Although I grew up with teen parents in rural Appalachia who had very little, I was never short on love. The love they poured out to me, they also poured out to everyone else they knew. As a child, my parents made it evident to me how important it was to be a servant by more than just lip service. Along with volunteering at our church, helping the sick with things like splitting firewood, letting a friend move into our house for a year after the loss of her son, they also ffrequently gave money that I know they didn't have. Their 'others first' mindset shaped me, and showed me how empty life was without community. Accompanying the influence of my family, there are a few moments I can look back and describe as 'pivotal' in my passion for public service. As a teacher now, it's ironic to look back and see how much I hated school. Although I made good grades, I struggled to stay organized or find joy in what we were learning about because of undiagnosed ADHD. High school art class became my sanctuary. Mr. Banner was the first teacher to ever make me feel like he believed in me. He encouraged me to take risks, express myself when words weren't sufficient, and pushed me harder than anyone else ever has. He made growth in character and resiliency seem just as important as his curriculum. Mr. Banner showed me the power of true mentorship by not writing my off as 'one of the hard kids.' ’ Because of him, who helped me sell paintings and wrote my college recommendation letter, I became the first person in my family to get an undergraduate degree. Mr. Banner waited on my graduation to retire, handing his job over to me. He inspired me to follow in his footsteps and use the arts to change lives by finding ways to express themselves and learn healthy coping mechanisms. I wanted to help students like me—in a cycle of poverty and lacking passion for education. I truly saw the positive impact of the arts on at-risk youth while working as a teaching artist at a residential foster home in college. Not only were they better painters, but they were more confident, more open, and equipped with healthy ways to cope with the hardship of life. It made my decision to teach summer classes for the NC Juvenile Courts system later an easy 'yes.' It was my calling to help kids see their own worth. When Hurricane Helene came and ravished my entire community, my eyes were opened wider than ever to the importance of serving. I watched houses float down the mountain in front of me, no power, no communication, no roads left. I spent weeks volunteering, checking on kids on a four wheeler, bringing food to the elderly, shoveling mud, organizing supplies that helicopters dropped. When we finally returned to school months later, my students carried more trauma than I felt equipped to handle. Quadruple the amount would be considered 'at-risk' now after losing EVERYTHING, family members included. I knew at that moment I had to go back to school. In Western NC, so many of our kids fall into the cycle of opiod and methanphetamine addiction, and my purpose has always been to use the arts and mentorship to steer them away from that. Furthering my education will help me to become better at preventing that in such a horrible time for us all. My call is to serve, and my students deserve the BEST version of me as their teacher.

My mom became a mother when she was only 18, and her own mother was just 16 when she had her. Growing up in extreme poverty, both of them lived with my great-grandparents. Despite the odds, she became the first person in her family to graduate from high school. Looking back at my childhood pictures now, I realize I’m older than she was in most of them. To me, she seemed like the smartest, most 'grown-up' person I knew, but she was really just a kid herself. I also find myself wondering how we made ends meet. My mom worked at a church daycare that paid her just $4.00 an hour because, at the time, churches weren’t required to comply with minimum wage laws. My dad, a factory worker, didn’t make much more than that. Somehow, without government assistance, they made sure I always had new school clothes and a pair of Nike shoes every August. There was never a book fair I didn’t have money for, and they even allowed me to sign up for basketball, even though I know it was expensive. Now I understand that I had new clothes because my mom never bought them for herself. She clipped coupons every night to ensure she had enough for my $7 field trip form. As I write this, tears fill my eyes as I think about the sacrifices she made at 21, 22, and 23 years old to give me the best life possible. The nights she spent lying in bed with me, going over multiplication tables and reading me stories, were investments in the future she dreamed of for me. But it wasn’t just about material sacrifices. My mom taught me how to be resilient—how to push through tough times and rise above challenges. She taught me the value of hard work, perseverance, and the belief that no matter where you start, you can change the course of your life through effort. As a first-generation college student, I carried that legacy with me. While my parents couldn’t help me financially during my undergraduate studies, they gave me something even more valuable—unwavering belief in me and the strength to keep moving forward. I worked multiple jobs to support myself through college—painting murals, teaching at a foster home, and selling my artwork. My parents taught me how important it was to work hard to succeed. Now, as I pursue a master’s degree in art education, I want to make my mom proud and not have her worry about me making ends meet. I want to show her that the sacrifices she made were worth it, and that her investment into me would help with my own financial independence. I want to use my education to make a meaningful difference in my community, which is still recovering from a devastating natural disaster. This scholarship would allow me to focus on my studies without the worry of how to cover costs. It would provide support I need to continue my education and, one day, give back to the community that shaped me. I am driven by the desire to make my mom proud and prove that her sacrifices were not in vain. With financial independence, I can give back, rebuild, and help others who, like me, have faced obstacles. My mother’s legacy lives on in the work I do, and through this scholarship, I will continue to honor her by building the future she always dreamed of for me. I will use this opportunity to achieve my own dreams and create opportunities for others, just as my mom did for me.

When a kindergartener watches his mother be swept away in floodwaters—narrowly escaping a landslide that destroys his home—and then is expected to come to school the next week ready to read and do math, the importance of mental health becomes impossible to ignore. I used to think I understood the urgency of mental health advocacy. I grew up watching my aunt struggle with Bipolar Disorder in a rural Appalachian community where stigma and silence surrounded mental illness. I spent much of my adolescence battling my own undiagnosed ADHD, internalizing the shame that came from being labeled “lazy” or “difficult” when, in reality, I was drowning. I didn’t receive my diagnosis until I was 21 years old—after years of academic hardship, emotional turmoil, and grappling with addiction. Getting help changed my life. It gave me a framework to understand myself and a path forward. But I didn’t truly grasp how essential mental health support is until I became a teacher. When Hurricane Helene devastated western North Carolina in September, the emotional wreckage was just as profound as the physical destruction. Entire communities were displaced. Homes, jobs, and lives were lost in an instant. I witnessed the collapse not only of buildings, but of hope. In the months that followed, I watched students carry trauma like heavy backpacks, invisible to most but deeply felt in every classroom interaction. I saw children triggered by thunderstorms, jump at sudden noises, and withdraw completely during group work. I saw parents—grieving, exhausted, and afraid—deny their children counseling because of the deep-rooted stigma surrounding mental illness in our region. I saw proud men who had lost everything refuse help because vulnerability is often mistaken for weakness where we’re from. That’s why mental health is not just important to me—it’s central to my mission as an educator. I use my role as a teacher to create a safe and supportive space for students to process what they’ve endured. I integrate trauma-informed pedagogy into my daily practice, recognizing the signs of emotional distress and responding with empathy instead of discipline. I model emotional awareness, talk openly about feelings, and validate my students’ experiences. I make it clear that healing is not only possible—it’s allowed. Art is the tool I use to open these doors. It saved me when I was a struggling teen, and now I use it to reach my students. Through painting, drawing, collage, and storytelling, I help them externalize emotions they don’t yet have words for. I’ve seen the way a quiet child comes alive with a paintbrush. I’ve watched a fifth grader who rarely speaks create a collage about her family that brought her classmates to tears. Art has become both refuge and revelation—for them and for me. Pursuing my master’s degree is part of this journey. I’m committed to becoming the teacher my students deserve—especially in the wake of disaster. I want to be better equipped to serve them academically, emotionally, and holistically. Mental health matters because it shapes everything: how we learn, how we connect, and how we recover. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to continue this vital work while reducing the burden of graduate school. As a teacher in a rural, under-resourced district, pursuing advanced education comes at a cost—both emotionally and financially. There is no salary incentive in NC. Your support would allow me to protect my own mental health while focusing on this work and my own education without having to work a second job. I’m dedicated to building a healthier, more compassionate future for my students, and this scholarship would bring me one step closer to that goal.

