I'm so grateful to apply for, I can share my experience and help the next generation rise up from the labels because they are not alone.

My path was laid out for me before I ever knew it. The very moment I lost my mother at age three, grief became a constant companion. Later, my uncle-my best friend and the person I believed I could always rely on, passed away from an overdose when I was fourteen. My brother died by suicide, and my sister fought a five‑year battle with colon cancer before passing away. After 34 years, i came face to face with a lie that I had been told my whole life. Understandably, they didnt want me to judge the situation or look at her any differently, and I don't. I have more of a view of just how many things she was trying to take on and overcome at such a young age. I wish she could have been stronger and stayed here for my sister and me, but the demons that, unfortunately, some have to battle can consume you in every way, leading you into the road of a busy highway and away from your two little girls. Death is no stranger to me, yet the weight of these losses shaped my mental health and my determination to pursue a career in public service. I would like to stand next to those who are voiceless and provide comfort, support, and encouragement. My love for service to the public is based on a shared experience of life and caregiving. I have worked as an in-home caregiver for elderly folks over the past four years, providing support with everything from shopping to personal tasks that are difficult due to dementia. For about five months, I had been grassroots advocating in my rural area, studying the impact of PSPS shutoffs that left families without power or water going for more than twelve hours-no power equals no water for well-reliant families- mine included. Having these experiences showed me that it is not just a profession; it is a mission. The many hours I sacrificed were immense. Caregiving work, family duties, while juggling my coursework, and at the time was homeschooling all three of my children, yes, I know. What were you thinking? Well, to be honest, I didnt see anyone else calling the city council, drafting emails to the senators, writing letters to the very people who are in office that are supposed to be protecting our rights, until I finally started catching everyone's attention. By strategically sharing some of the data I had collected and making no other choice for our questions answered, and voices to be heard. Working as a caregiver was never my ideal job; however, I do believe everything happens for a reason. I realized living paycheck to paycheck is not something I want to do forever, cause a lot of the time those paychecks don't make it through the month, let alone help me financially with college. Climbing the pyramid, so to speak, to receive better pay can only be done with the right certifications, and I need a higher education to do that. I figured if I am going to go all in, then I should go for something I am passionate about. With the lack of support by the very people I've cheered on, and the time and time again I've put others' needs before my own,I am determined to succeed and accomplish what I’ve started, with my children watching. They will know that persistence can overcome hardship, and that education and service create lasting change. I am grateful for this opportunity and proud to seek support from something so meaningful and close to my heart.

My path was laid out for me before I ever felt it. From the moment I lost my mother when I was only three years old, the amount of grief I would carry left me with more questions than I was old enough to answer. Her brother, one person I believed I could always rely on, passed away from an overdose when I was 14 years old. With many before and after him gone, I can say that death is no stranger to me. I also lost my sister to a five-year cancer battle and our brother to suicide. This led to mental health issues, leaving me speechless for six months after my uncle passed away. I was finally able to speak to a therapist, then a psychiatrist, who pulled me from the rest of my high school years. Large crowds, classrooms, parks, and grocery stores were just a handful of the places that would bring on panic attacks that could make you believe someone was suffocating. you. Despite the challenges over time, I learned to navigate the episodes; I was able to stop them before they had a chance to start. With not nearly as much support as one should have, I found that I feel most whole when I am helping others. My voice grew stronger through grassroots advocacy. After researching the impact of PSPS shutoffs in my rural area, which left families without power for 12+ hours and without water due to well-reliant parcels, that held children and the elderly with and without medical needs. I also found purpose in in-home assistance for the elderly over the past four years, supporting clients with everything from shopping to more personal tasks made difficult by dementia. One of my proudest moments was organizing a fundraiser alone, where—with the help of generous donations—I was able to hand out 25 fully stocked backpacks after the Borrel Fire burned through our valley. I wanted to help the parents with one less thing to worry about, since school was about to start back up in two weeks. I am first a mother to three very strong-minded children who i can proudly say also stand up for others when they see someone in need of a voice. Even when the road forward seems too far to reach, they are what make it feel possible. Working as a caregiver has given me a purpose. But it does not provide much room for climbing the pyramid, so to speak. Living paycheck to paycheck, barely making it through most months with three children, and without certification or higher education, I am limited to low-wage positions, no matter how much heart I can bring to the work. Completing a higher education is the only pathway to breaking this cycle, by earning the needed qualifications that will allow me to move into positions with fair pay and the ability to advocate for mental health services for all and systemic change in care work. I plan to use my voice for anyone needing one, especially for children, in hopes that parents see the red flags before they become a lifelong battle. This scholarship will allow me to continue my education without sacrificing my children's needs or leaving us trapped in debt for years. By turning my hardship into determination, I am fully committed to building a solid foundation for stability for my children while showing them that persistence, education, and justice can overcome instability and grief. I want to thank you for considering my application and for honoring the legacy of Arne Hyson by supporting students like me.

