My decision to pursue a degree in the mental health field comes from both my personal experiences and the understanding I have developed through them. There have been parts of my life that were difficult, including experiencing abuse and navigating challenging family situations. During those times, I often felt like I had to handle things on my own, without consistent access to support. Those experiences shaped how I view mental health and showed me how important it is for people to feel seen, heard, and supported. I learned early on how to push through difficult situations and keep going even when things felt overwhelming. While that made me strong, it also made me realize how much of a difference it can make when someone has access to the right support system. Not everyone feels comfortable asking for help, and not everyone has access to resources when they need them most. That understanding stayed with me and became a major reason why I chose to pursue psychology. I want to be able to provide the kind of support that I did not always have. Becoming a mother strengthened that purpose even more. My children have given me a reason to grow, heal, and create a better future. They have taught me patience, understanding, and the importance of being present. They experience the world in their own unique ways, and I have learned how important it is to meet people where they are rather than expecting them to think or respond in a certain way. Those lessons have shaped how I interact with others and how I plan to approach my future career. There are moments that remind me why this path matters so much to me. Sometimes I will hear my kids talking to each other, trying to figure something out, and one of them will say, “God made it, duh,” like it’s the simplest explanation in the world. It always puts a smile on my face just listening in the background. Those moments remind me that even when life feels complicated, people often need something simple—support, reassurance, and a sense of comfort. My faith has also played a role in my growth. It is something I have been learning and developing over time, especially during moments when I felt uncertain or overwhelmed. It has helped ground me and reminded me that my past does not define my future. Instead, it has shaped the person I am becoming and the path I am choosing. Through my experiences, I have developed a deeper awareness of how many people struggle silently. I understand what it feels like to carry things internally and continue moving forward even when it is difficult. That understanding is what motivates me to continue my education in psychology. I want to work with individuals who feel overlooked or underserved and help create environments where they feel safe, understood, and valued. My goal is to build a career where I can make a meaningful impact in the mental health field by supporting others through their challenges and helping make mental health care more accessible. This is not just a career choice for me—it is something that is deeply personal and driven by my experiences. I want to take what I have been through and use it to help others feel less alone.

Faith hasn’t always been something I fully understood, but it has become something I’ve been intentionally growing into. Over time, I’ve found myself trying to understand how God fits into my life, especially during moments that feel overwhelming, uncertain, or out of my control. It hasn’t been perfect, and I don’t claim to have everything figured out, but my faith has become something I continue to lean on as I move forward. A big part of my faith journey has come from being a mother. Raising my children has made me more aware of the importance of teaching them about something bigger than themselves. My son, especially, is incredibly curious about the world. He asks questions about how things work, about science, and even about the universe. I often find myself trying to explain both what we know through science and what I believe through faith. Some of my favorite moments are when my kids are talking to each other, trying to figure things out, and one of them will confidently say, “God made it, duh,” like it’s the simplest answer in the world. It really puts a smile on my face just listening in the background. Those moments remind me that faith doesn’t always have to be complicated. Sometimes, it’s simple, pure, and comforting in a way that brings peace. My understanding of faith has also come from seeing it in action. During a difficult time in my father’s life, my church stepped in and supported our family in a way I will never forget. They provided a place for us to come together, a space for prayer, and even organized a benefit to help us during that time. That experience showed me that faith is more than belief—it’s about community, compassion, and showing up for others when they need it most. There have been times in my life where I’ve felt overwhelmed trying to balance everything—being a mother, working, and pursuing my education. In those moments, my faith has been something that grounds me. It reminds me that there is purpose behind what I’m working toward, even when the path feels difficult. It gives me the strength to keep going, even when it would be easier to give up. As I continue my education in psychology, I plan to carry my faith with me into my future career. I want to help people who feel lost, overwhelmed, or misunderstood. I want to be someone who not only listens, but who also shows patience, compassion, and understanding—values that are deeply connected to my faith. Faith has taught me that people deserve to be met with kindness, not judgment. It has shown me the importance of being present for others, especially during their hardest moments. In my future career, I hope to create a safe and supportive environment where people feel seen, heard, and valued. Receiving this scholarship would not only help ease the financial burden of my education, but it would also reinforce the path I am on. It would remind me that my journey, my faith, and my goals all have meaning. I may still be growing in my faith, but I know that it will continue to guide me. It will shape how I treat others, how I handle challenges, and how I show up in both my personal life and my career. That is something I will carry with me in everything I do.