My life was changed by a single relationship: the one I built with my high school art teacher, Mr. Banner. Because of him, a kid with undiagnosed ADHD, growing up in poverty in rural Appalachia, found a reason to love school. He was someone I could trust—someone who listened. We didn’t just talk about techniques and processes; we talked about life, because as we know, life imitates art. The art room was the first space where I thrived—because I could connect. Everywhere else in school demanded quiet isolation: sit in your assigned seat, work independently, don’t speak unless called on. But the art room was alive. We sat at shared tables, our hands and minds busy, immersed in making. Collaboration wasn’t just allowed but necessary. We exchanged ideas freely, leaned on each other’s strengths, and helped each other grow. That kind of trust built real relationships—relationships that shaped me and supported my success. When I say my relationship with Mr. Banner changed the trajectory of my life, I mean it. I went from a kid who hated school to a young adult pursuing a career in education. Through art, I learned how to express myself when words weren’t enough. I learned to take risks, to experiment, to explore. I found tangible proof that hard work pays off. I knew I wanted to pass that gift to others. As an undergraduate, I worked as a teaching artist at a residential foster home. One of our projects was a large mural in their community movie room. Over ten children contributed to its creation, and I got to witness the power of collaboration from a new perspective—one step removed. Watching young people discuss design decisions, plan their next steps, divide responsibilities, and support one another in making something they were proud of confirmed that I was exactly where I was meant to be: using art to empower others. Now, I teach visual arts in the same Title I school system where I grew up—a full-circle moment made possible by Mr. Banner, who waited until I graduated to retire and write my recommendation to the school board. In the classroom, I collaborate with my students and actively facilitate their collaboration with one another, creating an environment where shared ideas and peer learning are central to the creative process. Beyond the classroom, I’ve built a strong partnership with a fellow artist and mentor. Together, we exchange lesson ideas, support each other through challenges, and co-host an annual art show that brings our school community together. These ongoing collaborations continue to shape who I am as both an educator and an artist. Unfortunately, Hurricane Helene devastated my small mountain community in September—hundreds of miles from the coast yet hundreds in the death toll. Many of my students and young artists are now homeless-- some even watching family members and houses be swept away in front of them. When power was finally restored, and our infrastructure cleared enough to resume school in mid-November, I realized the depth of the trauma was beyond what I felt prepared to handle. They deserve the best teacher possible now more than ever, which is why I'm pursuing my masters degree. I want to grow alongside other artists and educators, to collaborate, to learn, and to become the best teacher and artist I can be. I want to carry forward the legacy that Mr. Banner passed onto me—the legacy of art as healing, connection, and hope. An investment towards my education would not only improve the life of one artist in the name of Pam Branchini, but artists for generations to come.

Lots of little girls grow up wanting to be teachers, pretending to grade assignments and write on their fake white boards. I wasn't one of them. Despite making good grades, I hated school. I often felt out of sync with the demands of traditional academics. To overcompensate and mask the struggles I much later found were from my undiagnosed ADHD, I worked 3X as hard as my peers to overcome challenges like organization, distractibility, and time management. Being constantly fussed at for things I felt like I had minimal control over killed my spirit. That is, until I took my first high school art class. There, I thrived. I could work standing up and incorporate my body into learning, not just typing or listening to a lecture for an hour. I could collaborate with peers, hear their ideas and share my own freely. I could take risks, experiment, explore my special interests and incorporate them into the assignment. I was able to hyper focus on a tangible skill. I could express myself when words didn't seem sufficient. In fact, these things were encouraged. I felt like my entire life I had been a square desperately seeking to fit in a circle hole, until I went to art class. There, fitting into a box was labeled as 'lacking creativity.' It was where I found my confidence and my voice. Art became my lifeline during moments of personal struggle Mr. Banner was the first teacher who ever made me feel valued, and art class was the first school experience that I didn't make me feel like a burden. Mr. Banner was my Mrs. Murray. I soon realized that it was my calling to follow in his footsteps, and hopefully make a lifelong impact on the many 'hard kids' who needed someone to understand them. Along with my undiagnosed learning disability, I grew up in poverty in rural Appalachia. Because of the transformative power of the arts, I ended up being an 'at-risk youth' success story, a first generation honor student. I knew I could be the vehicle to deliver that success story to other kids too. Too often, young people are defined by their scores or struggles at home, leaving them disconnected from school and unsure of their own potential. My years as a teaching artist at a Crossnore Children's Home and with the NC Juvenile Court System taught me how vital it is to offer these at-risk kids a “win.” I will never forget the joy in a student’s eyes when they created something they thought was beyond their ability. Hearing, “I never thought I could do that,” is the greatest reward of my career. Moments like these reinforce the incredible value of the arts—not just as a form of self-expression but as a means to build confidence, develop critical thinking skills, and foster empathy. The arts teach students to see the world through different perspectives. Like Mrs. Murray, I'm passionate about instilling a love for learning, and the arts help me do so by encouraging collaboration, connection, and compassion for so many. I've been happily teaching in Avery County for almost 6 years now, but in September, Hurricane Helene decimated our entire community. When school finally resumed, I saw how much trauma my students had endured, one even watching his mom be washed down the river in front of him. I realized I was not equipped to be the teacher they deserved. I'm going back to school to receive my masters degree in hopes that I can make the biggest difference possible in their lives through education.