While growing up, my grandparents tried to make life as normal as possible, but they couldn't shield the fact that death was no stranger to me. Inharited silence has shaped my life and hasd made my determination to pursue higher education that much stronger. My mother passed away when I was only three years old, leaving me with questions I was too young to answer so I grew curious and went to find them myself. Unfortunately I found that my whole life i was lied to and my mothers death was suicide and the not the accident everyone led me to believe. At fourteen, I lost her brother—the uncle who helped raise me— my bestfriend and that was when mental health became a real factor in my life. Later, my brother died by suicide, and my sister fought a five‑year battle with cancer before passing away. Half-siblings don't hurt any less because they never treated me any differently. Each of these losses left scars, but they also taught me the importance of resilience, community, and the need to build a future where my children can see strength in the face of hardship. Financially, I continue to struggle. I love working as a caregiver, but living paycheck to paycheck does not provide stability for a family of three children. Without certification or higher credentials, I am limited to low‑wage positions, no matter how much heart I put into the work. Rent, transportation, and basic needs quickly consume what I earn, leaving little room for growth. Higher education is my path to breaking this cycle—earning the qualifications that will allow me to move into positions with fair pay and the ability to advocate for systemic change in work or be the voice a child needs. Personally, the weight of grief and instability has been difficult to carry. Housing insecurity, which has led me to believe I was purchasing a home for the last four years, is leaving me with the task of finding a place for my children to call home in the middle of the holidays. The emotional labor and the responsibility of being a first-generation student often feel overwhelming. Yet I have learned to set boundaries, reclaim my time, and channel my energy into both advocacy and academics. My children are my motivation: they remind me daily that persistence matters, and that education is not just for me but for the stability and dignity of our family. My ambition is to complete my associate’s degree in the humanities and transfer to a four‑year university. With certification and advanced training, I will be able to move beyond entry‑level caregiving into leadership roles that honor the dignity of care work and provide financial stability. My long‑term vision is to combine academic knowledge with lived experience to create programs that uplift rural families, protect vulnerable communities, and ensure that no one feels alone in their struggles. This scholarship would allow me to continue my education without sacrificing my children’s needs or taking on debt that could trap us for years. It represents more than financial aid—it is an investment in a future where my children see that education and resilience can overcome instability and grief. By turning hardship into determination, I am committed to building a life where we thrive, not just survive. Thank you for considering my application for this opportunity and for honoring the legacy of Sharon L. Smartt by supporting students like me. With your support, I can transform the challenges of today into the opportunities of tomorrow.

I used to joke that if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. But the truth is, what I’ve faced isn’t luck—it’s systemic failure, betrayal, and the consequences of being underestimated. I’m a full-time student, caregiver, and community advocate fighting foreclosure after being scammed in a home purchase. I’ve endured housing instability, legal battles, and emotional strain—all while trying to protect my family and animals from the fallout. And yet, I show up. I document. I speak out. I build. My advocacy began not in a classroom, but in a crisis. I learned to draft hardship letters to all seats of Congress, organize an emergency yard sale, and create social media campaigns to raise awareness and funds. I’ve fought to preserve my own dignity in the face of belittlement and lies—especially from those who should have offered support. I’ve seen how bullying and harassment don’t end in K–12; they evolve into adult systems of power, selfishness, and silence. That’s why I believe mental health advocacy must start early and be rooted in truth, empathy, and access. I’m pursuing a degree in Social & Behavioral Sciences because I want to help others navigate the same convoluted systems I’ve had to survive. I feel that this is my place in this world. My past trauma that I was able to survive is a valuable source of connection to many because I can relate in even more ways. I envision a future where mental health support is not a maze of referrals and red tape, but a streamlined, community-embedded process. I want to create programs that blend legal literacy, emotional intelligence, and creative expression—especially for rural youth who often fall through the cracks. No life should be cut short for not being able to define what's in their minds. One of my long-term goals is to expand my legacy project, Aunties’ Archive: From the Dust, into a healing-centered space for storytelling, art therapy, and community empowerment. I believe that when students are given tools to express their pain—whether through writing, vintage curation, Art of all kinds, or advocacy—they begin to reclaim their voice. That reclamation is the first step toward resilience. I’ve moderated community dialogues, de-escalated conflict, and curated vintage items as emotional artifacts. I’ve seen how labeling a memory can help someone process trauma. I want to bring that same intentionality into schools—through integrative therapy kits, peer-led workshops, and trauma-informed curriculum. I want to help students name what hurts, and then build what heals, something I now wish I had when I was a child. I want to be who I needed back then. Ryan’s story reminds me that behind every diagnosis is a person who deserves more compassion, more access, and more belief. I carry that belief into every yard sale, every scholarship application, every sleepless night spent drafting appeals. I’m not just advocating for change—I’m living it.