Caring for others has never felt like a choice for me—it’s something that naturally became part of who I am. It wasn’t something I decided one day, but something that developed over time through my life experiences, responsibilities, and the people who have depended on me. As a mom, that sense of responsibility has only grown stronger. Every day, I’m reminded of how important patience, understanding, and presence are, especially when someone needs extra support or experiences the world differently. That perspective is a big part of what led me to pursue a degree in psychology and shaped the kind of impact I want to make in the future. Over time, I’ve become more aware of how many people go through life feeling overlooked or misunderstood, especially those dealing with cognitive or mental challenges. Alzheimer’s disease and dementia are some of the most difficult conditions to witness, not only because of the memory loss but because of how deeply they affect a person’s identity, independence, and connection to the world around them. It’s not just about forgetting—it’s about slowly losing pieces of who you are, and that is something that deserves more attention, compassion, and understanding. What draws me to this area is not just the clinical side of psychology, but the human side. I’ve always been someone who pays attention to how people feel, not just what they say. I think that’s something that has been shaped by my own life. There have been times where I’ve had to carry things quietly, keep going even when things felt overwhelming, and figure things out without always having the support I needed. Because of that, I notice when others are struggling, even when it’s not obvious. That awareness is something I want to use to help others, especially those who may not always be able to communicate what they are going through. Being a parent has strengthened that ability in ways I never expected. My children are constantly learning, growing, and trying to understand the world in their own way. My son, especially, is incredibly curious. He asks questions about everything—how things work, why things happen, and even about the universe itself. There are moments where I find myself trying to explain complex ideas in a way that makes sense to him, breaking things down and meeting him where he is instead of expecting him to understand things the way I do. Those moments have taught me patience in a deeper way. One of my favorite things is listening to my kids talk to each other when they think I’m not paying attention. They’ll be trying to figure something out, going back and forth, and then one of them will confidently say, “God made it, duh,” like it’s the simplest explanation in the world. It always puts a smile on my face just listening in the background. Moments like that remind me that understanding doesn’t always have to be complicated. Sometimes, people just need reassurance, comfort, and a sense of meaning, even if it doesn’t follow a perfect explanation. That idea connects deeply to how I think about individuals living with Alzheimer’s and dementia. From what I’ve learned and observed, supporting someone with memory loss isn’t about constantly correcting them or forcing them into reality—it’s about meeting them where they are. It’s about understanding that their experience is real to them, even if it looks different from the outside. That takes patience, empathy, and a willingness to let go of control in order to prioritize their comfort and dignity. I believe that one of the most important aspects of caring for individuals with cognitive decline is preserving their sense of self for as long as possible. Even as memory fades, emotions, habits, and connections often remain. A person may not remember names or events, but they can still feel kindness, frustration, fear, or comfort. That’s why the way we treat people in those moments matters so much. Small things—tone of voice, facial expressions, body language—can make a huge difference in how safe and understood someone feels. Another important part of this journey is supporting the families of individuals with Alzheimer’s and dementia. These conditions don’t just affect one person—they impact entire families. Watching someone you love slowly change can be incredibly painful and overwhelming. Families often take on caregiving roles without fully knowing what to expect, and they can experience emotional, physical, and financial stress. I want to be someone who can support not just the individual, but the people surrounding them as well. Providing guidance, reassurance, and understanding to families is just as important as the care given to the individual. My own experiences balancing responsibilities have given me a deeper appreciation for how important support systems are. As someone who is managing school, work, and motherhood, I understand what it feels like to be stretched thin and still have to keep going. I understand the importance of having people who show up for you, who offer help, and who create a sense of stability during uncertain times. That is something I want to bring into my future career—being a steady, supportive presence for others when they need it most. Through my studies in psychology, I plan to build a career where I can work with individuals experiencing cognitive decline and contribute to improving the quality of care they receive. Whether that involves direct support, counseling, or advocacy, my goal is to be part of creating a more compassionate and understanding approach to dementia care. I want to help shift the focus from just managing symptoms to truly supporting the person as a whole. I also believe that awareness plays a huge role in how society treats individuals with Alzheimer’s and dementia. There is still a lot of misunderstanding and stigma surrounding these conditions. Many people don’t fully understand what individuals are experiencing, which can lead to frustration, impatience, or even neglect. By increasing awareness and education, we can create a more informed and compassionate society—one where individuals with cognitive decline are treated with dignity and respect rather than confusion or dismissal. Receiving this scholarship would make a meaningful difference in my life. As someone who is working hard to balance multiple responsibilities, financial support would allow me to stay focused on my education and continue moving forward toward my goals. It would also serve as a reminder that the path I am pursuing matters—that the effort, the long days, and the persistence are leading toward something meaningful. At the end of the day, I don’t just want a career—I want to make an impact. I want to be someone who brings patience, understanding, and compassion into spaces where it is needed most. I want to support individuals who may feel like they are losing pieces of themselves and help them feel seen, valued, and cared for. I want to support families who are navigating difficult transitions and remind them that they are not alone. Everything I have experienced has shaped the way I see people and the way I want to show up in the world. My role as a mother, my journey as a student, and my personal growth have all led me to this path. I am committed to continuing that journey, learning as much as I can, and using that knowledge to make a difference in the lives of others.

Caring for others has never felt like a choice for me—it’s something that naturally became part of who I am. As a mom, I’ve learned how important patience, understanding, and communication are, especially when someone needs extra support or experiences the world differently. That perspective is a big part of what led me to pursue a degree in psychology and shaped the kind of impact I want to make in the future. While I may not have one defining moment that pushed me toward working with individuals with intellectual disabilities, I have always felt drawn to helping people who are often overlooked or misunderstood. I’ve seen how easily individuals can be dismissed when they don’t fit into what society considers “normal,” and that has never sat right with me. Everyone deserves to feel heard, valued, and supported, regardless of their abilities or the challenges they face. Being a parent has deepened that understanding in ways I never expected. My children are constantly learning, growing, and experiencing the world in their own unique ways. My son, especially, is incredibly curious—he asks questions about how things work, about science, and about the world around him. I often find myself breaking things down and explaining things in a way that makes sense to him, meeting him where he is instead of expecting him to understand things the way I do. There are also moments when my kids talk to each other, trying to figure things out, and one of them will confidently say, “God made it, duh,” like it’s the simplest explanation in the world. It always puts a smile on my face just listening in the background, because it reminds me that understanding doesn’t always have to be complicated. Sometimes, people just need patience, encouragement, and acceptance rather than being corrected or dismissed. Those experiences have shaped how I see the world and how I want to show up for others. Through my studies in psychology, I hope to build a career where I can advocate for individuals with intellectual disabilities and support them in reaching their full potential. I want to help create environments where people feel safe, understood, and encouraged, rather than judged or limited. I want to be someone who listens, adapts, and meets people where they are. I also understand that support goes beyond just the individual—it includes families and communities. As someone balancing school, work, and motherhood, I know how important it is to have support during difficult times. That is something I want to provide to others, especially those who may not always have that support system. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to continue my education and stay focused on my long-term goals. It would ease the financial pressure I face while balancing so many responsibilities and help me move closer to making a meaningful difference. At the end of the day, I don’t just want a career—I want to make an impact. I want to be someone who advocates for those who are often overlooked, who brings patience and understanding into spaces where it’s needed most, and who helps others feel seen, heard, and valued.