It's really hard to have your assigned seat in class be the only one that's alone when you're 6 years old. It's really hard to feel like all your teachers hate you when you're in 7th grade. It's really hard to be 18, working as hard as possible to overcompensate for a struggle you didn't know you had. When I was 22, I received a diagnosis that made everything make sense. I wasn't lazy-- I just had ADHD. I struggled my entire life to be organized, the bottom of my backpack a seemingly bottomless pit. Time blindness was, and still is, my Achilles heel. I was easily distracted and had a hard time with impulse control. While my brain was going 1,000 miles an hour, it felt impossible to not blurt out all the ideas I had. However, I worked very hard to make good grades and find a way to feel worthy or valuable, as many girls with ADHD do. Because of good grades, everyone in my entire life overlooked that I needed help. I'm curious if an earlier diagnosis would've changed the trajectory of my life. Would I have been able to monitor my decisions, especially as a young adult seeking a dopamine reward, more closely? Would my self-image be more positive? Would I have wanted to become a teacher to help students who were just like I once was? I hated school because I felt like everything I was, every part of my identity, was frowned upon. I was a square desperately trying to fit into a circle hole. Except in art class. There, I excelled. I could work standing up and incorporate my whole body into learning, not just typing or listening to a lecture for an hour and a half. I could collaborate with peers, hear their ideas and share my own freely. I could explore my special interests and incorporate them into the assignment. I was able to hyper focus on a tangible skill. I could express myself when words didn't seem sufficient. In fact, these things were encouraged. The previously mentioned 'circle hole' I desperately wanted to fit into my whole life was now labeled 'unoriginal' in art. For the first time, I was validated and supported as my truest, most creative self. I grew up in poverty with teen parents who had teen parents of their own. They were the first in their family to graduate high school, and I was the first person to graduate from college. Now, I want to further break that generational curse by completing graduate school. I'm an 'at-risk' youth success story, now with experience teaching at residential foster homes and instructing classes for the NC Juvenile Courts and Delinquency System, and I owe so much of that to my high school art teacher, Mr. Banner. I didn't grow up wanting to be a teacher. I never pretended to grade papers or write on a white-board when I was a little girl. However, I realize there's an entire population of children who needed someone to validate them, too. I understand those 'hard' kids. I was one. I've dedicated my entire career to making a difference in the lives of youth who needed someone to see them. I'm passionate about not letting them fall through the cracks. After Hurricane Helene decimated my Appalachian home in September, I found that my students needed the best teacher possible now more than ever, so I decided to further my education. If entrusted with this scholarship, it will not only support the life of one person with a disability, but many.

In September, I watched houses be washed down the road with people inside them. At 28, I've never been more traumatized nor felt more helpless. No one expected that a Hurricane would decimate a small mountain community 4,000 feet above sea level and 7 hours from the nearest coast. Our roadways had collapsed, the phone and 911 lines, internet connectivity, and cell towers were out. I'm not sure it would've helped anyways, because the majority of our roadways had now collapsed and almost all bridges were washed away. How could anyone come to help us when they couldn't get to us? We had no power or water for 13 days, didn't see any government officials until day 8, and no school for two months. Helicopters dropped deliveries while neighbors helped each other out with tractors clearing roads, ATVs checking on the elderly, and shovels to clear mud from homes. I soon came to find out that although thankfully none of my students lost their lives, many had lost everything else. It is heartbreaking to know how many people and children lost their homes, many evacuating through flood waters after being awoken by a mud slide or water invading their bedrooms. I had one student watch a log strike his mom while trying to leave and wash her away, right in front of him. Another barely made it out his trailer before it washed away, unfortunately his grandfather did not. Although I was awarded " Avery County's best teacher" in 2022, and graduated at the top of my undergraduate program, I soon realized the trauma these children faced was more than I was equipped to handle. It became obviously necessary to me to go back to school to earn my graduate degree . Not only did I owe it to myself to be the most educated, and the best teacher possible, but I owed it to them. Art is essential in the development of children, and trauma-informed teaching makes all the difference in these circumstances. I want to have all the resources possible in my tool belt to help them find ways to build confidence, take healthy risks, and express themselves when words don't seem sufficient. Using this scholarship to invest in me furthering my education would be an investment in the youth of America. Specifically, youth growing up in an area that has been generationally impoverished, now dealing with a life changing natural disaster. I grew up very poor, with 2 teen parents that had teen parents of their own. Mom and dad were the first in their family to graduate high school, and I was the first to go to college. I was lucky to be filled with love and support, but many others in my rural Appalachian home of NC don't have that luxury. I broke the cycle because I had adults who believed in me, and I was to be a part of breaking those cycles in the lives of other children. I was forced to be entirely self-sufficient during my undergraduate studies, so I have always worked while being in school just so I could pay my rent. I believe that helped shape me as a more empathetic person, and prepared me to work full time while earning my masters degree. While younger, I spent time working as a teaching artist in a residential foster home, a ceramics instructor for the NC Juvenile Courts delinquency program, and an after-school youth mentorship program. Now, most if not all WNC kids area fall under that 'at-risk' label, many now displaced from their previously broken homes.

Although I didn't grow up in the inner-city, I grew up in an impoverished, rural Appalachian community. Finding economic success here has been difficult for generations, and higher education often feels like a distant dream. Most problems we are facing today, such as the opiate epidemic, a shortage of jobs and housing, and the lack of internet connectivity can be directly traced back to geographic isolation centuries ago, leaving us vulnerable to neglect and exploitation. As the US began westward expansion, the rest of the country focused on building infrastructure while we were bypassed due to the rugged terrain I call home. While my ancestors lived as pioneers, there was an industrial boom happening around them. Although that may seem irrelevant, this is where Appalachian Culture began. Money wasn’t important when there was nowhere to spend it. To survive, you rely on your family, community, and faith in Jesus Christ. Growing up here, connected to this place and values that came before me, has made me who I am. My grandparents, who were born in the 1960's, relied on outhouses their entire childhood because they had no indoor plumbing. Education took a backseat to their survival, so they were forced to quit school and work blue collar jobs to survive. My parents were the first in my family to graduate from high school, and I was the first to graduate from college. My goal now is to help rewrite our family's narrative of "quitting school in 8th grade" to one of higher education and achievement. I want to prove to them that their hard work made a difference. Although access to fine arts has never been a priority in impoverished areas, I soon found that it was my personal sanctuary. As someone struggling with undiagnosed ADHD, I often felt out of sync with the demands of traditional academics. I worked tirelessly to overcome challenges like organization, distractibility, and time management, but I rarely felt like I was succeeding. Art class was the one place where I thrived. It gave me the freedom to take risks, experiment, and learn without fear of failure. It was where I found my confidence and my voice. Art became my lifeline during moments of personal struggle. It allowed me to process emotional turmoil and express my feelings about the world and the social issues I cared about. Every stroke of a brush or line drawn was a step toward understanding myself and the world around me. And as I poured myself into this craft, I saw firsthand how hard work pays off. The more I practiced, the better I became—a tangible reminder of the power of persistence and passion. Although they were short on money, my parents were never lacking in love and support. They encouraged me to make something of myself using the talents God had given me. I began selling my work, painted with cheap acrylic craft paint, or what I could scrounge from the art room for gas money, and eventually began into painting murals throughout the community. Although I enjoyed it as a 'side hustle,' I never dreamed that it could be my career... Until one day, the words "You can do this too, you know?" came out of my student teacher's, (Mr Legates,) mouth. Although I performed well academically, I never loved school. Becoming a teacher is something I'd never dreamed. However... An ART teacher? Learning new techniques, studying artists, and making art for years to come, while sharing it with students who were in the exact same position I once was in, sounded like a calling I'd never considered. To be a truly good teacher, you have to be a passionate artist. Because of art education when I was a teenager, I had a reason to come to school. Because of art education, I realized I had value. I grew up poor, so in my mind financial stability should be ahead of passion... But, I realized I could work hard and have them both. Although Mr. Legates talked with me about how great I could be as an art teacher, Mr. Banner is my biggest inspiration. He was my art teacher for 4 years, and my mentor still today. He pushed me out of my comfort zone in a way I could never give him enough thanks for. I remember my freshman year, he assigned a painting project to me. I had never painted before-- All I knew were colored pencils and drawing. I begged him to let me do it in colored pencils instead. Deep down, I was afraid I wouldn't be good at something new. He forced me to try, and I was so furious.... Until I wasn't. Hey.. Maybe I could really actually like this whole painting thing? The lesson he taught me that day is that being an artist takes courage. Being an artist means trying things that might not work, and being willing to fail in order to grow. Looking back, that one moment when I was 14 quite literally changed the trajectory of my life, and made me fall in love with painting. Now, as an art teacher, practicing artist, and master’s degree student, I see even more clearly how transformative the arts can be, especially for students who feel overlooked or discouraged. Too often, young people are defined by their test scores or their struggles at home, leaving them disconnected from school and unsure of their own potential. My years teaching at a residential foster home taught me just how vital it is to offer these students a “win.” I will never forget the joy in a student’s eyes when they created something they thought was beyond their ability. Hearing, “I never thought I could do that,” is the greatest reward of my career. After Hurricane Helene's flooding devastated my already struggling community, I realized how badly my students, and myself, need the arts. Art is critical for healing. I refuse to become stagnant in my teaching practice because I know my students deserve the best I can offer. I want to deepen my own skills as an artist while finding innovative ways to bring the life-changing power of the arts into my classroom. This scholarship would allow me to continue on this journey, giving me the tools to reach more students and make a greater impact. Although NC doesn't offer any financial incentive for a master's degree, I know that my students deserve it. The arts changed my life. Now, I dedicate myself to ensuring they change the lives of my students.. This is not just my career—it’s my calling.