Growing up, whenever someone asked what I wanted to be, I always said “a veterinarian.” Animals were my safe space. They don’t judge, they don’t interrupt, and they don’t stare you down trying to find what’s wrong with you. They love unconditionally, are loyal, and have amazing souls. I now understand why that dream felt so right: animals offered comfort during my early battles with anxiety, panic attacks, and depression. I still work daily to manage these challenges, and animals remain a grounding force—something I could see, touch, smell, and center myself around when the world felt overwhelming. But over time, my focus shifted. I began to see how human health—especially in rural, underserved communities like mine—was deeply affected by systemic neglect. I witnessed neighbors struggle with access to care, elders go without support, and families navigate impossible choices. That’s when my passion expanded from animal care to human-centered wellness. I realized that people, too, deserve unconditional care, dignity, and someone who sees them without judgment. Today, I’m a second-year scholar at Cerro Coso College, pursuing an AA in Liberal Arts: Social & Behavioral Sciences. My journey has been shaped by caregiving, rural advocacy, and a deep commitment to equity. As an in-home care provider and community advocate, I’ve learned that human health is not just clinical—it’s relational. Whether supporting elders through daily routines or documenting housing rights, I’ve seen how wellness depends on trust, access, and empathy. To me, empathy is the ability to listen beyond words—to understand someone’s lived experience, fears, and hopes without judgment. It’s not just feeling for others; it’s acting with them in mind. In health-related fields, empathy is essential because care is never one-size-fits-all. Each person brings a unique story, and honoring that story is the foundation of ethical, effective support. In my future career—likely in public health or clinical social work—empathy will guide how I assess needs, build trust, and advocate for systemic change. It means asking: “What barriers does this person face? What strengths do they bring? How can I support their autonomy?” Empathy helps dismantle assumptions and fosters inclusive care, especially for marginalized populations. It also allows professionals to remain grounded in humility, recognizing that expertise must be paired with listening and learning. To ensure my work remains human-centered, I’ll prioritize: Community voice: Engaging those I serve in decision-making and program design. I believe solutions must be co-created, not imposed. Cultural humility: Continuously learning from diverse perspectives and adjusting my approach. I aim to meet people where they are, not where systems expect them to be. Trauma-informed practices: Recognizing how past harm affects present health and responding with sensitivity. This means creating safe spaces and avoiding re-traumatization. Accountability: Seeking feedback, reflecting on bias, and staying rooted in service—not saviorism. I want to be a partner in healing, not a gatekeeper. Empathy isn’t soft—it’s strategic. It builds bridges where systems have failed. It’s the foundation of trust, and trust is what makes care possible. In every role I take on, I’ll use empathy to center humanity, not just health. Whether I’m advocating for policy change, supporting a patient through crisis, or designing outreach programs, I’ll ensure that my work reflects the dignity and complexity of the people I serve. Thank you for this opportunity. Summer Provience First Generation student at Cerro Coso Community College

I grew up in Bakersfield, California—a city full of spirit, but also challenges. For years, I watched my community fight hard to hold onto safety, opportunity, and hope. When it came time to raise my own children, I knew I needed a quieter place where they could grow with less fear and more possibility. So I moved to the Kern River Valley—and began the work of building a future that felt safe, sustainable, and meaningful. I’m a first-generation student, a caregiver, and a grassroots advocate. My journey into higher education hasn’t been traditional—but it’s been intentional. I began with caregiving: supporting elders, patients, and vulnerable neighbors during times when healthcare access felt like a gamble. From providing in-home support to tracking medical needs during power outages, I didn’t just serve—I studied the systems failing us. I researched water access, mapped generator placements, and helped navigate infrastructure gaps that directly impacted health and survival. These experiences taught me how much overlooked communities carry—and how much brilliance they hold. I learned to notice patterns, connect data to daily life, and create visual maps to push for policy changes. I launched a small creative venture, Aunties’ Hand-Me-Downs Collecting Dust, to preserve local stories and honor the everyday wisdom that often goes ignored. My work blends advocacy, caregiving, design, and history—all driven by a love for my region and a deep respect for those who shaped it. College isn’t just my next step—it’s my toolbox. I’m pursuing degrees in public health and policy, aiming to transform care systems and prevent families like mine from being left behind. My ultimate goal is to design infrastructure and services that protect rural residents, eliminate access barriers, and reflect the realities of communities like Kern River Valley and Imperial Valley. The work I’ve done as a caregiver will guide how I lead as a changemaker. This scholarship is more than support—it’s breath. It would allow me to continue my education while staying present in my community work. It would ease the financial load so I can invest in field research, creative projects, and long-term solutions without sacrificing the care that shaped me. While building my education and advocacy work, I trusted family to help secure a home for my children—only to discover recently that the property is being foreclosed on despite my consistent on time payments. What nearly broke me only ignited me further: I’ll use the education I earn not just to serve others, but to protect and empower families navigating deceptive practices and housing instability. I don’t come from wealth or legacy. I come from grit, resourcefulness, and relentless love. And that’s exactly what I bring to every classroom, project, and conversation about equity and access. I’m not just applying as a student—I’m stepping forward as someone who’s already building change. By funding my education, you’re fueling a vision that goes beyond me. You’re investing in someone who will use every ounce of knowledge to uplift others—to light the path and then walk beside those still finding their way.