Growing up, life didn’t really slow down for me. I learned early what it meant to carry responsibility, push through hard situations, and still show up for the people who depend on me. Now, as a single mom balancing work and school, that hasn’t changed—but my purpose has become clearer. My faith, in my own way, has been something I’ve been learning and growing into. I’ve been trying to better understand how God fits into my life, especially during the moments that feel overwhelming or uncertain. It hasn’t been perfect or always easy to understand, but it’s something I’ve been intentional about—especially because I want to pass that understanding on to my children. A big part of that has been teaching them about the world around them. My son is so curious about everything—he asks questions about how things work, about science, about the universe—and I find myself trying to explain both what we know through science and what I believe through faith. Some of my favorite moments are when my kids start talking to each other, trying to figure things out, and then one of them will just say, “God made it, duh,” like it’s the simplest answer in the world. It really puts a smile on my face just listening in the background, because it reminds me that faith doesn’t have to be complicated—it can be something pure, comforting, and meaningful in its own way. My understanding of faith has also come from seeing it in action. During a difficult time for my father, my church stepped in and supported our family in a way I will never forget. They gave us a place to come together, a space for prayer, and even organized a benefit to help us through. That experience showed me what faith looks like beyond belief—it looks like people showing up for each other when it matters most. It’s something I carry with me now and something I want my children to grow up understanding as well. There have been times where I’ve questioned if I could keep going—financial stress, long days, and the pressure of trying to build a better future for my children—but I always come back to the belief that there’s a reason I’ve made it this far. That belief is what keeps me grounded and moving forward. I’m currently pursuing a degree in psychology because I want to help people who feel stuck, overlooked, or like they have no way out. I understand what it feels like to carry things silently, to keep pushing even when it’s hard, and to want something more out of life but not always know how to get there. My goal is to turn my experiences into something meaningful by helping others navigate their own challenges and find stability in their lives. Receiving this scholarship would not just ease the financial burden of continuing my education—it would allow me to stay focused on my long-term goal of creating a better life for my family and eventually making an impact in the lives of others. It would be a reminder that even in the middle of everything, the effort matters and is seen. I don’t come from a place where things were handed to me. Everything I have worked toward has taken persistence, resilience, and a willingness to keep going even when it felt easier to stop. That mindset, along with my growing faith and my purpose, is what continues to push me forward.

I am not pursuing higher education from a place of comfort—I am pursuing it from a place of rebuilding. As a single mother, my academic journey has been shaped by responsibility, but also by the decision to leave an abusive situation and start over. There was a time in my life where I felt stuck, trying to survive day by day while still being everything my children needed. Leaving that situation was not a single moment of courage—it was a series of difficult decisions that forced me to choose a different life, even when it felt uncertain. Starting over meant rebuilding everything. It meant creating stability where there once was none, and learning how to carry both responsibility and healing at the same time. I had to figure out how to balance work, parenting, and school while still processing everything I had been through. There were days where I felt completely overwhelmed, unsure if I could manage it all, but I didn’t have the option to give up. My children rely on me, and that responsibility pushed me forward even when I felt exhausted. Being a single parent has changed the way I approach my education. I no longer see school as something optional or something I can put off—it is something necessary. Every class I take and every assignment I complete is a step toward a more stable and secure future. I have learned how to manage my time carefully, prioritize what matters most, and stay committed to my goals, even when my daily life feels chaotic. There have been moments where I’ve had to study late at night after my kids are asleep, or push through assignments on days where I felt mentally drained. Those moments are not easy, but they are reminders of why I started. I am not just doing this for myself—I am doing it to create a different life for my children, one that is built on stability, safety, and opportunity. I am currently pursuing a degree in psychology because I want to work in the mental health field and support individuals who feel overwhelmed, unheard, or trapped in difficult situations. My experiences have given me a deeper understanding of emotional and psychological struggles, and I want to use that understanding to help others find a way forward. I know what it feels like to carry stress, fear, and uncertainty while still trying to function, and I want to be someone who can offer support to those navigating similar challenges. In addition to being a student and a mother, I am also building my own small business. That experience has taught me resilience, independence, and the importance of creating opportunities rather than waiting for them. It reflects my determination to not only rebuild my life, but to create something meaningful and lasting for my family. What sets me apart is not just what I have been through, but how I have responded to it. I made the choice to leave a harmful situation, to return to school, and to build a future that looks different from my past. That choice is something I continue to make every day. Everything I am working toward now is rooted in that decision—to create a life that is stable, meaningful, and full of possibility, not just for me, but for my children and the people I hope to help in the future.

Being a single parent has shaped every part of my academic journey, but it is not the only challenge I have had to overcome. I am also a survivor of abuse, including a past situation that forced me to completely rebuild my life for the sake of my children and myself. Leaving that environment was not easy. There were moments where everything felt uncertain, and I had to figure out how to move forward while still being the stability my children needed. That experience changed how I see strength. It is not about having everything together—it is about continuing to move forward even when life feels overwhelming. Balancing school, work, and parenting has required constant discipline and resilience. There are still days where everything feels heavy, but I no longer see that as something that holds me back. Instead, it reminds me of how far I have come. I am pursuing a degree in psychology because I want to work in the mental health field and support individuals who feel overwhelmed, unheard, or stuck in difficult situations. My experiences have given me a deeper level of empathy and understanding that cannot be taught in a classroom. Being a single parent while overcoming abuse has not made my academic journey easier, but it has made my purpose clear. I am building a future where I can help others find strength, just like I had to find my own.