Mental illness has shaped my world view since I was a child, even when I didn't realize it. It's influenced what I believe about people, strained personal relationships as well as strengthened some, and influenced me to go into public service as an art teacher. My experiences with mental health, through familial and personal struggles, have taught me the importance of compassion, understanding, and the how important it is to dismantle stigmas associated with mental illness. When my Aunt Sandy was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder after her second suicide attempt, I was very young and didn’t fully understand. What I did understand is that even though she had torn apart her family with manic infidelity, we still loved her. I did understand that as much as those decisions hurt us, it hurt her worse. I knew that she wasn't well, and I wished more than anything that I knew how to help. As I grew, I began researching Bipolar, and saw that manic symptoms often looked like hers without being properly treated. I also realized that this wasn’t just her story but ours. Bipolar is a genetic disorder, and I believe whole heartedly that my terribly mean grandpa, “Paw Sam,” had lived undiagnosed for years, and likely his mother before him. I began to question how the right diagnosis could've changed our family. Would my dad know how to better show me love if his own father wasn't struggling mentally? Would I have a clearer understanding of a healthy relationship if fear of triggering Paw didn't alter our entire dynamic? How would benefits of therapy and medication trickling down our family tree have changed everything, if only it wasn't viewed as weak? Although guidelines improve daily, and we now know about these diseases that my great grandmother had probably never heard of, the stigma and shame still often remains. In college, my own struggles were exacerbated, as they often are at that age. My emotions varied between extreme highs and lower lows, bouncing between depressive episodes where I couldn’t get out of bed and manic phases filled with impulsive decisions and sleepless nights that I didn't want to end. How could I change in a few days time from no desire to live... to frivolously spending money I didn't have for my latest obsession? Upon introspection, I began talking to Aunt Sandy about her experiences pre-diagnosis. I was afraid that the gene had been passed onto me. At my lowest, I decided to seek professional help at the clinic. After 2 sessions, it became clear that extreme ADHD, also genetic, often mirrored Bipolar Disorder. There are so many overlapping symptoms, but with different root causes and different timelines. Although a Bipolar manic episode or depressive episode can last months, ADHD is a roller coaster that can cause chronic mood fluctuations that are short lived and ever-changing. My diagnosis explained so much about my childhood. The signs were obvious, but because I made good grades, no one seemed to care. Although life felt unbearable if I could feel the seam in my socks or the tag in my shirt, I made good grades—so no one cared to diagnose me. Although ADHD caused low self-esteem, depression, anxiety, and reckless behaviors, my academic successes masked my struggles. Despite my chronic disorganization, forgetfulness, and time blindness, I worked 3X as hard, so no one questioned that it was so difficult for me. By 13, I had lost my voice due to vocal nodules, significantly more common in youth with ADHD. People thought I just needed to stop talking so much—no one considered a diagnosis. Even biting my nails till they bled was dismissed. Good grades were my shield, hiding that I was desperately trying to prove my worth in a world where I felt different. Unfortunately, understanding my diagnosis didn’t erase its impact. ADHD symptoms have strained many relationships. I often unintentionally struggle to stay connected with people I care about-- the out-of-sight, out-of-mind phenomenon. ADHD isn't just a lack of focus, but a lack in regulating WHAT I focus on when there are other things I'm finding interesting at the time. Even while medicated, it is a struggle to grant time to things that don't seem immediately urgent or visible. I have often seemed unreliable because of my forgetfulness. The most difficult relational aspect that comes with the disorder is the misunderstandings or outbursts caused by own emotional disregulation and rejection sensitivity. All of these things are incredibly embarrassing. In the rural Appalachian South where I'm from, mental health conditions are dismissed or ridiculed. ADHD is reduced to a punchline, SQUIRREL, while more serious conditions like Bipolar are treated as a moral failing. It's a genetic reality, such a green eyes or diabetes. Although I know seeking help is a strength, the stigma and shame has greatly affected me. My experiences have not only shaped who I am, but also who I want to be-- a teacher. As a kid who hated school, I never would've imagined saying that. As I familiarized myself more with mental health, I realized how many kids, just like me, are struggling. They might be labeled as one of the difficult ones, who always has their desk moved beside the teacher, or they might be overlooked due to academic overcompensation. I want to be the person that sees in them... what no one saw for me. My goal is to be the kind of teacher I needed at their age—who sees beyond grades and recognizes how exhausting it can feel to struggle with the things their classmates don't give a second thought about. I'm passionate about empowering all students, especially kids who might otherwise fall through the cracks. I want to be the best teacher possible, and learn more deeply how visual arts curriculum can be used as a tool for healing, which is why I'm pursuing my masters degree. My own experiences show that mental illness may complicate our lives, but it doesn't define them

The everyday world is my greatest inspiration to my art. Growing up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the land itself has always been very important to me. I'm constantly drawn to paint places that I have a connection to-- places I feel are 'home' to me. Plein air for this type of work, such as the large wood panel sunset on my best friend's farm, makes the process more deeply personal. I find beauty in the mundane, and the longer I paint, the more I find. Finding secret glimpses of orange tinted in a green tree, the deep purples in a shadow... God has given us a beautiful world full of inspiration, and it's my mission as an art teacher to introduce that love to my students. I, along with Terry Masters and others, have found a passion and stillness in painting that I believe needs to be shared with students unaware of the joy. This is why I'm going back to school to receive my master's degree in art education-- I want to be the best teacher for my students. This scholarship would greatly assist in focusing on my passion for painting and my passion for teaching without worrying about financials. I appreciate the opportunity, and would use the money with great honor to Terry Masters.

