Leaving Barbados, a small Caribbean island, to study in the United States meant stepping away from everything familiar, family, culture, for the chance to pursue an education and a bigger vision for my family's future. In that way, my journey mirrors Malgorzata “Maggie” Kwiecien’s decision to move to the U.S. on her own, relying on determination and courage to build a new life without a ready-made support system. As an international, first-generation college student and a mom, I have had to rebuild from the ground up while carrying the expectations of my family and community back home. My first year of college, I faced a challenge that brought me even closer to Maggie’s story: I was diagnosed with a rare disease, Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension, which caused swelling around my brain. Some of my symptoms included terrible headaches, loss of peripheral vision, and other frightening changes that made everyday tasks and schoolwork extremely difficult. Instead of enjoying a typical first-year experience, I was navigating doctors, scans, and treatment plans while trying to keep up with classes. There were moments when I feared not only my education, but also my long-term health and my ability to care for my children. In that season, I began to understand what it means to face a serious medical condition while refusing to let go of personal and academic goals. It was hard! Maggie’s determination to stay active and committed to her work during her three-year battle with stomach cancer is similar to how I responded to my own diagnosis. Even when my headaches were intense and my vision changes slowed my reading and writing, I learned to advocate for myself, communicate effectively with professors, and adjust my study habits. I planned my days around flare-ups and medical appointments, rested when necessary, and then got back up to finish assignments and stay present for my family. Like Maggie, I discovered that courage often shows up in small, unseen choices, the decision to persist one more day, one more class, one more exam. My journey has also been shaped by the same intellectual boldness that defined Maggie’s life. Growing up in a poverty-stricken Caribbean community where “doing well” usually meant simply staying out of trouble, I was the girl expected to break the pattern, and that expectation became both my burden and my fuel. As a BSc Healthcare Administration major, I approach my education not as a box to check, but as preparation to build something my community has never had: a community and health center that serves low-income and underserved families who often fall through the cracks. I have already begun practicing this kind of leadership by helping launch a Student Parent club at my local Community College, leading a grant research project to support student parents, and serving on the Executive Committee of the Policy Council for local Head Start, where I advocate for families, whose stories resemble my own. As I reflect on my journey, I can relate to Maggie as an international woman with her own health challenges and chose to keep climbing anyway, for her children, her community, and the families she hopes to serve. This scholarship would alleviate the financial burden of tuition, enabling me to focus on my coursework and advocacy, and ultimately honor Maggie’s legacy by becoming a bold and compassionate leader.

Being named “Top Girl” in 5th grade was the moment expectation wrapped itself around my shoulders and never let go. That small certificate told my school I was excelling, but to my family it meant something much bigger: maybe I was the one who could help set us free. From then on, “Smarty” became my half-nickname, half-prophesy, and every success felt less like a personal win and more like a responsibility to everyone watching me climb. I grew up in a poverty-stricken Caribbean community where doing “well” usually meant staying out of trouble and getting by, not dreaming beyond the neighborhood. Being the first felt like swimming against the tide, and mediocrity seemed almost inevitable. While others surrendered to what surrounded us, I was the girl expected to break the pattern, and that pride came with pressure and the unspoken belief that if I failed, the tiny crack I had opened in our reality might close for everyone. My path to college has been anything but traditional. Now a mom and a first-generation student, this is my second attempt at higher education, and returning meant facing the disappointment of my first try while refusing to let it define me. When I recommitted myself to my education, I chose not only to survive college but also to help change it for students like me. I graduated from community college as a proud member of Phi Theta Kappa, proving to myself and my family that I belonged in academic spaces that once felt unreachable. From there, I stepped beyond the classroom, leading a grant research project to support student parents and spearheading the opening of the college’s first-ever Student Parent club, creating the kind of support I once needed. My leadership also grew beyond campus. Serving on the Executive Committee of the Policy Council for local Head Start has allowed me to advocate for families at the Capitol, on behalf of children whose stories resemble my own, and every time I sit at those tables, I carry my neighborhood, my family, and my younger self with me. Today, as a first-generation student pursuing a BSc in Healthcare Administration, my dream is to open a community and health center that serves low-income and immigrant families who often fall through the cracks of traditional systems. I want to create a space where parents can access preventive care, health education, and wraparound support in one trusted location, so children like me do not have to choose between survival and possibility. As a low-income mom, this Marcia Bick Herman First-Generation Students Scholarship would help me manage tuition and essential academic expenses, freeing me to focus on my coursework, advocacy, and the long-term goal of bringing that center to life in a community that reflects the one that raised me. Her journey resonates deeply with me because her belief in the life-changing power of education mirrors the hope my family has carried for me and the hope I now hold for those who come next.

