Last September, I was diagnosed with major depression. Even writing that feels heavy, because at the time it didn’t just feel like “a diagnosis”—it felt like my life got quieter and harder to carry. I still showed up to school, still did what I needed to do, but a lot of days I was running on pure discipline instead of energy. Things that normally made me feel excited or proud suddenly felt distant, and I started to realize how easy it is for someone to look “fine” while struggling internally. A big part of what made that period harder was how much I had already been carrying emotionally. Moving to the United States changed my life in many good ways, but it also came with pressure that I didn’t fully understand until later. Adapting to a new environment, a new culture, and a new version of myself while trying to succeed academically can be lonely. Sometimes you don’t even have the words for what you’re feeling—especially when you’re trying to be strong for everyone around you. During that time, art became the one place where I didn’t have to pretend I was okay. Drawing, painting, and lettering gave me a way to process emotions when I couldn’t explain them out loud. When my thoughts felt chaotic, creating something visual helped me slow down and make sense of it. Art gave me structure when my mind didn’t. It also gave me hope, because even on bad days, I could still create something real. That feeling—being able to turn emotion into something meaningful—made me realize that creativity can be more than talent. For me, it became resilience. My experience with mental health also changed the way I see other people. I became more patient and more observant. I started noticing how many people carry silent struggles. It taught me to be more careful with the way I speak, the way I judge, and the way I show up in relationships. I don’t assume anymore that someone is “fine” just because they’re functioning. I learned that support doesn’t always look like big speeches—it can look like consistency, kindness, and being present. One of the ways I tried to turn what I was learning into something positive was through leadership and community. I co-founded my high school’s Calligraphy Club because people were constantly asking me about my notes and the way I lettered. They would ask me to teach them, and that stuck with me because I actually had experience teaching calligraphy back in Colombia a few years ago. I decided to talk to my art teacher about making a club so students could learn together and feel comfortable trying something creative. Getting it started wasn’t easy. Coordinating meetings, staying organized, and figuring out leadership while balancing everything else was stressful at first. But it became one of the most fulfilling things I’ve done. Seeing students go from “I can’t do that” to “Wait, I’m actually improving” reminded me why creative spaces matter. When people create, they feel capable. They feel seen. They feel calmer. I didn’t start the club as a “mental health project,” but looking back, I realize it helped more than just artistic skills—it gave people a break, a community, and a place to focus on something positive. Because of everything I’ve experienced, my goals have become more specific and more personal. I want to study graphic design and visual communication, with a focus on branding and digital media. I’m especially interested in working with fashion and lifestyle brands, because I love how visual identity can communicate confidence, culture, and storytelling. Long-term, I want to become an entrepreneur and build my own creative brand—possibly clothing—where design isn’t just decoration, but a message. Something that reflects identity and gives people a sense of belonging. Mental health struggles didn’t “fix” my life or magically turn everything into motivation. But they did change me. They made me more empathetic. They helped me understand the value of support and consistency. And they showed me that art can save you in quiet ways, not by removing pain, but by giving you a reason to keep going. Scholarship support would help me continue building a future where I can grow creatively and professionally without constantly feeling financial pressure on top of everything else. More than anything, I want to use what I’ve lived through to create work that helps people feel understood—because I know what it’s like to not feel that way. Creativity gave me hope when I needed it most, and I want to use that same creativity to inspire and support others.

One of the most moving performances by Taylor Swift that has stayed with me is her performance of “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” during the Eras Tour. What makes this performance so powerful is not only the song itself, but the way Taylor is able to turn a deeply personal story into something that thousands of people can emotionally connect with at the same time. During the performance, the atmosphere changes completely. The storytelling in the lyrics, combined with the stage visuals and the audience singing along, creates a moment that feels both intimate and universal. Even though the song describes a very personal experience, it resonates with so many listeners because it captures feelings of heartbreak, memory, and growth in a very honest way. Watching that performance shows how powerful music can be when it comes from genuine emotion. What I admire most about Taylor Swift as a performer is her ability to transform storytelling into an experience. Her performances are not just about singing a song; they are about creating a narrative that people can see, feel, and remember. In the case of “All Too Well,” she takes a moment from her past and turns it into something meaningful for an entire audience. It reminds listeners that painful experiences can eventually become sources of strength and creativity. As someone interested in creative fields myself, I find this very inspiring. Taylor Swift’s performances show that creativity is not just about technical skill but also about authenticity and vulnerability. When artists are willing to share their real experiences, their work becomes more powerful and meaningful. Overall, Taylor Swift’s performance of “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” stands out to me because it demonstrates how storytelling, emotion, and creativity can come together to create something unforgettable. It shows how art has the ability to connect people, transform experiences, and turn personal moments into something that resonates far beyond the stage.