Sometimes, I’m in disbelief about how much cancer has affected my life. When I was 14, my dad was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. It was, what I thought would be, the scariest time of my life. Through a lot of prayers and time spent in the hospital, he made a full recovery, only requiring hormone replacement medicine after his removal—Thank God. When I was 20, my grandfather who had been ill for a long time, finally received a diagnosis. Bladder cancer, liver cancer, and prostate cancer. For him, it was an incredibly rapid decline, losing down to 70 pounds before his death one month after diagnosis. It ripped our family apart. However, nothing prepared me for the cancer diagnosis of my cousin Destiny, only 27 years old. Although I knew cancer was genetic, I could’ve never imagined it would come to her, so soon. It was harder than my other 2 experiences combined. Growing up with Destiny, my cousin and next door neighbor, felt like one of those movies where you can't believe how lucky you are as a kid. I felt especially lucky because although I didn’t have a sister, Destiny was my fill-in. We would go sledding on snow days, watch scary movies on Halloween, and during summer break, we would walk a mile down our road to the gas station for slushees-- which we'd enjoy on our walk back up. On really good days, someone from the neighborhood would see us and let us jump in the truck bed with our dogs and take us on home. She was older than me, and much cooler. My first, and much too young, introduction to Eminem was by Destiny on the back of a school bus, and that continued when she finally got her driver's license and took us to and from school, much too fast. Of all the crazy times we had together, I never assumed cancer would be what took her. Little did we know, she had probably already began her cancer journey while we were in high school. For years, she dealt with strange, unexplained health problems. She was young and the symptoms weren't textbook for cancer, so doctors never took her seriously. One day, almost accidentally, they found it. By then, it had covered her entire body. The scans made it impossible to see anything that WASN'T a tumor. What possibly started as ovarian cancer, with no real way to know by this point, had moved to her spine, kidneys, stomach, lymph nodes, and liver. We cried and cried. This wasn't supposed to happen. She was given 3 months to live, but to know her meant she was determined to prove someone wrong. She lived a year and a half, every day a testament to her stubborn determination and love for life. Because of those days, I've been impacted in a way that has changed me forever. I find the value of community and faith, which kept her strong. I watched how important it was to find humor and joy in situations, even if it was just so you didn't break down. Once treatments stopped, her once blonde straight hair had turned to an orange afro. On one of her last good days, while her best friend painted her nails, the room was filled with laughter about how ridiculous it was. In that moment, preparing for her funeral, she still knew how to light everyone up with joy. It's those moments I hold dear to me, and not the constant fear that I will be next. I now advocate for the importance of being proactive.

Mental health has always been a part of my story, even when I didn't realize how personal it was. Growing up with 2 family member with Bipolar Disorder, mental illness shaped how I see the world, ways I relate to others, and the career path I've chosen as an art teacher. Living with ADHD has been difficult, especially undiagnosed until my senior year of college, but I believe it has brought me resiliency and passion to be an advocate. As a kid, I was a tough. I constantly fidgeted, disrupted teachers, or struggled sitting. When my body wasn't hyperactive, my brain was. Constantly daydreaming. As hard as I tried to make teachers like me, there were so many things I couldn't help. Despite this, I was a straight A student. I worked 3X as hard as my peers to overcompensate for my shortcomings. I was exhausted with trying to hide that I was barely keeping my head above water. Because I did well academically, no one cared about finding a diagnosis for me, which is a struggle all girls with ADHD are familiar with. A fear that the Bipolar genetics had been passed down in college is what led to my ADHD diagnosis. After years of self-doubt, everything in life started to make sense. When I was younger, I couldn't breathe if I felt the tag in my shirt or the seam in my socks. I was anxious, biting my nails until they bled. My backpack was comparable to a trash dump, usually with everything in it except the assignment I had forgotten at home, and there wasn't anything I could be on time for. The idea of doing mundane tasks like washing dishes made life feel like it wasn't worth living. Yet, because I made good grades, no one ever cared about finding me help. The stigma and shame that comes with mental illness in the rural south definitely plays part in this. ADHD affects my personal life just as much as my professional one. I unintentionally struggle to stay connected with people I care about-- the out-of-sight, out-of-mind phenomenon. ADHD isn't just a lack of focus, but a lack in regulating WHAT I focus on. There's a subliminal struggle to grant time to things that don't seem immediately urgent or visible or interesting. The most difficult aspect that comes with ADHD is seeming unreliable, and misunderstandings or outbursts caused by own emotional dysregulation. I now actively try my best to communicate more frequently and apologize when necessary. Prioritizing relationships vs. isolating has improved my mental health. My third year teaching, I realized I couldn't do it alone anymore. I couldn't remember things for myself, let alone 80 students per day constantly needing focus. I began trying what medicines work for me with my doctor, and Vyvanse has been the biggest step to making my mental health a priority. Balancing school and a full-time job is difficult, but I’ve learned ways to cope post-diagnosis—setting alarms, using planners, and breaking big tasks into smaller, less overwhelming pieces. Taking care of my mental health is something I’m finally prioritizing as I get older. I take my medication every day and try to do things I hate—like washing the dishes—before they become too much for my brain to handle. I recognize when my ADHD is directly affecting something now, which makes everything feel less confusing than the first time I attended school. I find that pursuing things I'm passionate about refuels me and keeps me motivated, which is why I dug deep to find a masters program that I was excited about.