When I first stepped into the role of an in-home care provider, I thought I was just helping people get through the day. What I didn’t expect was how profoundly this work would shape my worldview—and my commitment to changing it. From assisting elderly neighbors isolated during the pandemic to advocating for better infrastructure in my rural community, healthcare for me has never just been about physical needs. It’s about dignity, survival, and bridging the gaps where systems fall short. My decision to serve began with necessity but grew into purpose. Living in a region where power outages, water access issues, and medical transportation delays are more than inconveniences—they’re life-threatening—I saw how often vulnerable individuals were left behind. I couldn’t unsee it. So I started showing up—first as a caregiver, then as a connector: researching power grid reliability, mapping generator placements, helping neighbors access medication during lockdowns. What started as care became advocacy. Over time, caregiving sharpened my ability to notice patterns: who had access, who didn’t, and why. That lens carried into my broader community work, where I began creating visual maps to highlight infrastructure shortcomings and using my voice to advocate for vulnerable residents. Whether it was identifying who had reliable wells or helping seniors access mobile medical units, I leaned into action. But the truth is, band-aid solutions aren’t enough. I’ve seen how underserved regions like the Imperial Valley pay the price for outdated policies and ignored infrastructure. That’s why my next step is pursuing higher education in public health and policy. I want to bring the same persistence and compassion I bring to caregiving into systemic reform—so the safety net doesn’t tear when people need it most. One day, I hope to sit at the table with decision-makers and say, “Here’s what I’ve seen. Here’s how we fix it.” Not from theory, but from lived experience—mine and the countless patients, elders, and families I’ve served. My goal is to elevate rural health initiatives and advocate for smarter investments in prevention, access, and infrastructure. To me, healing communities means honoring their stories. It’s why I named my small venture “Aunties’ Hand-Me-Downs Collecting Dust.” It’s a tribute to the overlooked wisdom and legacy that surrounds us in underserved areas—where people may be worn down, but never lacking in strength. That belief has fueled everything I do. This scholarship isn’t just financial relief. It’s fuel for a mission built on love, strategy, and an unshakable sense of duty to the people who made me who I am. I’m not just applying as a student—I’m showing up as someone who’s already been working on the ground and is now ready to carry that work into classrooms, boardrooms, and beyond. Because healthcare doesn’t stop when the shift ends. For some of us, it’s a way of living—and a way of leading.

Every Life, Every Breath: From Loss to Purpose I grew up surrounded by loss. I lost my mother at age three, later learning she ended her life after struggling with mental illness and addiction. I lost the uncle who raised me to an overdose at 14, and that was the start of my own shutdown. My brother died by suicide. My sister passed after a long battle with cancer. Each of these heartbreaks left deep scars—but they also helped shape my deeply held belief in the value and dignity of all human life. In the quiet that followed those tragedies, I began to see how easily society disregards certain lives: the unborn, the disabled, the addicted, the grieving. I’ve seen how systems neglect rural families, medically vulnerable individuals, and children traumatized by loss. It made me realize that life is not measured by convenience or perfection, but by its sacred potential—no matter the circumstance of conception, condition, or stage. My pro-life belief is not rooted in politics, but in lived experience. Every life I’ve lost could have been helped by a system that truly valued humanity. And every life I've fought for in my role as a care provider and advocate affirms that mission. I now work with medically fragile residents in rural California, many of whom rely on oxygen or well water. During PSPS (Public Safety Power Shutoff) events, I map power outages, track generator gaps, and advocate for families left without resources. This work has exposed how infrastructure neglect mirrors the disregard often shown toward the voiceless—including the unborn. For me, protecting life means more than most are even concerned with—it means fiercely standing up for anyone at risk of being dismissed. It’s why I’ve pursued therapy to confront my own grief, so I can break the cycle for my children. It’s why I’m studying Social and Behavioral Sciences, so I can support families navigating trauma, CPS, and broken healthcare systems. And it’s why I speak openly about my losses, so others know they’re not alone. I also raise awareness locally, especially around pregnancy loss, suicide prevention, and postpartum care. I mentor young women, homeschool my own children, and advocate for mental health access in underserved communities. I believe being pro-life means stepping up when it’s uncomfortable, inconvenient, or unseen—and doing so with compassion. Some might call my life path broken. I see it as beautifully rebuilt. I am proof that when life is honored—even in its hardest forms—it can grow into something powerful. I want to be the person who helps others realize that too. Whether it's an unborn child, a teenager battling depression, or a senior nearing their last breath, every life holds meaning. This scholarship would support my journey to become a trauma-informed advocate who defends the dignity of all human beings—from the womb to the margins. Because I know that once a life is gone, you can't rewrite the ending. But you can be someone who helps others write a different story.