Some moments in life divide everything into “before” and “after.” For my family, that moment came the day my dad woke up and suddenly couldn’t walk. At first, none of us understood what was happening. There had been no clear warning that something serious was wrong. What began as confusion quickly turned into fear as doctors ran tests to determine why he had lost the ability to move his legs. Soon we received devastating news: a plasma cell plasmacytoma tumor had been growing in his spine and had ruptured, causing severe damage. The situation became an emergency. My dad had to undergo immediate surgery to stabilize his spine. Surgeons placed rods in his back in order to support his spine and prevent further injury. Hearing doctors explain how serious the damage was—and that he might never walk again—was one of the most difficult moments our family had ever faced. After surgery, my dad also had to go through multiple radiation treatments in hopes of stopping the cancer from progressing. Our lives quickly became filled with hospital visits, medical appointments, and uncertainty about what the future might hold. Watching someone you love face something so serious is incredibly difficult. It forces you to confront how fragile life can be. During this time, something powerful happened within our community. Friends, family members, and neighbors came together to support us. We organized benefits and fundraisers to help with the medical expenses and to support my dad during such a challenging time. Seeing people step forward with generosity and kindness showed me how strong a community can be when people choose to help one another. Despite everything he went through, my dad refused to give up. Slowly, through determination and recovery, he began to regain the ability to walk. Today he walks with a cane, something doctors once believed might not be possible. The rods in his back have since broken and he now needs another surgery, yet he continues to move forward every day. Watching my dad face such a life-altering challenge changed the way I see the world. It taught me that resilience is not about avoiding hardship, but about continuing to move forward even when circumstances feel overwhelming. His determination showed me the strength that can exist within a person even during the most difficult times. This experience also taught me the importance of empathy and support. When someone is going through something painful or uncertain, even small acts of kindness can make a meaningful difference. The compassion our family received during that time left a lasting impact on me. As I pursue higher education while raising my children, I carry these lessons with me. My dad’s experience strengthened my determination to build a better future for my family and to help others who may be facing challenges of their own. Although that day when my dad woke up unable to walk was one of the most frightening moments in my life, it also became a turning point that taught me resilience, compassion, and perseverance. Those lessons continue to guide me as I move forward in my education and in life.

The moment that changed everything for my family started like any other day. My dad woke up one morning and suddenly couldn’t walk. There had been no warning signs that something was seriously wrong. What started as confusion quickly turned into fear as we rushed to figure out what was happening. Doctors soon discovered that a plasma cell plasmacytoma tumor had been growing in his spine. At some point the tumor ruptured, causing severe damage that left him unable to walk. It was a medical emergency, and my dad had to undergo immediate surgery to stabilize his spine. Surgeons placed rods in his back to support it and prevent further damage. Hearing doctors explain how serious the situation was—and that he might never walk again—was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. After surgery, my dad also went through many radiation treatments as doctors worked to stop the cancer from progressing. Our lives suddenly revolved around hospital visits, treatments, and trying to stay hopeful during a time when the future felt incredibly uncertain. During this difficult time, something remarkable happened. Our community stepped in to support us. Friends, family members, and even people we barely knew organized benefits and fundraisers to help our family with the overwhelming medical expenses and challenges we were facing. Seeing people come together to help my dad during one of the hardest moments of his life showed me what true compassion looks like. Even through all of this, my dad continued to fight. Slowly, he began to regain the ability to walk. Today he walks with a cane, something doctors once said might not be possible. The rods in his back have since broken and he now needs another surgery, yet he still continues to move forward every day. To our family, the fact that he is still able to walk at all feels like a miracle. Watching my dad face something so life-changing taught me powerful lessons about resilience, perseverance, and the importance of community support. I saw firsthand how much a difference people can make when they choose to step in and help someone during their darkest moments. Those acts of kindness stayed with me and changed the way I see the world. Today, as a mother pursuing higher education, I carry those lessons with me. My journey through college has not been easy, but experiences like my dad’s illness have strengthened my determination to build a better future for my family. More importantly, they have inspired me to help others who may be facing difficult challenges of their own. My goal is to pursue a career where I can support people who are going through trauma, hardship, or life-altering situations. Whether someone is dealing with illness, loss, or other personal struggles, I want to be the kind of person who offers the same compassion and encouragement that meant so much to my family. The kindness our community showed us during my dad’s illness is something I will never forget. It reminded me that even in the most difficult moments, people can lift each other up. Receiving support during that time inspired me to do the same for others. That is how I plan to pay it forward—by using my education, my experiences, and my empathy to help others find strength and hope during the moments when they need it most.