“It doesn’t take a big axe to cut down a big tree.” My mum used to say that when her hands were blistered and her back ached from cutting sugar cane under the hot Barbadian sun. The cane fields carried the memory of slavery in Barbados, and even though she wasn’t enslaved, the work felt like history still pressing down on our family. Each stalk she cut was a reminder that our people had survived worse and still found a way to stand tall. Her machete was small, her body was tired, but every swing was an act of quiet defiance against the limits placed on her life. Watching her, I learned that strength is not about having the biggest tools but about having the deepest reason to keep going. When bills piled up or school supplies felt out of reach, I remembered her in those fields, refusing to let hardship define her future or mine. That vision pushed me to study late, balance school with responsibilities at home, and keep my focus on education as my way out of the cane fields’ shadow. Now, as a college student pursuing bachelor's in healthcare administration and serving my community, I carry her lesson into every goal. I plan to use my education to advocate for families who live with the weight of history and poverty, just as mine did. By mentoring other first-generation and low-income students, volunteering in healthcare settings, and building a career dedicated to equity, I am sharpening my own “small axe.” With every step, I work to prove that no matter how big the tree whether it is systemic injustice, lack of access, or generational poverty it still does not “take a big axe to cut down a big tree.”

Thesis: In On the Shortness of Life, Seneca argues that the true test of perseverance is not simply enduring hardship, but refusing to postpone one’s own life to a safer “later,” choosing instead to live with courage and responsibility in the present a challenge that transformed how I saw my return to college and my commitment to youth in foster care. When Seneca calls “putting things off…the biggest waste of life,” he does more than criticize procrastination; he exposes a quiet way people abandon themselves. In my own life as a first -generation college student and mother in a small rural community, delay often disguised itself as duty. I told myself I would finish my degree after my children were older, after money stabilized, after life felt less chaotic. It sounded noble, but Seneca’s words forced me to admit that some of my waiting was fear wearing the mask of responsibility. His claim that delay “snatches away each day as it comes and denies us the present by promising the future” revealed how many days I had surrendered to the fantasy of a perfect tomorrow. Returning to school was not just an academic decision; it was my first real act of living, rather than endlessly preparing to live. Seneca’s image of days being “snatched away” mattered to me because I work with and learn about youth in foster care whose time is taken from them in harsher ways. Their lives are full of waiting rooms, waiting for a court date, a placement, a decision made in a meeting they cannot attend. Adults often assure them that “one day” things will be better, but that promise can become another way their present is denied. Seeing their reality sharpened my reading of Seneca. For them, expectation is not just a private habit; it is built into the systems around them. Statistics say that many will struggle in school, face unstable housing, or age out without support. Yet, in that bleak narrative, I have witnessed small, stubborn acts of perseverance: a teen showing up to school after another move, a young person daring to apply to college, someone risking honesty with a new therapist after years of mistrust. They cannot control the larger story, but they reclaim moments inside it. Those small choices embody Seneca’s demand that we “live immediately” even when the future is uncertain. Another line, “You are arranging what lies in Fortune’s control, and abandoning what lies in yours,” became a mirror I could not ignore. Before returning to school, I spent a lot of time rearranging imagined futures: I would start once I had more time, more confidence, more guarantees. I wanted Fortune such as circumstances, timing, other people’s reactions to cooperate before I committed. Seneca exposed how inverted that logic is. The only things that truly belonged to me were my effort, my willingness to enroll, my choice to keep going when I felt out of place in a college classroom full of younger students. The same insight shapes how I want to work with foster youth as a future Licensed Clinical Social Worker. They have little control over courts or case plans, but there are still pieces that belong to them: a decision to attend class, to accept help, to imagine a different life than the one predicted for them. Perseverance, for both of us, is the practice of turning away from what we cannot command and toward what we actually can. Seneca’s final insistence that “the whole future lies in uncertainty: live immediately” is both terrifying and liberating. It removes the excuse that we are simply waiting for the “right time.” There is no version of the future that