When I was diagnosed with ADHD at nineteen, during my first year of college, everything suddenly made sense. Years of struggling in high school: the difficulty staying focused during lectures, the way deadlines would sneak up on me despite my best intentions, the constant feeling that I was working twice as hard to achieve what seemed effortless for my peers. Everything finally had an explanation. But with that clarity came a daunting question: could I actually succeed in higher education with this diagnosis, or had I already hit my ceiling? My first year of college felt like navigating a maze blindfolded. Without the structure of high school, I floundered. Assignments piled up as my brain jumped from one task to another, never quite finishing anything. I'd sit in design studios watching classmates work steadily while my mind raced in ten different directions. Reading assignments that should have taken an hour stretched into entire evenings as I reread the same paragraphs, my attention dissolving mid-sentence. The independence that college demanded felt impossible when my own brain seemed to sabotage my efforts at every turn. While I also manage bipolar 1 and general anxiety diagnoses, ADHD is the diagnosis that is specifically a learning disability. My diagnosis was a turning point. It transformed my self-perception from "not smart enough" to "wired differently." I began to understand that my struggles weren't character flaws but the result of a brain that processes information uniquely. More importantly, I started learning how to work with my ADHD rather than constantly fighting against it. Interior design became my anchor in this journey. I discovered that the same mind that couldn't focus on traditional academic work came alive when designing spaces. My tendency to hyperfocus—often a challenge in other contexts—became an asset when I was deep in a design concept. My constantly racing thoughts, which made linear tasks exhausting, allowed me to simultaneously consider multiple design elements and envision how they'd interact in three-dimensional space. The creativity that ADHD brought to my thinking process wasn't a distraction; it was my greatest strength. At Pratt, I've developed strategies to support my success. I use visual planning tools, break large projects into manageable pieces, and schedule my work around when my medication is most effective. I've learned to communicate with professors about my needs and advocate for accommodations that level the playing field. This journey has taught me resilience and self-awareness that extend far beyond academics. My experience with ADHD directly informs my design philosophy. I want to create spaces that acknowledge neurodiversity; environments that work for people whose brains process the world differently. Having spent years feeling like spaces and systems weren't designed for me, I'm passionate about creating interiors that are inclusive for all types of minds: spaces with varied lighting options for those with sensory sensitivities, flexible seating for people who need to move, and clear visual organization for those who struggle with executive function. Dylan's story inspires me because he proved that learning disabilities don't define our potential; our determination does. Like Dylan, I'm committed to pursuing my educational dreams despite the obstacles. I am a good candidate for this scholarship because I understand the unique challenges that come with learning disabilities, and I'm using that understanding to fuel my purpose: creating a more inclusive built environment that celebrates different ways of thinking and being. This scholarship would help me continue Dylan's legacy of showing that our diagnoses are simply part of our journey, not the end of our dreams.

The summer before my sophomore year at Pratt, I found myself standing at the edge of something I couldn't name. Depression had been a quiet companion for years, but that summer, it roared. What started as occasional social drinking became a crutch, a way to silence the relentless voice telling me I wasn't enough, that my work would never matter, that the world was too broken for one person to make a difference. I remember the night everything shifted. I was alone in my dorm, having missed yet another deadline, scrolling through social media with a drink in hand, watching classmates create beautiful work while I sat paralyzed by my own mind. The shame was suffocating. I'd come to Pratt with dreams of using design to preserve culture and create spaces that mattered, but somewhere along the way, I'd convinced myself I was incapable of achieving any of it. The alcohol wasn't solving anything; it was just postponing the inevitable confrontation with myself. The turning point came through an unexpected source: my mother. During a video call, she looked at me—really looked at me—and asked, "Where's my daughter?" Not with judgment, but with the kind of love that sees through every wall you've built. That question broke something open. I realized I'd been so focused on numbing the pain that I'd forgotten who I was beneath it. Recovery wasn't linear. I started therapy and, perhaps most importantly, began practicing honesty and vulnerability with the people closest to me. For someone who'd always prided herself on independence and strength, asking for help felt like admitting defeat. But I learned that true strength lies in being comfortable enough to say "I'm struggling" and "I need support." I stopped drinking alone and started replacing those evening hours with walks, journaling, and slowly, returning to my sketchbook. I discovered that creating, even messy, imperfect sketches, was its own form of therapy. Design, with its iterative process of refinement, became a metaphor for recovery: progress happens through