Growing up, my dad was always the person I saw as strong and dependable. He was the one who fixed things around the house, solved problems when something went wrong, and made our family feel safe. In my mind, he was the kind of person who could handle anything. That’s why everything changed so suddenly when he was diagnosed with a plasma cell plasmacytoma tumor. One morning, my dad woke up and couldn’t walk. There had been no warning signs that something so serious was happening. What started as a normal day quickly turned into confusion and fear as we tried to understand why he suddenly couldn’t move his legs. After doctors ran tests and scans, we learned that a tumor had been growing in his spine. At some point it had ruptured, causing severe damage. Our family was told that this was a medical emergency. My dad had to undergo emergency surgery to stabilize his spine. Surgeons placed rods in his back in order to support his spine and prevent further damage. It was terrifying to hear doctors explain how serious the situation was and that there was a possibility he might never walk again. In what felt like a matter of hours, our lives had shifted from normal everyday routines to hospitals, surgeries, and the fear that comes with watching someone you love face something so life-altering. After surgery, my dad also went through multiple radiation treatments to help stop the tumor and prevent it from growing further. Those months were incredibly difficult for our family. There were many appointments, long days at the hospital, and moments where we didn’t know what the future would look like. During that time, our community stepped in to help us in ways we will never forget. Friends, family members, and people who cared about my dad came together to support us. We held benefits and fundraisers to help with medical costs and the many challenges that come with a cancer diagnosis. Seeing people come together during such a difficult time showed me how powerful compassion and community support can be. Despite everything he went through, my dad continued to fight. Slowly, through determination and recovery, he began to regain the ability to walk. Today he is able to walk with a cane, something that once seemed impossible. The rods that were placed in his back have since broken, and he now needs another surgery, yet he continues to push forward every day. To our family, the fact that he can still walk at all feels like a miracle. Watching my dad go through this experience changed the way I see the world. It showed me how fragile life can be, but it also showed me what true resilience looks like. His determination to keep moving forward—even after everything he has been through—taught me the importance of perseverance, hope, and strength during the most difficult moments. As I pursue my education while raising my children, I carry those lessons with me every day. My dad’s journey has shaped my perspective on life and strengthened my determination to build a better future for my family. More importantly, it has inspired me to help others who may be going through difficult circumstances of their own. Cancer brought fear and uncertainty into our lives, but it also showed me the incredible strength people are capable of when they refuse to give up. My dad’s courage continues to inspire me, and the lessons I learned from his journey will stay with me as I move forward in my education and in life.

When people say they love math, they usually mean they like numbers. For me, what I love about math is the way it teaches you how to think. Math rewards patience and persistence. Sometimes a problem looks impossible at first, but if you slow down, break it into steps, and focus on what you do know, the solution eventually becomes clear. That process has shaped how I approach challenges both in school and in my life. As a single mother balancing work, parenting, and higher education, life doesn’t always follow a simple formula. There are unexpected problems and limited time, and sometimes the path forward isn’t obvious. Math taught me how to handle those moments. Instead of feeling overwhelmed, I focus on solving one piece at a time. I’ve taken several math classes throughout my academic journey, and each one reinforced the value of logical thinking. Math trains your brain to recognize patterns and understand systems. Those skills apply far beyond the classroom. I’m currently pursuing a degree in psychology, where math plays a larger role than many people realize. Research, statistics, and data analysis are essential for understanding patterns in human behavior. Just like solving an equation, studying psychology requires careful observation and structured reasoning. Math also builds confidence. Every time you solve a problem that once felt confusing, you’re reminded that persistence leads to progress. That mindset has helped me stay committed to my education, even when balancing multiple responsibilities. For me, loving math isn’t just about numbers or formulas. It’s about learning how to approach problems thoughtfully and logically. Math has taught me that even the most complicated challenges can be solved when you take them one step at a time—and that’s a lesson I carry into every part of my life.

Education means something different when you’re the first person in your family pursuing it. For many students, college is the expected next step. For me, it has been a deliberate choice. As a first-generation college student, there was no roadmap waiting for me. I had to figure out how to apply, how financial aid works, how to balance work, family, and classes, and how to believe that I belonged in higher education in the first place. Education matters to me because it represents possibility. Several years ago, I made the decision to leave a physically abusive partner and rebuild my life as a single mother. That decision changed everything about my future. At the time, my focus was simple: stability and safety for my children. I worked full-time and concentrated on creating a consistent environment for my family. But over time I realized that survival alone was not the life I wanted to model for my children. Returning to school was not easy. As a single parent and first-generation student, there were moments when it felt overwhelming to navigate systems that many people grow up understanding. There were financial pressures, time constraints, and moments of doubt about whether I was capable of continuing. What kept me going was the belief that education could change the trajectory of my family’s future. My children watch me study at the kitchen table. They ask why I have homework. They see what it looks like to work toward something that takes years of dedication. Whether they fully understand it now or not, they are witnessing something important: growth. That is the legacy I hope to leave. I want my children to grow up knowing that education is attainable and that challenges do not have to define the limits of their lives. Being the first in my family to pursue higher education means that the path I am walking will become easier for the generations that follow. My academic path is focused on psychology, and I hope to work in forensic settings where trauma, mental health, and the justice system intersect. My experiences have shown me how deeply trauma and instability can affect people’s lives. I want to contribute to systems that recognize those challenges and respond with both accountability and compassion. Education is what makes that impact possible. Legacy, to me, is not about recognition. It is about change that continues beyond my own life. If my children grow up believing that education is normal, that perseverance matters, and that helping others is meaningful work, then the legacy has already begun. Being a first-generation college student means carrying the hopes of more than just yourself. It means stepping into unfamiliar spaces and continuing forward anyway. Education gives me the tools to build a better future for my family and to help others along the way. And that is the legacy I intend to leave.