arrives pre‑stamped as safe. For me, living immediately meant enrolling in my healthcare administration program now, not when I had conquered every insecurity. It meant studying after long days at our rural hospital, where I see how mental health needs surface in emergency rooms, waiting areas, and whispered conversations. It meant allowing my classrooms and my community work to speak to each other, shaping my vision of becoming a Licensed Clinical Social Worker who understands both policy and pain. Reading Seneca closely did not give me a neat slogan about perseverance; it unsettled me into action. It pushed me to see that postponement is not neutral, it is a form of surrender. It taught me to recognize the quiet heroism in foster youth who keep choosing life in systems that tell them to expect disappointment. And it challenged me to live in a way that aligns my present choices with the future I hope to build for myself and for them. By refusing to let “later” steal what I can do now is study, serve, and stand beside those whose odds are stacked against them, I am trying to practice the very philosophy I have interpreted on the page. Citation Seneca. (n.d.). On the shortness of life (C. D. N. Costa, Trans.). In Dialogues and essays. Penguin Classics. (Original work published ca. 49 CE)

Growing Hope Through Mental Health Equity There are days when I feel like the weed in the garden, the life that pushed through hard, dry ground where nothing was supposed to grow. Living as a BIPOC mother in a rural community, I’ve often found strength in unexpected places. My journey into mental health began a long time ago but strengthened over the last few years. In my town, discussions about mental health are rare, and services are limited or designed for big cities. At times I’ve felt out of place and unwanted, but those exact experiences have taught me how powerful it is when someone offers support, encouragement, and room to grow. Those small acts of care have shown me that healing starts in connection, even before treatment begins. I am currently pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Healthcare Administration and a Community Impact Program Certificate at Boise State University. Each class helps me understand how systems shape individual experiences of care. I also volunteer at our local rural hospital, where I witness how mental health needs appear everywhere from emergency rooms to waiting areas. A mother consoling a child after a crisis or an elderly man waiting alone for results both remind me that mental health is not separate from healthcare, it is woven into every interaction, every delay, every moment of uncertainty. My education and volunteer work are intentional steps toward becoming a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW). Rather than following a traditional psychology route, I chose to study show systems, policies, staffing, reimbursement, and leadership decisions influenced by who can access care. My goal is to bridge the gap between the administrative and the emotional sides of care: to be a therapist who understands both paperwork and pain. If I could make one significant change to today’s mental healthcare system, it would be to design it for different markets rather than assuming one size fits all. Rural communities like mine are often left behind because care is centralized in distant urban hospitals or private practices that are physically and culturally out of reach. I would advocate for funding and training directed toward truly community‑based and community‑led care placing licensed therapists in schools, Head Start centers, faith spaces, hospitals, and migrant service organizations. In my farm‑worker community, mental health resources often fail to reach people because hospitals do not prioritize hiring bilingual, bicultural providers. Language becomes a wall, and shame or fear keeps families from seeking support. Representation matters not just for communication, but for trust. Teletherapy holds immense potential to bridge these gaps. It reduces travel time, offers privacy in small communities, and gives clients access to a wider network of therapists. For working parents, people with disabilities, or those without childcare, online sessions can mean the difference between receiving help and going without. Yet, teletherapy also reveals inequities, limited internet service, lack of private space, and language barriers can all stand in the way. I envision teletherapy evolving beyond simple video calls: creating private telehealth rooms in schools, libraries, and community centers, and pairing therapists with local organizations to build trust. Training should include rural cultural awareness, trauma‑informed care, and skills for building rapport through a screen. Ultimately, my story as a “weed” in the system is also a story of strength. With care, weeds reveal themselves as resilient plants, stubborn yet essential, holding the soil together when nothing else will. That is the kind of therapist I hope to become: deeply rooted in my rural community, shaped by my lived experiences, and committed to helping others grow where traditional models once said nothing could thrive.