“Breaking the Silence: From Grief to Advocacy” For most of my life, I believed my mother died in a car-related accident caused by a drunk driver. I was 33 before I uncovered the truth. While searching for her biological father through DNA testing, I found an article that changed everything—my mother, at just 21, lost her battle with mental illness and jumped in front of that vehicle. She had been self-medicating her pain, drowning in the silence of demons, like so many others who never get the help they need. I was only 14 when I lost my uncle—the father figure who helped raise me—to an overdose. He had stepped in when my mom couldn’t and my dad didn't make the changes he should have. My uncle faced the challenge of raising girls with grace and humor, even when the tasks weren’t easy. Losing him sent me spiraling into isolation. I stopped speaking for eight months, gripped by panic attacks at school, in any crowded place, and even at parks. I’ve lost other loved ones—my older sister to cancer, my brother to suicide (a total shock), my grandparents to separation, and then, unsettlingly, my grandfather married my late uncle’s widow. It was a break in the foundation I once trusted. Each of these losses cracked me open in ways I’m still learning to mend. They shaped how I trust, how I show love, and how I protect my children from ever feeling the depth of abandonment I’ve known. But they also taught me something powerful: that silence, untreated grief, and a system that fails to respond with empathy are deadly. It took years—and a return to therapy—for me to find my footing. But through the pain emerged a purpose. I now work as an in-home care provider and community advocate, focusing on medically vulnerable residents, especially in rural areas like mine, where infrastructure fails those who need support most. When power shutoffs threaten oxygen-dependent families and water access collapses for households reliant on wells, I fight for change. I document, map, and challenge policy decisions—not just for my family, but for every family left behind by a system that doesn’t listen. My personal experiences fuel my desire to pursue a degree in mental health. I want to become the kind of professional who sees pain before it becomes a tragedy. The kind who listens without judgment. Who understands that addiction is often rooted in untreated trauma and that grief doesn’t operate on a timetable. I want to be the person I needed back then—the one who catches people before they fall through the cracks. The red flags are all there; people just need to be educated on how to see them. My vision for mental health care is rooted in dignity, empathy, and accessibility. That means providing trauma-informed services in communities often overlooked, creating culturally competent support systems, and treating people as humans, not cases. This scholarship means more than financial relief. It’s a lifeline to a future where my pain has a purpose, a purpose I've always felt inside me. Where I can take the scars I carry and use them to build something better for someone else, I may never be able to rewrite the past, but I can help someone else write a different ending. My healing begins the moment I help someone else and they realize they’re not alone, because I know that pain too well. I appreciate this opportunity and have high hopes that it ends up with someone who has a genuine heart to help break the cycle.

My career goal is to serve underserved communities by working in public health advocacy or healthcare navigation, helping families like my own access the resources they need. As a mother of three, currently pursuing a degree in Social and Behavioral Sciences, I’ve balanced homeschooling, caregiving, and academic work with resilience. This award would ease financial burdens and allow me to continue my education while supporting my children and clients. One of my proudest accomplishments is advocating for my friend Alyssa during a workplace injustice—researching labor laws, drafting appeals, and helping her find her voice. That experience affirmed my drive to support others through complex systems. My skill in crafting compelling narratives and breaking down information has also helped me sell vintage collectibles—another outlet I have used to supplement my income and practice entrepreneurship. My children see me study late into the night and speak up when something isn’t fair. I want them to know that leadership isn’t about titles—it’s about action, integrity, and showing up when it matters most. I’ve led by example in my home and community—homeschooling, caregiving, and mentoring friends through hardships. The early loss of my mother and many family members shaped my understanding of what it means to show up for others. That grief became fuel for compassion, and I’ve learned to turn adversity into action. ACHE of Southern California’s commitment to healthcare leadership, diversity, and equitable access deeply resonates with my own purpose. I’m pursuing a degree in Social and Behavioral Sciences so I can serve communities that are often overlooked—families navigating poverty, disability, or rural isolation—by helping them access the healthcare and support they deserve. As an in-home care provider and homeschooling mother of three, I see firsthand how systemic gaps leave vulnerable people behind. I want to bridge those gaps by becoming a healthcare advocate rooted in empathy, education, and real-world understanding. That’s where my goals and ACHE’s mission meet. We both believe in empowering tomorrow’s leaders and improving care for all—not just those with resources. I also align with ACHE’s focus on ethics, lifelong learning, and community representation. I’ve lived through loss, navigated hardship, and never stopped learning or leading—from mentoring friends through labor disputes to guiding my children’s education at the kitchen table. My life has been shaped by service—and I want to build a career that turns that service into lasting change. I want to be a bridge—connecting underserved families to systems that were never built with them in mind, and reminding them that they deserve compassionate, equitable care. ACHE of SoCal isn’t just shaping leaders—it’s shaping advocates. I’m ready to become the voice I once needed and the steady hand I never had.