For much of my life, faith has not been something I practiced perfectly. Instead, it has been something I leaned on during moments when life felt uncertain. Faith, for me, has never meant having every answer. It means believing that even when circumstances feel overwhelming, there is still purpose in continuing forward. Several years ago, I made the decision to leave a physically abusive partner and rebuild my life as a single mother. That decision required courage, but it also required faith. At the time, I didn’t know exactly what the future would look like. I only knew that my children deserved stability and safety, and I believed that a better path was possible even if I couldn’t see the entire road ahead. Around the same period, my father experienced a spinal tumor rupture that required emergency surgery. Doctors told us he might never walk again. Today he walks with a cane and lives with constant pain, unable to return to work. Watching my father face such a life-altering challenge taught me what resilience truly looks like. Despite everything he endured, he never gave up. Seeing his strength reinforced something important to me: hardship does not erase purpose. These experiences pushed me toward higher education. As a first-generation college student, pursuing a degree meant navigating unfamiliar systems and learning through trial and error. But I believed education could change the trajectory of my life and my children’s future. Faith played a role in that belief. Recently, I’ve also begun thinking more deeply about what faith means within my own family. As a mother, I want my children to grow up understanding faith not as something rigid or judgmental, but as something rooted in curiosity, love, and respect for others. We talk about the stories in the Bible in ways that spark conversation and imagination. For example, when we discuss the idea that God created the earth in seven days, we also talk about how some people interpret those “days” differently—some see them as symbolic of millions of years of creation. These conversations allow my children to explore faith while also understanding that people believe in many different things, and that those differences deserve respect. I want them to know that faith should never be used to divide people. To me, the core of faith is love—love for others, compassion for those who struggle, and humility in recognizing that no one person has all the answers. Guiding my children in this way has strengthened my own faith as well. It reminds me that belief is not only about doctrine, but about how we treat people and how we choose to show kindness in the world. My academic path reflects those values. I am pursuing a degree in psychology with the goal of working in forensic settings where trauma and mental health intersect with the justice system. I have seen how trauma and instability can shape a person’s life, and I want to contribute to systems that recognize those experiences with both accountability and compassion. My children and my father are the people who continue to push me toward higher education. My children remind me why perseverance matters. My father’s resilience reminds me that strength often grows out of hardship. Faith gives me the courage to keep building, even when the path forward feels uncertain. Receiving this scholarship would support my continued education and the future I am working toward—not just for myself, but for my children and the community I hope to serve. Faith, at its heart, is about love. And that is the kind of faith I want my children to grow up understanding.

Balancing school and single motherhood is not a productivity hack. It’s a daily decision. There is no clean separation between my roles. I don’t “switch off” being a mom so I can be a student. My life overlaps constantly. I work full-time during the day. I parent when I get home. I study when the house gets quiet. Homework happens at the kitchen table. Assignments get done after bedtime. My calendar revolves around work shifts, school pickup times, due dates, and the unpredictable reality of raising children. If one of my kids gets sick, everything shifts. There’s no second adult to absorb the disruption. If I fall behind, I have to recalibrate. For a while, that constant adjustment felt overwhelming. Now it feels like strength. The truth is, balancing education as a single parent isn’t about having more time. It’s about refusing to waste the time you have. I didn’t arrive at this point in my life accidentally. Several years ago, I made the decision to leave a physically abusive partner. That decision was not loud or dramatic. It was firm. I chose safety. I chose stability. I chose to rebuild, even though I knew rebuilding would be exhausting. After leaving, survival became the priority. I worked. I parented. I handled logistics. I made sure my children were safe and cared for. But internally, I struggled with anxiety that showed up as constant second-guessing. I felt behind compared to others my age. I questioned my timeline. I wondered if I had permanently detoured my life. Depression, for me, didn’t look like not functioning. It looked like functioning while feeling mentally heavy. It looked like completing tasks while doubting myself the entire time. It looked like telling myself that stability was enough, because dreaming bigger felt risky. But survival eventually started to feel too small. Around the same time, my father experienced a spinal tumor rupture that required emergency surgery. Doctors told us he should not be able to walk. He walks — but in constant pain, using a cane, unable to return to work. Watching him adjust to a new physical reality reinforced how fragile life can be. One moment can change everything. Seeing my dad live in daily pain reshaped how I think about resilience. Strength doesn’t erase struggle. You can survive something catastrophic and still carry the aftermath. Between leaving abuse and witnessing my father’s medical trauma, I began to understand something clearly: if life can shift that quickly, I don’t want to live it small. Returning to school as a single mother wasn’t convenient. It wasn’t financially easy. It wasn’t comfortable. It was intentional. I am a first-generation college student. There was no inherited roadmap. I had to learn how to navigate higher education while managing full-time employment and full-time parenting. I learned through trial, error, and discipline. I built structure into chaos. I started assignments early because I knew something unexpected could happen. I scheduled study time like it was mandatory — because it was. Some nights I am tired in a way that feels physical. But quitting would cost more than finishing. Education became proof of my capability. Every semester completed contradicts the voice that once told me I was behind. Every academic milestone reinforces that my timeline is not wrong — it is simply different. I am pursuing psychology with the goal of working in forensic settings where trauma, mental health, and systemic barriers intersect. My lived experiences shaped that direction. I understand how trauma lingers. I understand how anxiety reshapes thought patterns. I understand how easily pain compounds when ignored. I want to work in environments that look deeper than surface behavior. I want to help build systems that recognize context before condemnation. Accountability and compassion are not opposites. They are partners in long-term change. Balancing motherhood and school has strengthened skills that no classroom alone could teach me. I am disciplined because I have to be. I am organized because there is no room for chaos. I am adaptable because children don’t operate on academic calendars. I am emotionally aware because my kids are watching how I respond to stress. They see me studying. They ask why I have homework. They are growing up understanding that learning doesn’t stop after high school. They see ambition in action. That matters more than they probably realize. Financially, being a single parent in school means constant calculation. Tuition, rent, groceries, childcare — everything overlaps. I budget carefully and plan ahead, but there is always pressure. A scholarship like this doesn’t just reduce a bill. It reduces mental strain. It allows me to focus more fully on coursework and long-term planning instead of immediate financial stress. I am not asking for an easier path. I have already chosen a difficult one. I am asking for support in continuing forward. Balancing school and single motherhood is not glamorous. It is structured. It is intentional. It is sometimes exhausting. But it is also empowering. I am not choosing between being a present mother and having ambition. I am modeling that both can exist at the same time. Leaving an abusive relationship taught me that safety must be chosen. Watching my father live in constant pain taught me that time is fragile. Being a single parent in college taught me that limits are often self-imposed. I used to think survival was victory. Now I know growth is. This scholarship would support the momentum I have built through discipline and resilience. It would help sustain the future I am constructing — not just for myself, but for my children. I am not just earning a degree. I am building a different legacy. And I am not done yet.