revision, patience, and persistent care. The real work began when I confronted why I'd felt so worthless. In therapy, I unpacked the pressure I'd placed on myself to be exceptional, to justify my space in the world through achievement alone. I realized my worth wasn't contingent on productivity or perfection. This revelation transformed my relationship with my work. Instead of creating from a place of desperation to prove myself, I began creating from genuine curiosity and care for the communities I wanted to serve. My academic goals crystallized during this process. I'm studying Interior Design at Pratt Institute, with a focus on community-centered spaces and cultural preservation through design. I want to create environments that honor people's stories and support their wellbeing; spaces where others might find the healing I've been fortunate to discover. My experience with mental health has given me profound empathy for how our environments shape our inner lives, and I'm determined to design spaces that offer hope and dignity. My recovery management plan is built on sustainability, not perfection. I maintain weekly therapy sessions and continue practicing the vulnerability that saved me: regularly checking in with my close friends and family, being honest about my struggles, and accepting help when it's offered. I've established creative boundaries. I no longer work past midnight, I take mandatory breaks from screens, and I've learned to recognize my triggers: perfectionism, isolation, and overcommitment. Instead of seeking large, one-time changes, I practice small acts of recovery every day. These included daily check-ins with myself, morning meditation, and maintaining connection with my support network, especially my mother, whose love reminded me I was worth saving. Ella's story resonates deeply with me because I understand that fierce competition with oneself, that determination to be better while simultaneously battling forces trying to pull you under. Like Ella, I've learned that strength isn't about never falling—it's about choosing to rise again and again, and eventually, helping others do the same. This scholarship would support my education at Pratt and honor the truth that our struggles don't disqualify us from our dreams; they can actually clarify them. I'm pursuing interior design not despite my mental health journey, but informed by it, carrying forward both Ella's fighting spirit and my own hard-won wisdom about what it means to truly heal and create spaces where others might find their own path to wholeness.

Growing up in a single-parent household taught me that strength isn't always loud; sometimes it's the quiet determination of a mother who works tirelessly to ensure her child never feels the absence of what's missing, only the abundance of what's present. My mom didn't just raise me, she showed me what it means to build something meaningful from the ground up, to create beauty and stability even when the foundation feels uncertain. Watching her navigate the world alone while making sure I had everything I needed taught me resilience, but more importantly, it taught me purpose. She didn't just provide for me materially. She filled our home with music, with laughter that echoed through difficult times, and with the unwavering belief that I could create whatever future I envisioned. In her, I learned that doing good doesn't always require grand gestures; sometimes it's simply showing up, consistently and lovingly, no matter how hard things get. This experience fundamentally shaped my approach to both design and community. As an interior design student at Pratt Institute, I've come to understand that technical skills are only as valuable as what you build with them. My mother's example taught me to look beyond personal achievement and consider how my talents can serve others. This is why I'm drawn to community-centered design. Creating spaces where people can see themselves reflected and valued, where function meets beauty in ways that honor the people who inhabit them. My experience of being raised in a single-parent home also gave me an intimate understanding of what it means when resources are limited but spirit is limitless. I've seen how much difference it makes when someone invests in your potential, which is why I'm passionate about work that combines creativity with social impact. Whether through designing affordable housing that maintains dignity and aesthetic value, creating community centers that bring people together, or reimagining public spaces to serve underrepresented neighborhoods, I want to use my talents to build bridges. In the future, I envision using interior design as a tool for equity and empowerment. I imagine creating spaces for community organizations that need thoughtful design but lack the budget for traditional services; developing transitional housing that offers more than just shelter but genuine comfort and hope; or working on projects that preserve cultural heritage while meeting contemporary needs. I want to design environments that make people feel seen, safe, and valued. My mother taught me that doing good isn't separate from doing what you love; it's about finding where your passion intersects with the world's needs. She raised me to believe that my talents are gifts not just for personal success, but for collective uplift. Every time I master a new design principle, refine my spatial planning skills, or complete a challenging project, I think about how I can use these abilities to make someone's life a little easier, a little brighter, a little more seen. That's the legacy of being raised by a single parent who gave everything: an understanding that we rise by lifting others, and that true success is measured not by what we achieve alone, but by what we build together.