Lieba Joran’s compassion, courage, and creative brilliance resonates deeply with me, not just as a mother and student, but as someone who is passionately committed to building a more understanding and inclusive world for children. Like Lieba, I believe in standing up for those who are too often overlooked or misunderstood. That belief isn’t just part of my values, it ‘defines my life’s purpose. I am pursuing a Bachelors Social Work to advocate for gifted and twice-exceptional children, especially those whose needs are hidden beneath the surface. As a mother of two boys, I have seen firsthand how easily these children can be misunderstood in rigid school environments. Their emotions may be dismissed as overreactions, their curiosity mistaken for defiance, and their complexity overlooked entirely. My volunteer work as a Court Appointed Special Advocate (CASA) has only deepened my awareness of how crucial it is for children to have someone in their corner, someone who listens, believes in them, and fights for their right to thrive. In that role, I’ve stood beside children in the foster care system, helping to amplify their voices when others remain silent. Additionally, serving as a Policy Council Representative for Head Start has allowed me to collaborate with educators and families to promote equity in early childhood education. I’ve worked to ensure that no child is left behind simply because their gifts are not easily measured. Whether through advocacy, policy, or direct service, my goal has always been the same: to ensure that every child is seen for who they truly are. My ambition is to become a social worker who champions the needs of children whose brilliance is often hidden behind behaviors that schools don’t always know how to handle. These are the students who are told they are “too much”: too emotional, too intense, too different. I want to rewrite that story. I want to help these children thrive, not in spite of their differences, but because of them. Through strength-based approaches, I will help educators recognize and nurture creativity, empathy, and sensitivity as strengths. Lieba Joran once stood on chairs, literally and figuratively, to defend those who were mistreated. Her courage inspires me to do the same: to stand up in school systems, policy rooms, and communities for the children who need someone to say, “I see you. I believe in you. You matter.” Receiving the Lieba’s Legacy Scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of continuing my education, but it would also allow me to expand my capacity to carry forward Lieba’s mission. With this support, I will be one step closer to transforming schools and other environments into places where all children, especially the most misunderstood, are celebrated for their full, beautiful complexity. This is more than a career path for me, it is a calling, and one I intend to answer with all the heart, skill, and dedication it deserves.

As a Barbadian mum, who migrated with my children in search of better opportunities, I have faced the unique challenges of adapting to a new culture and educational system while balancing the responsibilities of raising my family. Coming from a Caribbean background where education was highly valued, I knew that pursuing higher education would be the next step for me. I’m pursuing a BSW Social Work, with the goal of advocating for immigrant families and supporting the educational needs of their children. I currently attend a community college, but I've been accepted to transfer to a Portland State University. Beyond my personal educational journey, I’ve sought to help others in my community who face similar obstacles. Through my involvement as a member of the Policy Council at the Oregon Child Development Coalition (OCDC), I’ve gained firsthand insight into the systemic barriers that immigrant families often face, particularly in accessing education and community resources. At OCDC, I advocate for policies that support children and families in their Migrant Seasonal Head Start program. Additionally, as a Court Appointed Special Advocate (CASA) in Eastern Oregon, I’ve had the privilege of advocating for children, many of whom come from immigrant backgrounds. Many of these children face the compounded challenges of language barriers, cultural differences, and the lack of representation in the legal system. I’ve seen firsthand how systemic inequities can negatively impact immigrant families. This experience has further fueled my passion for educational equity and social justice, as I have witnessed how a lack of access to resources can perpetuate cycles of disadvantage. My educational journey and volunteer experience with immigrant families have given me a clear purpose: to advocate for change and ensure that all children, especially those from immigrant and marginalized communities, can succeed. By gaining the knowledge and skills necessary to influence policies, I aim to help create a system that offers more equitable opportunities for all students, regardless of their background. Education is a powerful tool for social change. My experiences have reinforced my desire to use education as a means of empowerment for immigrant communities. I am committed to creating a positive impact by advocating for policies that provide greater access to educational resources, mentorship, and support for students from all backgrounds. Winning this scholarship would be transformative for me and my family. It would alleviate the financial burden of pursuing a college education as an immigrant. It would bring me one step closer to a social work career and advocating for marginalized communities.