As a first-generation college student, empathy was not something I studied before I lived it. Navigating higher education without a roadmap required humility. I had to ask questions others already knew the answers to. I had to learn how to register for classes, manage financial aid, and structure long-term goals without inherited guidance. That experience taught me how easily people can feel out of place in systems that assume prior knowledge. It also taught me patience — with myself and with others who are trying to navigate unfamiliar spaces. My perspective on empathy deepened further when I made the decision to leave a physically abusive partner and rebuild as a single mother. Rebuilding required strength, but it also required awareness. I began to understand how trauma affects decision-making, confidence, and perception. I learned that people often carry invisible histories that shape their behavior in ways others cannot see. Around that same time, my father experienced a spinal tumor rupture that left him in constant pain and unable to return to work. Watching him adjust to life with limited mobility and daily physical discomfort reshaped how I see disability and dignity. I witnessed how quickly independence can change — and how the world often overlooks invisible pain. That experience reinforced that empathy is not simply feeling sorry for someone. It is recognizing complexity. These experiences shaped my academic path. I am pursuing psychology with the goal of working in forensic settings, where trauma, mental health, and systemic barriers intersect. My unique skill is perspective. I understand how unaddressed pain compounds. I understand how easily individuals can be misunderstood when their behavior is examined without context. Building a more empathetic and understanding global community begins with challenging assumptions. It requires professionals who ask deeper questions before forming conclusions. In forensic psychology, this means recognizing that behavior does not exist in isolation. Trauma histories, socioeconomic pressures, cognitive differences, and systemic inequities all play a role. As a woman, a first-generation student, and a single mother, I bring layered insight into resilience and systemic barriers. I know what it feels like to navigate institutions that were not built with your exact circumstances in mind. That awareness informs how I listen, how I evaluate situations, and how I plan to advocate in my career. Empathy, to me, is structured. It is not passive emotion. It is intentional inquiry. It is designing systems that account for vulnerability rather than penalize it. It is ensuring that individuals are assessed holistically rather than defined by a single moment or mistake. Through continued education and professional development, I plan to use my training in psychology to contribute to trauma-informed approaches within justice and behavioral health systems. I want to help create environments where accountability and compassion coexist — where understanding does not replace responsibility, but strengthens it. My path to higher education was not traditional, but it shaped a perspective rooted in awareness and resilience. As a first-generation student, I am not only earning a degree — I am building a precedent. The empathy I developed through navigating instability, trauma, and rebuilding will guide the way I serve others. Understanding begins with listening. And listening is where change starts.

For a long time, I believed survival was success. I measured victory in small ways — paying bills on time, maintaining routines, making it through the day without falling apart. Stability felt like enough. I told myself that if I could hold everything together, that meant I was strong. But survival and growth are not the same thing. Several years ago, I made the decision to leave a physically abusive partner. That decision changed the trajectory of my life. It was not loud or dramatic. It was deliberate. I chose safety and stability for myself and my children, even though it meant rebuilding from the ground up. What followed was not instant confidence. It was responsibility. I worked full-time. I became the sole provider. I focused on routine and structure because consistency felt protective. On the outside, I functioned. Internally, I carried anxiety that showed up as hyper-awareness and constant second-guessing. Depression showed up as exhaustion and comparison. I felt behind in life. I watched peers follow more traditional paths and quietly questioned my own timeline. Leaving was the right decision, but rebuilding required something different — it required vision. Around the same period, my father experienced a spinal tumor rupture that required emergency surgery. Doctors told us he should not be able to walk afterward. Today, he walks — but in constant pain, using a cane, unable to return to work. Watching him adjust to a new physical reality reinforced how fragile stability can be. Life can change in a moment. Between leaving abuse and witnessing my father’s medical trauma, I began to understand something deeply: resilience and struggle coexist. Strength does not erase pain. Survival does not equal healing. For a while, I operated purely in survival mode. I handled what needed to be handled. I did not pause to process my own anxiety because there were too many responsibilities demanding attention. I equated pushing through with resilience. But functioning is not the same as growing. The shift happened gradually. I realized I did not want my life defined by what I endured. I did not want my children to grow up believing stability was the ceiling. I wanted more than survival — I wanted expansion. Returning to school as a single mother was not convenient. It was intentional. I am a first-generation college student, which meant navigating higher education without a built-in roadmap. I learned how to register for classes, manage financial aid, and structure long-term goals through experience rather than guidance. I built discipline into my days. I studied after my children went to bed. I treated coursework as an investment in a future I was actively constructing. Education became more than academic progress — it became proof that I was capable of more than my circumstances suggested. Each semester completed strengthened my confidence. Each challenge navigated contradicted the quiet doubt that abuse had planted. I stopped viewing my timeline as delayed. I started seeing it as deliberate. My experiences reshaped my career aspirations as well. I am pursuing psychology, with the intention of working in forensic settings where trauma, mental health, and systemic outcomes intersect. I understand how trauma alters perception, behavior, and decision-making. I understand how unaddressed anxiety and shame can compound over time. I have lived the quiet psychological aftermath of instability. I want to work in environments that address root causes rather than only responding to consequences. I want to contribute to trauma-informed systems that recognize the complexity behind behavior. Accountability and compassion can coexist — and I want to be part of proving that. Dreaming big, for me, means refusing to shrink because of what I endured. It means pursuing graduate education. It means building a career rooted in impact rather than limitation. It means showing my children that adversity does not determine outcome. Rising higher means more than earning a degree. It means transforming survival into structure. It means turning pain into perspective. It means creating generational change. My children are watching me build. They see the late nights. They hear the conversations about goals. They are growing up with a front-row seat to resilience in action. That matters. This scholarship would reduce financial pressure and allow me to focus more fully on academic excellence and long-term planning. It would support not just tuition, but the foundation I am intentionally creating for my family’s future. I made the decision to leave a physically abusive partner. I rebuilt stability. I returned to school. I am pursuing a career that turns lived experience into advocacy. I once believed survival was success. Now I understand that growth is the goal. And I am rising toward it.