When I began my journey at Pratt Institute, I envisioned a straightforward path: master the technical skills of interior design, graduate, and enter the industry. However, confronting both mental health challenges and financial instability tested not only my resilience but also my commitment to my career aspirations. These dual adversities forced me to redefine what bravery meant to me; not as the absence of struggle, but as the deliberate choice to move forward despite it. My mental health diagnoses have shaped my educational experience in profound ways. There were semesters when simply getting to class felt like a victory, when studio deadlines triggered overwhelming anxiety, and when self-doubt threatened to eclipse my creative vision entirely. Rather than let these challenges define my limits, I learned to build systems of support around myself. I connected with campus mental health resources, developed honest communication with professors about my needs, and practiced radical self-compassion on days when my best looked different than I'd hoped. I learned that asking for extensions wasn't weakness, it was strategic self-advocacy that allowed me to produce work I was proud of rather than work completed in crisis. Financial adversity compounded these mental health struggles during my junior year when unexpected aid reductions threatened my ability to continue my education. The stress of potential withdrawal intensified my symptoms, creating a painful cycle. Rather than accept defeat, I took immediate action. I drafted appeals for grants, meticulously researched scholarship opportunities, and applied to programs whenever possible. Each application became an exercise in vulnerability, requiring me to articulate my worth and my dreams to strangers who held my future in their hands. The mental toll was significant. Balancing full coursework while constantly justifying my right to remain in school was exhausting. Yet I learned to view these obstacles as opportunities to advocate for myself and sharpen my determination. These experiences profoundly shaped my career aspirations in unexpected ways. I realized that my struggles gave me unique insight into how interior design can serve communities facing their own adversities. My community center project in Copenhagen emerged directly from understanding what it means to need supportive, healing spaces. My thesis work on a business incubator focused on socio-economic ecosystems reflected my belief that environments should empower those who have been marginalized or overlooked. I discovered that my career wouldn't just be about creating beautiful interiors, it would be about designing spaces that acknowledge human vulnerability and foster genuine wellbeing. The bravery I've cultivated isn't flashy or dramatic. It's showing up to studio on days when my mental health makes leaving bed feel impossible. It's being honest about my limitations while refusing to let them become my identity. It's remaining in rooms where I'm often the only person who struggles in the same ways as me and refusing to shrink. It's understanding that my career path will be unconventional, bridging interior design with social justice and mental health awareness, and embracing that complexity rather than fearing it. As I approach graduation, the adversity I've faced has become my foundation rather than my obstacle. It taught me that achieving career aspirations requires courage to continue when the path becomes difficult, wisdom to ask for support, and vision to transform personal struggles into purposeful work that serves others navigating their own challenges.

Growing up, I watched my mother navigate periods of anxiety and depression while managing the demands of work and family. I learned early that support isn't always about grand gestures. Sometimes support is creating a calm environment, actively listening without judgment, or simply being present. These experiences shaped my approach to helping friends through their own struggles, whether sitting with a roommate during panic attacks or checking in on classmates during particularly stressful studio deadlines. These personal experiences fundamentally influenced my decision to study interior design at Pratt Institute. I've come to understand that our physical environments profoundly impact our mental and emotional well-being. Poor lighting, cramped spaces, lack of privacy, and institutional coldness can exacerbate anxiety and depression, particularly in settings where people are already vulnerable. My studies have equipped me with evidence-based tools to address these issues. I've learned how biophilic design—incorporating natural elements and light—can reduce stress and promote healing. I've studied how color psychology, spatial flow, and sensory considerations create environments that either support or hinder mental wellness. For my thesis, I'm exploring how community spaces can be designed to reduce social isolation and foster connection, particularly for underserved populations who face additional barriers to mental health support. In my future career as a wellness-focused interior designer, I plan to specialize in creating environments that prioritize both physical and mental well-being. This means designing facilities that feel dignified rather than institutional, spaces that reduce users' anxiety, and public areas that offer comfort and a purposeful structure. I want to advocate for trauma-informed design principles in all settings, ensuring that spaces don't retraumatize vulnerable users. Beyond individual projects, I aim to educate fellow designers and clients about the critical connection between environment and mental health. By bringing design thinking into conversations about user care, I can help shift the interior design field toward more holistic approaches that honor both physical and emotional healing. Mental health support extends beyond clinical intervention; it lives in the spaces we inhabit daily. Through thoughtful, compassionate design, I will continue to advocate for environments that nurture mental well-being and affirm the dignity of every person who inhabits them.