Mental illness has been something that has always affected my life. It has influenced what I believe about people, strained my personal relationships, as well as strengthened some, and influenced me to go into public service as an art teacher. My experiences with mental health, through familial and personal struggles, have taught me the importance of compassion, understanding, and the how important it is to dismantle stigmas associated with mental illness. When my Aunt Sandy was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder after her second suicide attempt, I was very young and didn’t fully understand. I did however see how mental illness had the tendency to create turmoil within my family. Her decisions often left emotional scars, and more fear with each hospitalization. As mad as we were when she cheated on her husband, who is still my uncle in my mind, we still loved her and worried for her constantly. As I grew older, I began researching Bipolar Disorder, and saw that manic symptoms often look like this without being properly treated. I also realized that this wasn’t just her story—it was ours as a family. Bipolar is genetic, and I believe whole heartedly that my terribly mean grandpa, “Paw Sam,” had lived undiagnosed for years, and likely his mother before him. This was a hard truth to swallow; mental illness runs in my family. I began to question how differently their lives—and our relationships—might have been with the right diagnosis. Although mental health guidelines improve daily, and we now know about these diseases that my great grandmother had probably never heard of, the stigma and shame still often remains. In college, my own struggles were exacerbated, as they often are in your late teens and early 20s. My emotions varied between extreme highs and lower lows, bouncing between depressive episodes where I couldn’t get out of bed and manic phases filled with impulsive decisions and sleepless nights that I didn't want to end. How could I change in a few days time from no desire to live... to frivolously spending money I didn't have for my latest obsession? Upon introspection, I began talking to Aunt Sandy about her experiences pre-diagnosis. I was afraid that the gene had been passed onto me. During one of my lowest times, I decided to seek out professional help at the clinic. After 2 sessions, it became clear that extreme ADHD, also genetic, often looked a lot like Bipolar Disorder. There are so many overlapping symptoms, but with different root causes and different timelines. Although a Bipolar manic episode or depressive episode can last months, ADHD is a roller coaster that can cause chronic mood fluctuations that are short lived and ever-changing. My diagnosis explained so much about my childhood. Looking back, the signs were obvious, but because I made good grades, no one seemed to care. Although life felt unbearable if I could feel the seam in my socks or the tag in my shirt, I made good grades—so no one cared to diagnose me. Although ADHD caused low self-esteem, adolescent depression, anxiety, and reckless behaviors, my academic successes masked my struggles. Despite my chronic disorganization, forgetfulness, and time blindness, I worked 3X as hard, so no one questioned that it was so difficult for me. By 13, I had lost my voice due to vocal nodules, significantly more common in youth with ADHD. People thought I just needed to stop talking so much—no one considered a diagnosis. Even biting my nails till they bled was dismissed. Good grades were my shield, hiding that I was desperately trying to prove my worth in a world where I felt different. Unfortunately, understanding my diagnosis didn’t erase its impact. my ADHD symptoms have strained many of my relationships. I often unintentionally struggle to stay connected with people I care about-- the out-of-sight, out-of-mind phenomenon. ADHD isn't just a lack of focus, but a lack in regulating WHAT I focus on when there are other things I'm finding interesting at the time. Even while medicated, it is a struggle to grant time to things that don't seem immediately urgent or visible. I now actively try my best to communicate more frequently and apologize when necessary. I have often seemed unreliable, so now I make calendar notifications to avoid forgetting important plans. The most difficult relational aspect that comes with the disorder is the misunderstandings or outbursts caused by own emotional dysregulation and rejection sensitivity. The stigma surrounding mental illness makes these struggles harder. In the rural Appalachian South, where I'm from, mental health conditions are dismissed or ridiculed. ADHD is reduced to a punchline, SQUIRREL, while more serious conditions like Bipolar are treated as a moral failing. It's a genetic reality, such a green eyes or diabetes, not a choice. I believe seeking help should be viewed as strength, not weakness. My experiences have not only shaped who I am, but also who I want to be-- a teacher. As a kid who hated school, I never would've imagined saying that. As I familiarized myself more with mental health, I realized how many kids, just like me, are struggling. They might be labeled as one of the difficult ones, who always has their desk moved beside the teacher, or they might be overlooked due to academic overcompensation. I want to be the person that sees in them... what no one saw for me. My goal is to be the kind of teacher I needed at their age—who sees beyond grades and recognizes how exhausting it can feel to struggle with the things their classmates don't give a second thought about. I'm passionate about empowering all students, especially kids who might otherwise fall through the cracks. I want to be the best teacher possible, and learn more deeply how visual arts curriculum can be used as a tool for healing, which is why I'm pursuing my masters degree. My own experiences show that mental illness may complicate our lives, but it doesn't define them.

In 2019, I became the first person in my family to graduate with a college degree. For the past 5.5 years, I have been so excited to live my dream as an artist and as a teacher. Without the arts, I'm not sure what my life would be like. As a child who loved to draw, I would've never expected that one day I'd be selling my art and painting murals to help pay my bills, but hard work has made it a reality. My passion arose when I realized that when I felt something I didn't want to talk about, or couldn't put it into words, I could make art about it instead. Being able to express myself kept and still keeps me sane. Being able to teach students who were just like me has been the greatest joy of my life. I'm going to graduate school now to ensure that I am an even more skilled artist and the most effective teacher possible. My goal is to give them the skills they need to use the arts even after graduation to help them work out their own mental turmoils and turn them into mental clarity, and I feel like the only way I can accurately do this is by modeling the behavior myself. In spring, I found out the funding for my position at a job I really loved was cut. It seems that art programs are always the first to go. 2024 has been a very tough year in general. Along with having to leave the job I had worked so hard for to find another, I also dealt with a tough breakup, the death of my childhood dog, my mother being hospitalized with surgery complications, and most recently, Hurricane Helene has devastated my community and all the places I love. Mentally, I didn't have the energy to create, which was proof that I had to create now more than ever. This large watercolor piece is titled "The Hands We're Dealt." Sometimes, we are given cards that feel helpless. The luck of the draw is tough, and this particular hand could be voted as the unluckiest in traditional poker. The king, a high card, proves that even in the worst scenarios, there's still a chance to win.

I cheer for all athletes on Team USA proudly, but there is no question to whom my favorite is: Ilona Maher. I discovered Ilona on social media before the olympics started, and I became her number 1 fan. Along with being one of the strongest, most talented women in the world, she has the personality of someone I would want my daughters to be inspired by. She openly speaks about being considered 'plus size' and 'obese' per the BMI scale, although it is obvious that she is in optimum health. She prioritizes being healthy over being skinny, and because of that, she is a powerhouse rugby player that no one can touch. Coming in at 5'10 and almost 200 pounds, I'm sure she was the butt to many jokes and had people poke fun when she was younger, but against the odds, she used her genetics to become the best of the best. Ilona is a national treasure, leading the team to win a medal. I made sure to always tune in to watch Team USA BECAUSE of Ilona. Above her inspiring muscles, she is funny and relatable. I laugh at everything she posts, and it's because of how real and raw she is. I even laugh when I watch her be her true and authentic self while competing for Team USA and even more recently, Dancing with the Stars. Rarely do we see celebrities or professional athletes be open with their struggles or failures, let alone making a joke from them. Her resiliency is something I admire deeply.