I have always admired artists who are able to express themselves creatively while staying authentic to who they are, and Sabrina Carpenter is someone who does that incredibly well. Throughout her career, she has shown that growth, confidence, and creativity can go hand in hand. What I admire most about her is how she has evolved over time while continuing to stay true to her personality and artistic vision. Sabrina Carpenter began her career at a young age and gradually built her place in the entertainment industry through music, acting, and performance. Watching her journey has shown me that success rarely happens overnight. Instead, it often comes from persistence, resilience, and the willingness to keep improving over time. Her career reminds me that creativity is not just about talent, but also about dedication and the courage to continue developing your voice. As someone who is passionate about art and creativity myself, I find her journey inspiring. I am interested in pursuing a career in graphic design and visual communication, fields that also rely heavily on creativity, storytelling, and personal expression. Seeing artists like Sabrina Carpenter build strong creative identities motivates me to continue developing my own skills and exploring how creativity can connect with audiences. Another reason I admire her is because she demonstrates the importance of confidence and individuality. In creative fields, it can sometimes feel intimidating to share your ideas or personal style. However, seeing someone embrace their own identity and creativity encourages me to do the same. It reminds me that originality and authenticity are what make creative work meaningful. Overall, Sabrina Carpenter’s career has inspired me to continue pursuing creativity with confidence and dedication. Her journey shows that artistic expression can evolve over time while still remaining authentic. That message is something I carry with me as I continue working toward my own creative goals.

One of my favorite pieces of art I’ve created is a charcoal and graphite portrait of a young woman set against a dark, almost suffocating background. Her skin appears pale, her eyes heavy, and dark streaks fall down her face like tears that were never wiped away. She looks distant, as if she exists somewhere between being present and being lost in thought. I didn’t plan for this piece to represent my story, but as I worked on it, I realized it already did. There is a kind of quiet that never leaves your mind after bad news. For me, that quiet arrived a month before I turned six. I still remember my mom walking into my bedroom with tears streaming down her face, telling me my father had passed away. At that age, I didn’t understand death. I only understood her sadness, and I cried with her, not fully realizing that my entire world had changed. It didn’t truly sink in until years later, when I learned that my dad wasn’t just gone—he was taken. He became another victim of the violence in Colombia, the same country where I spent my childhood and made my happiest memories. That contradiction stayed with me: a place full of love, warmth, and family, yet marked by loss. I didn’t know how to talk about it, so I carried it quietly. Eventually, that same violence pushed my mom and me to leave our home in search of safety. I packed thirteen years, eight months, and twelve days of memories into a single suitcase. The life I left behind felt frozen in time, while I struggled to adjust to a new one. For a long time, everything felt blurry. I felt disconnected, like I was moving through life without fully being in it. I didn’t know it then, but I was drowning in emotions I didn’t have words for. Art became the place where those feelings finally had somewhere to go. When I created this portrait, I chose charcoal because it felt raw and unforgiving, just like grief. I allowed the smudges, the darkness, and the uneven textures to remain. The background represents the emptiness I felt after leaving everything familiar behind. The tear-like streaks reflect grief that doesn’t disappear with time, only changes shape. The woman’s expression mirrors how I felt for years—present, but carrying something heavy beneath the surface. What makes this piece my favorite is its honesty. It isn’t meant to be perfect or comforting. It is meant to be real. Through creating it, I began to understand that my story wasn’t only about loss. Slowly, I started noticing the love I had overlooked: my mom’s quiet strength, my family’s support, and the friendships that made me feel seen again. This piece represents a turning point for me. It showed me that art doesn’t need to explain everything to be meaningful. Sometimes, it simply needs to exist. Creating allows me to transform experiences into something tangible, and that is why I hope to pursue Fine Arts or Design in college. Art gave me a voice when I didn’t have one, and through it, I’ve learned that even the quietest stories deserve to be seen.

There is some kind of quiet that never leaves your mind after bad news, in my case, that moment would not even wait for me to grow up but would decide to hit me a month before turning six. I still remember my mom walking into my bedroom with tears streaming down her face telling me that my father has passed away, and that from now on I would have to face a reality that did not include him, which felt like a different kind of unreal. At that age, I had never experienced death, not even from afar, so I didn't fully understand what death meant; but I could still feel the weight of her sadness. I started crying with her, mostly because that's what kids do when they see adults cry, not because I really understood that my whole world was crashing right in front of my eyes. It didn't truly hit me until me until years later, after I figured that my dad wasn't just gone, he was taken. He was another victim of the country with one of the highest rates of violence in South America, Colombia. Ironically, the same country where I spent my childhood and made the happiest memories of my life. I don't blame anyone for not telling me sooner; If I could not process the idea of death, how could I possibly understand the evil that hides behind the eyes of someone capable of taking the life of a father. That same violence would eventually push my mom and me to leave our home "to look for better opportunities". But deep down, I wished the biggest opportunity was simply being able to live in peace with the people I loved. I packed up thirteen years, eight months and twelve days of memories into a single suitcase. The room that once overflowed with fairytales, laughter and the smell of my grandma's cooking, now echoed with silence. Even my dog, the one I've had since I was 9, was still there, sitting in my bed, waiting for me to come back as I always did. Two years went by, but they felt like a blur, like a hole in my existence where my brain just stopped recording. I didn't know it then, but I was drowning in depression. But life has a strange way of offering second chances, and when it felt like nothing could get worst, I got invited to a small gathering I didn't even want to attend, surrounded by people I barely liked. There, I met someone that for the first time in years would make me feel seen. Then another incredible person would enter my life, they would later become my best friends and slowly, my universe started to feel less heavy. I started to believe that maybe I wasn't as alone as I thought. Life is about perspective. Human brain is wired to search for things that confirm what it already believes, completely ignoring the facts that would prove it wrong. I spent years believing I was alone, and so I ignored all the signs that proved otherwise. I ignored the love in my mom's cooking when she saw I was sad, the surprise visit from my grandma, the five-hour call with my brother. I was surrounded by so much love that it became easy for me to take it for granted. For so long I thought my story was one of loss. But now I understand it's really about love, the kind that stretches across oceans and quietly holds you up when you think you've fallen too far.