At nineteen, I finally had a name for what I'd been carrying alone: ADHD, bipolar 1, and generalized anxiety. Before my diagnosis, I believed I was failing at being a functional adult. While my peers seemed to effortlessly balance work, school, and social lives, I struggled to maintain basic routines. I thought I was lazy and broken in some fundamental, unfixable way. The diagnosis didn't make everything easier, but it gave me a framework for understanding myself and permission to stop fighting against my own mind. What I didn't expect was that my diagnosis would become a bridge between my mother and me. After watching how medication and therapy helped me function, she sought her own evaluation and discovered she'd been living with the same conditions I had inherited. Suddenly, years of misunderstandings between us made sense. The emotional intensity, the reactive arguments, the patterns we'd both struggled to break; they weren't character flaws or failures of love, they were symptoms we'd never had the language to address. For the first time, we could talk honestly about the ways we'd hurt each other, not to assign blame, but to build something healthier. Mental illness had shaped our relationship in painful ways, but confronting it together has allowed us to reshape that relationship with intention and grace. My academic journey reflects both the challenges and the adaptations mental illness has required of me. I'm currently in my fifth year of a four-year interior design program at Pratt Institute. During what should have been my final semester, I hit a wall. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't manage the course load while also managing myself. I had to withdraw from several classes, a decision that felt like an admission of defeat. But it wasn't a defeat; it was necessary. I've had to learn how to communicate intimate details about my mental health in professional contexts, how to advocate for accommodations, and how to draw boundaries that protect my well-being without shame. Living with mental illness has fundamentally shaped my approach to design. I've learned to work with my brain rather than against it, building time for distraction and low motivation into my schedules the same way I'd account for travel time or meals. This same philosophy carries into my design work. I don't design for an idealized user who moves through space perfectly and predictably. I design for real people with varied needs, energy levels, and ways of experiencing the world. My own experience navigating spaces during depressive episodes or periods of overstimulation has made me acutely aware of how environments affect mental and emotional well-being. I think about lighting that doesn't overwhelm, circulation that accommodates different paces and pauses, and spaces that support both social connection and necessary solitude. My client-centered approach isn't just professional practice; it's a set of personal ideals. I know what it means when a space works with you instead of against you. The adaptability I've developed informs everything I create. I've become deeply creative when facing roadblocks, not despite my conditions but because of them. Perhaps most importantly, I've learned to forgive myself. The voice that once called me lazy has been replaced by one that says, “You're doing your best with the brain you have, and that's enough.” This patience extends outward, too. I find myself more empathetic and more equipped to support others as they navigate their own invisible struggles. Mental illness has shaped me not into someone smaller or lesser, but into someone more adaptable, more compassionate, and more honest about what it means to design for the full complexity of human experience.