When I was young, my Aunt Sandy was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder after her second suicide attempt. Throughout my lifetime, she has been hospitalized multiple times and made decisions that often negatively affected our family, creating turmoil. Yet, none of this has changed how we love her or our concern for her. As I grew, I started researching mental illness, trying to understand her struggles. I began to realize the genetic impacts. My terribly mean "Paw Sam" likely lived for years with undiagnosed bipolar, as had his mother before him. I often wonder: would he have been a different man with the right diagnosis? When I started college, I began experiencing extreme highs and lower lows myself. I was depressed, unable to get out of bed, anxious, full of self-doubt, and irritable. Immediately, these feelings would shift to periods of mania, impulsivity, risky behaviors, and overwhelming spending. I would go days with little sleep or spend entire days in bed. Deep down, I feared the gene had been passed on to me. Determined not to follow the same path as "Paw," I sought professional help. After just two sessions, my therapist explained that Bipolar Disorder is often confused with ADHD due to their many overlapping symptoms. For girls especially, ADHD is rarely recognized or accurately diagnosed during childhood. Looking back, the signs were obvious, but because I excelled academically, no one seemed to care. Although life felt unbearable when I could feel the seam in my socks or the tag in my shirt, I made good grades—so no one cared to diagnose me. Although ADHD caused low self-esteem, adolescent depression, and anxiety, my academic success masked my struggles. Despite my chronic disorganization, forgetfulness, and time blindness, I worked 3X as hard to succeed, so no one questioned why it was so difficult for me. By 13, I had lost my voice due to vocal nodules, significantly more common in youth with ADHD. People thought I just needed to stop talking so much—no one considered a diagnosis. Even my nail-biting, to the point of bleeding, was dismissed. My good grades were my shield, hiding the fact that I was desperately trying to prove my worth in a world where I felt different. In the rural Appalachian South, mental illness carries a heavy stigma. Seeking a diagnosis often means being accused of "making excuses." ADHD, in particular, is trivialized—a punchline in memes about forgetful or ditsy behavior. When I finally saw a doctor, my experiences began to make sense, but the burnout remained. It wasn’t until I became a teacher that I realized I could no longer manage without medication. The journey to find the right prescription was long and exhausting, but it was necessary for me to function. Mental illness has profoundly shaped my life. It has influenced how I grew up with my grandparents and aunt, often feeling ashamed of them—and ashamed of myself for feeling that way. It shaped my own struggles, the constant cycle of shame over my behaviors, followed by manic hyperfocus as I worked to prove I was worthy. Becoming a teacher was my way of breaking that cycle. I wanted to help students like me—the ones who slide under the radar while silently struggling. The ones who are challenging to teach because it’s so challenging for them to learn. Mental illness has shown me the importance of understanding, compassion, and outlets for expression. Graduate school will help me become the best teacher I can be, using the arts to support all students—especially those who need a way to channel the turmoil in their minds.

Being a first-generation college student has been one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my life. I grew up in a small, rural Appalachian community where the opportunities for higher education often feel like distant dreams. Appalachia, in so many ways, feels culturally decades behind the rest of the country. My parents were teen parents, and their parents were teen parents too. My grandparents, who aren’t even 70 yet, grew up without running water and used an outhouse—proof of the poverty that still shapes this region. My parents were the first in their families to graduate high school, and I was the first in ours to graduate college. Now, I want to take the next step and earn a master’s degree. My grandparents had to quit school to help support their families. Education wasn’t an option for them, but their hard work and sacrifices paved the way for me to dream bigger. I want to rewrite the story of our family—from one where education often ended in middle school to one that includes a college professor. For me, that’s the ultimate dream: to earn my master’s degree, inspire students at the college level, and support myself financially while still teaching high school—something I love deeply. The path hasn’t been easy. When I started college, everything was new and overwhelming. My parents were endlessly supportive, but they didn’t know how to help me apply for financial aid, schedule my classes, or navigate housing. When I struggled with a biology lab or felt lost in a sea of expectations, I had to figure it out alone. Financially, I had no choice but to be self-reliant. To make ends meet, I juggled multiple jobs while pursuing my degree. I taught art classes at a residential group foster home, sold tickets at Grandfather Mountain, worked as a summer camp counselor, photographed events, and even painted murals and sold my artwork. Each of these jobs taught me something new about resilience and determination. Despite the long hours and constant hustle, I graduated magna cum laude. That day, seeing the pride on my family’s faces made every struggle worth it. Now, I’m a public school teacher, and I feel the weight of responsibility for my students. Many of them face challenges similar to what I did—poverty, limited resources, and family struggles. I want to be the teacher who helps them see their potential, who gives them the support they deserve, and who inspires them to dream beyond the boundaries of our small mountain town. Hurricane Helene recently devastated our community, leaving so many of my students and their families with nothing. Seeing their resilience has only strengthened my resolve to give them everything I can as a teacher and mentor. Earning my master’s degree will help me do that. It will give me the tools to be the best teacher I can be for my students while opening doors to teach at the college level—a dream that will also provide extra income to help support my own goals. Teaching college classes isn’t just about financial stability for me, though. It’s about creating a bridge for students between high school and higher education, helping them see that the possibilities for their lives are endless. This scholarship would make all the difference. It would ease the financial burden of pursuing graduate school, allowing me to focus fully on teaching AND learning. It would help me change my path—and, in turn, help my students change theirs. I’ve seen how far education can take someone, and I’m determined to pass that gift on to the next generation.

Being a first-generation college student has been one of the most rewarding yet challenging journeys of my life. I come from a rural, low-income Appalachian community where opportunities for higher education often feel like distant dreams. Appalachia, in many ways, feels culturally decades behind the rest of America. My parents were teens when I was born, and their parents were teen parents as well. My grandparents, who are not even 70, grew up without running water and used an outhouse, a reflection of the poverty that continues to affect the region. My parents were the first in their families to graduate high school, and I was the first in our family to graduate college. Now, I am determined to take the next step and earn a master’s degree. My grandparents had to let their education take a backseat to survival. There were mouths to feed and jobs to be done. I want to rewrite the narrative for my family—from a legacy of “quitting school in eighth grade” to one of higher education and achievement, with the ultimate goal of becoming a college professor. I want to prove to them that their hard work meant something generationally. The path hasn’t been easy. When I started college, I was navigating uncharted waters. My parents, though endlessly supportive, had no experience with the college process. They couldn’t guide me through applying for financial aid, making a class schedule, or finding housing. When I struggled with a biology lab or the pressures of school, I had to figure it out on my own. Financially, I was entirely self-reliant. To fund my education, I worked multiple jobs. I taught art classes at a residential group foster home, sold tickets at Grandfather Mountain, worked with an event photographer, took on summer camp counseling, sold my artwork and painted murals. These jobs not only helped me make ends meet but also shaped me into a resilient and resourceful person. Although education wasn't always the first priority for my family historically, the value of hard work has always been. Despite the challenges, I graduated with honors-- magna cum laude. I've never seen my family so proud. The double shifts they worked and the books they read to me every night had paid off. However, the road ahead remains difficult. In September, Hurricane Helene devastated my community. I watched houses float down the river. I saw every place I love ruined. The storm’s impact has reinforced my commitment to education and my commitment to Appalachia. My role as a public school teacher allows me to support students who face the same challenges I did, and those who need support more than I could've ever imagined at their age. However, the financial realities of pursuing a master’s degree on a teacher’s salary are daunting. This scholarship would provide much needed relief for me to pursue my graduate education, regardless of living in one of the lowest paid teaching states. It would allow me to focus more on my studies and become the best teacher and role model I could be. I know the journey won’t be easy, but I am no stranger to hard work. Just as I overcame the challenges of being the first to earn a bachelor’s degree, I am ready to face the challenges of graduate school with the same determination. This scholarship will help me turn my dreams into reality—for myself, my family, and my students.