From an early age, my grandparents, Nana and Papa, instilled in me the importance of education. Unlike most of my friends, who had a mom and dad, I was raised by them after losing my mother and being left behind by my father. At just three years old, I had no idea how different my life would be compared to others, but my grandparents ensured I was shielded from hardships while reminding me that learning could be my way forward. All my life, I believed a drunk driver had killed my mother. It wasn’t until I was 22 years old that I took a DNA test to search for her birth father, and I uncovered the truth. An old article revealed that she had intentionally walked in front of a vehicle, and the driver fled the scene. No witnesses saw the moment it happened, so they were never caught. `This discovery shattered me. It made me realize how deeply mental health struggles had impacted my family. I have personally battled depression, anxiety, and panic attacks, struggling to regulate emotions shaped by things outside of my control. Despite this, I always reminded myself of a promise I made after graduating high school over 11 years ago—to finish my education and build a better future for my children. At 21, I had my first child, breaking a generational cycle—many of my cousins and sisters had children between the ages of 14 and 18. Becoming a teen mom was something I worked hard to avoid, and I succeeded in keeping that promise. But life didn’t stop testing me. With many deaths happening and my Grandmother and grandfather separating, what happened next was unfathomable. In 2023, my sister passed away from cancer, a week before Christmas. Losing her brought back all the emotions I had once learned to manage in therapy, forcing me to start over. In my own grief, I failed to recognize the signs in my young daughter, who was struggling with the loss of her aunt. She constantly complained of feeling ill, and despite multiple doctor visits and emergency room trips, every test came back normal. Then, one ER doctor asked me: "Has there been any big changes in your family's life recently?" That moment changed everything. I told him about my sister’s passing, and he recommended therapy for my daughter. For the first time, I saw how deeply grief was affecting her, and how mental health struggles don’t just disappear with time. That experience, along with guidance from a caseworker I had been working with, helped me discover my passion: advocating for children and families who don’t know their rights. Many families struggle to navigate life’s most painful moments, whether it’s loss, financial instability, or mental health challenges. I want to be a voice for them, offering support and knowledge that can help them regain control of their lives. My journey has been shaped by grief, resilience, and determination. Returning to school isn’t just about earning a degree—it’s about fulfilling a promise, proving to myself and my children that no matter how difficult life becomes, you keep going. I want them to see that education is the key to making a difference—not just in our own lives, but in the lives of others. Through my career in advocacy, I will fight to ensure families get the help they need, the rights they deserve, and the resources to heal and grow. I refuse to let my past define me. Instead, I will shape my future into something meaningful—one where I help others rise, just as I fought to rise myself.

From an early age, my grandparents, Nana and Papa, instilled in me the importance of education. Unlike most of my friends, who had a mom and dad, I was raised by them after losing my mother and being left behind by my father. At just three years old, I had no idea how different my life would be compared to others, but my grandparents ensured I was shielded from hardships while reminding me that learning could be my way forward. All my life, I believed a drunk driver had killed my mother. It wasn’t until I was 22 years old that I took a DNA test to search for her birth father, and I uncovered the truth. An old article revealed that she had intentionally walked in front of a vehicle, and the driver fled the scene. No witnesses saw the moment it happened, so they were never caught. `This discovery shattered me. It made me realize how deeply mental health struggles had impacted my family. I have personally battled depression, anxiety, and panic attacks, struggling to regulate emotions shaped by things outside of my control. Despite this, I always reminded myself of a promise I made after graduating high school over 11 years ago—to finish my education and build a better future for my children. At 21, I had my first child, breaking a generational cycle—many of my cousins and sisters had children between the ages of 14 and 18. Becoming a teen mom was something I worked hard to avoid, and I succeeded in keeping that promise. But life didn’t stop testing me. With many deaths happening and my Grandmother and grandfather separating, what happened next was unfathomable. In 2023, my sister passed away from cancer, a week before Christmas. Losing her brought back all the emotions I had once learned to manage in therapy, forcing me to start over. In my own grief, I failed to recognize the signs in my young daughter, who was struggling with the loss of her aunt. She constantly complained of feeling ill, and despite multiple doctor visits and emergency room trips, every test came back normal. Then, one ER doctor asked me: "Has there been any big changes in your family's life recently?" That moment changed everything. I told him about my sister’s passing, and he recommended therapy for my daughter. For the first time, I saw how deeply grief was affecting her, and how mental health struggles don’t just disappear with time. That experience, along with guidance from a caseworker I had been working with, helped me discover my passion: advocating for children and families who don’t know their rights. Many families struggle to navigate life’s most painful moments, whether it’s loss, financial instability, or mental health challenges. I want to be a voice for them, offering support and knowledge that can help them regain control of their lives. My journey has been shaped by grief, resilience, and determination. Returning to school isn’t just about earning a degree—it’s about fulfilling a promise, proving to myself and my children that no matter how difficult life becomes, you keep going. I want them to see that education is the key to making a difference—not just in our own lives, but in the lives of others. Through my career in advocacy, I will fight to ensure families get the help they need, the rights they deserve, and the resources to heal and grow. I refuse to let my past define me. Instead, I will shape my future into something meaningful—one where I help others rise, just as I fought to rise myself.