Growing up with my single mother taught me that resilience can look like changing your dreams to build someone else's future. When I was a baby, my mom set aside her own aspirations to pursue nursing school, knowing it would provide the stability we needed. Years later, when I was in middle school, she returned to school again to become a nurse practitioner, balancing long shifts, coursework, and raising me alone. Watching her sacrifice her original path to secure mine showed me both the weight of isolation and the transformative power of one person's determination. But it also showed me what was missing. Throughout my childhood, I often carried my struggles silently, not wanting to add to my mother's already overwhelming responsibilities. When I faced challenges at school, with my mental health, or feelings of uncertainty about my future, I internalized them, believing that asking for help would only burden her more. This wasn't anyone's fault; it was simply the reality of our limited resources. We didn't have an extended family nearby or a support network to lean on during difficult times. My mother was doing everything she could, and I learned early to be self-sufficient. That experience of isolation planted a seed that has grown into the foundation of my career aspirations. I now study interior design at Pratt Institute, but my education isn't just about creating beautiful spaces; it's about designing environments that foster the community and human connection I longed for as a child. I want to create places where people don't have to face hardships alone, where support systems are built into the very architecture of daily life. My approach to design is deeply client-centered and community-focused. During my studies, I've worked on projects like a community center in Copenhagen that prioritized gathering spaces and accessible resources, and my thesis explores a business incubator designed around socio-economic ecosystems that strengthen community bonds. These projects reflect my belief that thoughtful design can address social isolation by creating physical spaces that encourage interaction, mutual support, and shared resilience. The challenges I've overcome have given me a unique perspective on what communities need. I understand what it feels like to wish for a neighbor to check in, a gathering place to find resources, or simply a space designed to bring people together rather than keep them apart. This understanding drives every design decision I make. I envision creating neighborhood activity centers, affordable housing with communal spaces, and public areas that serve as bridges between isolated individuals and the support networks they deserve. My mother's sacrifices have made my education possible; she has contributed everything she physically can to my college expenses, demonstrating once again her unwavering commitment to my future. I am forever thankful for her resilience and deeply aware that I carry her sacrifices forward in my work. Through my education and career, I plan to make a difference by designing spaces that prevent others from experiencing the isolation we faced. I want to create environments where single parents find built-in support, where children have access to community resources, and where no one has to shoulder their burdens alone. My mother changed her path so I could find mine. Now, I'm using that path to build the communities we both needed.

Essay Topic: Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect (PLUR) is a popular phrase in the EDM and rave community. What does PLUR mean to you, and how do you embody those values in your life and the communities you are a part of? The first time I stepped into a rave, I expected chaos: flashing lights, pounding bass, and a sea of strangers. What I found instead was sanctuary. As a woman navigating nightlife, I'd grown accustomed to keeping my guard up, staying hyper-aware of my surroundings, and always having an exit strategy. But that night, something shifted. A stranger noticed me standing alone and asked if I was okay. Another checked in when someone got too close. These weren't isolated incidents; they were the norm. For the first time in a social space outside my home, I felt genuinely safe and supported. That sense of collective care didn't just impact my social life; it fundamentally changed how I approach design. The EDM community lives by a simple but profound philosophy: Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect—PLUR. At first, these words seemed like just another festival catchphrase. But experiencing PLUR in action revealed its power. It's visible in the way festival-goers trade kandi bracelets as tokens of connection, how crowds form protective circles around those who need space, and how strangers become friends through shared rhythm and joy. This ethos creates something rare. It creates a community built on intentional care rather than passive coexistence. As an interior design student, I began asking myself how I could translate this feeling into physical space. Traditional nightlife venues often feel transactional and hierarchical with VIP sections, velvet ropes, and spatial divisions that reinforce separation rather than connection. Raves, by contrast, dissolve these barriers. The dance floor becomes a democratic space where everyone contributes to the collective energy. This realization reshaped my design philosophy entirely. I started approaching my projects through the lens of community-building, asking myself, “How can this space foster genuine human connection? How can design promote safety, inclusivity, and belonging?” In my academic work, I've incorporated principles I learned from the EDM community. I design with circulation patterns that encourage interaction rather than isolation. I prioritize lighting that feels inviting rather than harsh or exclusive. I consider how materials, colors, and spatial arrangements can signal openness and warmth. When designing communal spaces, I think about the strangers who checked on me that first night and how the environment empowered them to care for others. Good design should do the same: create conditions where people feel safe enough to be vulnerable, connected enough to look out for one another, and free enough to express themselves authentically. The EDM community showed me that music and space are inseparable. The right environment amplifies connection while the wrong one stifles it. As I move forward in my design career, I carry the lessons of PLUR with me. Every project is an opportunity to create spaces where people don't just coexist but truly come together; where strangers become community, and everyone feels seen, safe, and celebrated. That first rave didn't just introduce me to incredible music; it gave me a blueprint for designing a more compassionate world.