When I was in high school, the fine arts became my sanctuary. As someone struggling with undiagnosed ADHD, I often felt out of sync with the demands of traditional academics. I worked tirelessly to overcome challenges like organization, distractibility, and time management, but I rarely felt like I was succeeding. Art was the one place where I thrived. It gave me the freedom to take risks, experiment, and learn without fear of failure. It was where I found my confidence and my voice. Art became my lifeline during moments of personal struggle. It allowed me to process emotional turmoil and express my feelings about the world and the social issues I cared about. Every stroke of a brush or line drawn was a step toward understanding myself and the world around me. And as I poured myself into this craft, I saw firsthand how hard work pays off. The more I practiced, the better I became—a tangible reminder of the power of persistence and passion. Now, as an art teacher, practicing artist, and master’s degree student, I see even more clearly how transformative the arts can be, especially for students who feel overlooked or discouraged. Too often, young people are defined by their test scores or their struggles at home, leaving them disconnected from school and unsure of their own potential. My years teaching at a residential group home taught me just how vital it is to offer these students a “win.” I will never forget the joy in a student’s eyes when they created something they thought was beyond their ability. Hearing, “I never thought I could do that,” is the greatest reward of my career. Moments like these reinforce the incredible value of the arts—not just as a form of self-expression but as a means to build confidence, develop critical thinking skills, and foster empathy. The arts teach students to see the world through different perspectives. They encourage collaboration, connection, and compassion—qualities that John Traxler exemplified. His passion for life and dedication to his craft remind us of the deep impact fine arts can have, not only on individuals but on communities. Like John, I have found a home and purpose in the arts, and I strive to create the same sense of belonging and inspiration for my students. This is why I am pursuing higher education. I refuse to become stagnant in my teaching practice because I know my students deserve the very best I can offer. I want to deepen my own skills as an artist while finding new and innovative ways to bring the life-changing power of the arts into my classroom. This scholarship would allow me to continue on this journey, giving me the tools to reach more students and make a greater impact. It would enable me to help young people discover talents they didn’t know they had, find their voices, and gain the confidence to tackle challenges in and out of the classroom. The arts changed my life. Now, I dedicate myself to ensuring they change the lives of my students, especially those who need it most. This is not just my career—it’s my calling. And with your support, I can continue to grow, inspire, and honor the legacy of John Traxler by creating opportunities for others to thrive in the transformative world of the fine arts.

Although I'm not an immigrant, I am a first generation college student with teen parents who had teen parents themselves. I am from a very rural, low income, Appalachian mountain community. Living here, it seems culturally we have always been a few generations behind the world. My grandparents, who are not even 70 yet, had an outhouse and no running water when they were children. My parents were the first ones in their family to graduate high school. I am the first person in my family to get a bachelors degree. I now want to be the first person in my family to earn a masters degree. I want to break generational curses. All 4 of my grandparents were forced to quit school early, not because they were lazy, but because they were poor. Their families had bills to pay and mouths to feed, and getting a job was the only way they could make it. It wasn't glamorous, but they are the hardest working people I know. I want to make them proud and change our family from "quitting school in 8th grade" to "college professor." A masters degree will open up this door for me, and hopefully make them proud. When I originally started with my undergraduate school journey, I felt very alone. My parents were the best in the world, and although we didn't have a lot of money, I was never short on love and support. However, for the first time, this was uncharted waters for both of us. I couldn't turn to them for help doing things like finding college housing, applying into programs or for financial aid, finding successful ways to network. They didn't know how to help me when making my first schedule, and they weren't there to turn to when I was struggling with my biology lab, and they definitely couldn't help me with paying for my tuition. Luckily, I had friends going to college at the same time, and their parents would often share knowledge in situations they had experience in. I have always been a passionate learner, and I know that it might take a little more work, but I will do everything in my ability to make a new path where there isn't one yet. My parents and gradnparents have all worked so hard to help me get to the place that I could be successful, and I don't want to stop. Now, I quite literally have no one in my life who is familiar with how graduate school works. That will not stop me. I am a public school teacher in the 42nd worst paying state in America, but that will not stop me. This scholarship would make a huge difference in making a higher education possible, and helping me to continue making my family proud.

"You're allowed to do this too, you know?" I will never forget the exact moment I heard these words from my art student teacher my senior year of high school. I have loved art from the moment I could pick up a crayon. I sold my paintings for gas money, won awards, but seeing it as a career possibility? I didn't think so. I always performed well at school, made good grades, but hated it. Looking back, that probably had a lot to do with my undiagnosed ADHD. Art class was my saving grace and the only place in the building I wanted to be. Many little girls grew up wanting to be a teacher, but not me. Then, those words came out of Mr. Legates mouth, and I realized..... Learning new techniques, studying artists, and making art for years to come, while sharing it with students who were in the exact same position I once was in, sounded like a calling I'd never considered. To be a truly good teacher, you have to be a passionate artist. Because of art education when I was a teenager, I had a reason to come to school. Because of art education, I realized I had value. My original plan was to go into business and minor in art for fun. I grew up poor, so in my mind financial stability should be ahead of passion. But, I decided I could work hard and have them both. Although Mr. Legates talked with me about how great he though I'd be in this field, Mr. Banner is my biggest inspiration. He was my art teacher for 4 years, and my mentor still to this day. He pushed me out of my comfort zone in a way I could never give him enough thanks for. I remember my freshman year, he wanted me to do a painting project. I had never painted before-- All I knew were colored pencils and drawing. I begged him to let me do it in colored pencils instead. Deep down, I was afraid I wouldn't be good at something new. He forced me to try, and I was so furious.... Until I wasn't. Hey.. Maybe I could really actually like this whole painting thing? The lesson he taught me that day is that being an artist takes courage. Being an artist means trying things that might not work, and being willing to fail in order to grow. Looking back, that one moment when I was 14 quite literally changed the trajectory of my life. I fell so in love with painting, I never stopped. I painted every day it seems. I began selling my paintings, entering awards and contests, being contracted as a muralist at only 17 for the Avery County Courthouse. I began teaching classes at a local children's home at 20. I received a scholarship from the Chancellor of my college to paint for her House Gallery. If Mr. Banner would have let me off with making that project with colored pencils, my whole life would look differently. He later retired in 2019, the year I graduated college, and handed the torch over to me. Every so often, I call him up about advice on a new lesson I'm teaching, or he will send me a text of his latest masterpiece. I could never thank him enough.