My Journey Into Human Services Advocacy As a mother of three, an in-home care provider, and a student, I intimately understand the sacrifices and complexities each of these roles bring to life. These experiences have shaped me into a resilient, driven individual committed to helping others, especially children, in navigating their challenges. My journey has been filled with adversity, growth, and self-discovery, which ultimately sparked my passion for human services advocacy. Growing up, I faced the profound loss of my mother at a very young age and was raised by my grandparents. Despite their challenges, they instilled in me values that have defined my character—compassion, perseverance, and the importance of kindness. My grandmother taught me the strength of a woman’s resolve, the impact of keeping promises, and the fulfillment of giving without expecting in return. These lessons became the foundation of my approach to motherhood, caregiving, and community service. One example of my commitment to helping others occurred during a wildfire crisis in my town. With school less than two weeks away, I raised funds and collected donations to provide backpacks filled with supplies for 25 students whose families had been impacted by the disaster. My own neighborhood faced potential evacuation, yet I remained focused on easing the burden for families during a challenging time. This effort was deeply rewarding and demonstrated the importance of collective action to address community needs. My life took a further emotional turn when my sister passed away after a long battle with cancer. While processing my grief, I remained dedicated to providing stability for my family, returning to work, and preparing to continue my education. However, I discovered that my loss had profoundly affected my daughter, who began to quietly struggle with her emotions. She exhibited frequent stomach aches and tearful drop-offs at school, which led me to tirelessly seek answers through medical visits and consultations. When it became clear that her behavior was tied to unprocessed grief, I worked with her pediatrician to connect her to a therapist. Despite informing her school about her care plan and declining there offer of a school psychologist, I was faced with unfounded accusations of neglect, resulting in a report to CPS. Although this experience was painful, it introduced me to a local advocate who shared invaluable resources and support. This interaction shifted my perspective and inspired me to pursue a career in human services. I saw firsthand the importance of advocating for children’s well-being and equipping parents with the tools to recognize and address their children’s needs. Issues like grief, anxiety, and trauma can significantly shape a child’s future, and I am determined to empower families to act early to provide the support children need. I envision my career in human services as an opportunity to be a voice for children and families navigating difficult circumstances. I aim to educate parents about available resources and help them understand the signs that may indicate a child is struggling. Early intervention can prevent lifelong challenges, and I am committed to ensuring that children have access to the care and guidance they need to thrive. Servela Theodore’s legacy of kindness and service deeply resonates with me, as her mission mirrors my own determination to make a positive impact. Through my work in human services, I hope to carry forward her vision, transforming challenges into opportunities for growth, healing, and brighter futures.

Navigating the Challenges of Dementia as an In-Home Care Provider My name is Summer Provience, a First Generation freshman at Cerro Coso Community College and a mother to three. Working as an in-home care service provider, I’ve had the privilege—and the emotional burden—of witnessing firsthand the profound effects of dementia on both individuals and their caregivers. My most recent client’s journey with dementia was one of the most challenging experiences of my career, as it tested my patience, empathy, and advocacy skills. The Impact on My Role as a Caregiver For over four years, I provided care for an elderly woman who had begun to show signs of cognitive decline. At the start, she was kind and appreciative, and we established a trusting relationship. But as her condition worsened, her behavior changed dramatically. She became verbally abusive, accusing me of acts I had no relation to and undermining the years of care and dedication I had given her. These accusations extended beyond me and into my personal life, even targeting my children. What hurt most was hearing her insist that I had only been with her for one year, despite the countless hours I had spent caring for her over the last two years. Her decline also impacted our day-to-day interactions. She would forget what day it was and send me shopping with a list, only to hand me a new list upon my return, insisting I had misunderstood or purchased the wrong items. These moments of confusion and frustration were compounded by financial disputes—she had always reimbursed me for groceries, but in her declining state, she began refusing unless I went back to the store. These incidents highlighted how much her condition had progressed and underscored the emotional and logistical challenges of caregiving for someone with dementia. Advocating for My Client’s Well-Being One of the most difficult parts of this journey was advocating for her when it felt like no one else believed me. As her condition deteriorated, I expressed concerns that she needed more comprehensive monitoring and care, but those concerns often fell on deaf ears. Despite no longer working for her, I continue to advocate for her well-being because I understand how vital it is for her to receive the support she needs. Dementia is not just a personal struggle; it’s a communal one, requiring awareness and collaboration from caregivers, families, and healthcare providers. What I’ve Learned This experience has been both heartbreaking and enlightening. I’ve learned that caregiving is not just about providing physical assistance—it’s about navigating complex emotions, behaviors, and relationships. Dementia reveals the fragility of memory and identity, but it also reminds us of the importance of empathy and persistence. I’ve gained a deeper understanding of the patience required to care for individuals with cognitive decline and the resilience needed to advocate for those who can no longer advocate for themselves. Above all, I’ve learned the importance of early intervention and support networks. Dementia is a condition that requires constant vigilance and adaptability. For caregivers, self-care and mental health support are just as critical as the care provided to the individual. While this chapter of my caregiving journey has come to an end, the lessons I’ve learned will stay with me. I will continue to advocate for individuals with dementia and support efforts to raise awareness and improve care. This experience has solidified my commitment to making a difference in the lives of those affected by this illness, whether through direct care or by sharing my story to inspire understanding and change.