There is some kind of quiet that never leaves your mind after bad news, in my case, that moment would not even wait for me to grow up but would decide to hit me a month before turning six. I still remember my mom walking into my bedroom with tears streaming down her face telling me that my father has passed away, and that from now on I would have to face a reality that did not include him, which felt like a different kind of unreal. At that age, I had never experienced death, not even from afar, so I didn't fully understand what death meant; but I could still feel the weight of her sadness. I started crying with her, mostly because that's what kids do when they see adults cry, not because I really understood that my whole world was crashing right in front of my eyes. It didn't truly hit me until me until years later, after I figured that my dad wasn't just gone, he was taken. He was another victim of the country with one of the highest rates of violence in South America, Colombia. Ironically, the same country where I spent my childhood and made the happiest memories of my life. That same violence would eventually push my mom and me to leave our home "to look for better opportunities". But deep down, I wished the biggest opportunity was simply being able to live in peace with the people I loved. I packed up thirteen years, eight months and twelve days of memories into a single suitcase. The room that once overflowed with fairytales, laughter and the smell of my grandma's cooking, now echoed with silence. Even my old dog, was still there, sitting in my bed, waiting for me to come back as I always did. Two years went by, but they felt like a blur, like my brain just stopped recording. I didn't know it then, but I was drowning in depression. But life has a strange way of offering second chances, and when it felt like nothing could get worse, I got invited to a small gathering I didn't even want to attend, surrounded by people I barely liked. There, I met someone that for the first time in years would make me feel seen. She would later become my best friend and slowly, my universe started to feel less heavy. Life is about perspective. Human brain is wired to search for things that confirm what it already believes, ignoring the facts that would prove it wrong. I spent years believing I was alone, ignoring all the signs that proved otherwise. I ignored the love in my mom's cooking, the surprise visit from my grandma, the five-hour call with my brother. I was surrounded by so much love it became easy to take it for granted. I thought my story was one of loss. But it was always about love, the kind that holds you even from the distance.

There is some kind of quiet that never leaves your mind after bad news, in my case, that moment would not even wait for me to grow up but would decide to hit me a month before turning six. I still remember my mom walking into my bedroom with tears streaming down her face telling me that my father has passed away, and that from now on I would have to face a reality that did not include him, which felt like a different kind of unreal. At that age, I had never experienced death, not even from afar, so I didn't fully understand what death meant; but I could still feel the weight of her sadness. I started crying with her, mostly because that's what kids do when they see adults cry, not because I really understood that my whole world was crashing right in front of my eyes. It didn't truly hit me until me until years later, after I figured that my dad wasn't just gone, he was taken. He was another victim of the country with one of the highest rates of violence in South America, Colombia. Ironically, the same country where I spent my childhood and made the happiest memories of my life. I don't blame anyone for not telling me sooner; If I could not process the idea of death, how could I possibly understand the kind of evil that hides behind the eyes of someone capable of taking the life of a father. That same violence would eventually push my mom and me to leave our home "to look for better opportunities". But deep down, I wished the biggest opportunity was simply being able to live in peace with the people I loved. I packed up thirteen years, eight months and twelve days of memories into a single suitcase. The room that once overflowed with fairytales, laughter and the smell of my grandma's cooking, now echoed with silence. Even my dog, the one I've had since I was 9, was still there, sitting in my bed, waiting for me to come back as I always did. Two years went by, but they felt like a blur, like a hole in my existence where my brain just stopped recording. I didn't know it then, but I was drowning in depression. But life has a strange way of offering second chances, and when it felt like nothing could get worst, I got nominated by my art teacher at a contest, and surprisingly enough, I won. I started to paint more and more and my universe started to feel less heavy. Life is about perspective. Human brain is wired to search for things that confirm what it already believes, completely ignoring the facts that would prove it wrong. I spent years believing I was alone, I was talentless and so I ignored all the signs that proved otherwise. I ignored the love in my mom's cooking when she saw I was sad, the surprise visit from my grandma on my fifteenth birthday, the support from my best friends. I was surrounded by so much love that it became easy for me to take it for granted. For so long I thought my story was one of loss. But now I understand it's really about love, the kind that stretches across oceans, the kind that quietly holds you up when you think you've fallen too far.