Advocating for a Brighter Future My journey towards advocacy began with personal experiences that have deeply impacted me. At 32, I'm taking my second shot at college, studying social and behavioral sciences to guide me towards a career in advocacy for children who cannot speak for themselves and parents who are unaware of their rights. Growing up with a cousin who has Down syndrome has been a significant source of inspiration for me. Despite her disability, she is a shining example of resilience and generosity. She works, sings in the church choir, and is the most giving soul you could ever meet. However, her kindness has sometimes led to financial challenges, and she now lives in an assisted living situation with support from a case worker and mentor. Her unwavering determination to overcome her disability has inspired me to advocate for those who face similar challenges. Another pivotal moment in my life was when my niece, who was developing typically until she was three or four years old, suddenly became non-verbal. After numerous doctor visits, she was finally diagnosed with autism. Over time, she began to communicate again and has shown incredible resilience and determination. My sister's passing from stage four colon cancer was a difficult time for our family, but my niece's strength and determination have been a source of inspiration. She has taught herself to be better in every way, refusing to let her autism become a crutch. My goal is to help families with young or disabled children live fulfilling lives in safe environments. I want to support parents who face challenges with Child Protective Services (CPS) and ensure they are aware of their rights. I have firsthand experience with this issue when my daughter, who has social anxiety, was reported to CPS due to misunderstandings at school. The situation was uncalled for, but it highlighted the need for better advocacy and support for families. I aspire to make a positive social impact by organizing community fundraisers, social events, and outings for children who may not have the opportunity otherwise. Disabilities should not define or limit individuals, nor should they burden families financially. I want to guide families in accessing the education, health, and social support they need to thrive. In conclusion, my personal experiences and passion for advocacy have shaped my commitment to serving those with special needs. By pursuing a career in this field, I hope to make a lasting difference in the lives of individuals and their families, ensuring they receive the support and opportunities they deserve. I thank you for this opportunity to help better my life and future for myself and my family. Summer Provience Student ID #00492006 March 1,2025 Cerro Coso Community College S

Mental health challenges aren't always easily pointed out in the beginning. One of my children's own experiences has brought to my attention that this is what i want to do with my life. I don't just want to make a difference. I want to be the difference. Anxiety, depression, severe panic attacks are no stranger to myself. Now many years of therapy the obvious reasons of my attacks were death. I started therapy when i was 14 after a very close family member passed away from an overdose. my world stopped spinning and i stopped speaking. I couldn't sit in a classroom, i could not be around large crowds, and I didn't know how to process any of it. Death is also no stranger to myself or my family. Starting at the age of 2 my mother died at the age of 21 due to the negligence of a drunk driver. To the most recent my Oldest sister passing from long battle of cancer. With to many deaths to count in-between. High school was a blur the first couple years. The doctors thought that it would be easier if i went onto independent studies. It did help and with out it i may not have graduated. I am the first in my family to graduate high school. I took double the classes to stay busy while going to therapy regularly. Many medicines were pushed at me and two times i did take medications back to the doctor. Being born a Drug addicted baby some medications can affect me differently, and to add to it an addictive personality. I have a strong hold on willpower. I want to do everything my mother never got to do. I graduated high school early, like three months early. When graduation time came around i didn't think it would matter so i refused to walk across the stage. Luckily a friend and my family talked me into it. I walked across the stage holding my mother's photo. We did it i said. Fast forward to 2011 when i started my first semester in college at Bakersfield College. I was trying my best and also started seeing a new therapist because i ran out of time with insurance to pay for the sessions. In 2013 I had received a phone call in the middle of one of my classes. I was told i needed to hurry down to the local hospital to say my goodbyes to my aunt. She was slowly fading away. After this death i kind of just spiraled and walked away from college. I couldn't concentrate. I started self-medicating with now what they call medical marijuana. Hey just trying to be honest. What saved me was my children the day I found out I was going to be a mother the world looked so different. The doctors could never pinpoint my triggers, to this day I can manage the episodes if I do have one. My daughter started having issues after my sister passed and I never put two and two together. Finally, it hit me, anxiety, and panic. She needed help, and it was the type of help I couldn't give her. So, we started searching. it is actually difficult to find a therapist that work with children. Hince why I want to go back to college so I can help children such as my own overcome these obstacles. Help the parents see the signs as I did not. I want to be the difference not just make a difference. Thank you.