My understanding of advocacy for individuals with special needs began with my father. In 2017, he experienced a spinal tumor rupture that required emergency surgery. Doctors told us he should not be able to walk afterward. He does walk — but with a cane, in constant pain, and unable to return to work. Metal rods were placed in his spine to stabilize it, and even those have since broken. Every step he takes is an act of endurance. Watching a strong, capable parent become physically limited reshaped how I see disability and support systems. My father did not change as a person, but the way the world responded to him did. Tasks that once seemed simple became complicated. Identity shifted when he could no longer work. Independence became layered with physical limitations. What stood out most to me was how invisible aspects of disability are often overlooked. People see the cane. They do not see the daily pain. They do not see the mental adjustment required to accept a body that no longer functions the same way. They do not see the emotional toll of losing certain freedoms. That experience changed how I understand advocacy. Serving individuals with special needs is not just about providing accommodations. It is about preserving dignity. It is about recognizing that a person’s abilities may change, but their worth does not. As I pursue a degree in psychology, I carry this perspective with me. I am especially interested in working in forensic and behavioral health settings, where individuals with physical disabilities, cognitive differences, or mental health conditions often intersect with systems that are not built to accommodate them. I have seen how quickly independence can be altered by medical trauma. I have also seen how resilience and struggle can coexist. My father walks despite medical expectations — but that does not erase his pain. Advocacy must account for both visible and invisible needs. Personally, my experiences navigating depression and anxiety have also reinforced how easily struggles can be misunderstood. When someone appears functional, others assume they are fine. That assumption can be harmful. It is equally harmful when physical disability is reduced to what is immediately visible. My goal is to work in environments where assessment goes deeper than surface behavior. Where individuals with special needs — whether physical, developmental, or psychological — are treated holistically. I want to advocate for structured support systems that prioritize accessibility, mental health, and autonomy. Kathleen Lehman’s legacy reflects commitment to ensuring that individuals with special needs are not overlooked. My father’s journey showed me how essential that work is. Disability can happen suddenly. Pain can be invisible. Dignity must be protected intentionally. Through my education and future career, I plan to contribute to systems that see individuals fully — not just their limitations, but their humanity. Advocacy begins with understanding. And understanding begins with listening.

As a first-generation college student, pursuing higher education has never felt automatic. It has felt intentional — and at times, heavy. My experience with mental health shaped that journey more than I initially realized. I struggled with depression and anxiety during a period of my life when I was balancing full-time work, single motherhood, and trying to continue my education. From the outside, I was functioning. I met deadlines. I showed up. But internally, I carried constant self-doubt and the persistent feeling that I was behind. Being first-generation meant there was no roadmap in my family for navigating college. I could not ask a parent how to choose classes, plan long-term goals, or manage academic setbacks. When anxiety convinced me I was not capable, I did not have inherited reassurance to lean on. I had to build confidence from experience instead of expectation. Depression, for me, looked like exhaustion and comparison. I watched peers move through school on traditional timelines while my path included pauses, redirections, and responsibilities that changed everything. Anxiety showed up as overthinking every decision — worrying about finances, worrying about my children, worrying about whether I was making the right choices. For a long time, I equated strength with silence. I believed pushing through meant I was resilient. But I eventually learned that acknowledging struggle is not weakness — it is awareness. Understanding my mental health allowed me to challenge distorted thoughts instead of accepting them as truth. I reframed my timeline as different rather than deficient. My experiences changed how I approach relationships. As a mother, I am intentional about emotional transparency. My children are learning that feelings are not something to hide. We talk openly about stress, frustration, and fear. I want them to grow up with emotional literacy I had to develop later. These challenges also shaped my career aspirations. I am pursuing a degree in psychology with the goal of working in forensic settings, where trauma and untreated mental health issues often intersect with the justice system. I understand how internalized shame and silent anxiety can compound over time. I want to be part of systems that recognize those patterns early and intervene with both accountability and compassion. Being a first-generation college student while managing mental health challenges has required persistence. I have learned to advocate for myself, to seek resources when needed, and to build structure around my responsibilities. Each semester completed reinforces that I am capable, even when anxiety suggests otherwise. My experience with mental health did not stop my education. It reshaped it. It made me more self-aware, more empathetic, and more determined. As a first-generation student, I am not just earning a degree for myself. I am establishing a new precedent for my family. My children will grow up seeing higher education as attainable — not distant. Mental health influenced my beliefs by teaching me that resilience includes vulnerability. It influenced my relationships by encouraging openness. And it influenced my career by directing me toward a field where I can help others navigate struggles similar to my own. I am not behind. I am building something new. And that, to me, is progress.

Balancing education and single motherhood is not about perfection — it is about structure, intention, and resilience. As a single mother of two, I do not have the luxury of separating my academic life from my family life. They are intertwined. My children have grown up watching me complete assignments at the kitchen table, attend classes after work, and study once they are asleep. My education is not something that happens outside of motherhood; it happens alongside it. I work full-time while pursuing my degree in psychology. My days are structured carefully. I plan coursework around my children’s schedules. I prioritize assignments early to avoid last-minute stress. I communicate openly with professors when needed. I treat school like a second job — not optional, but essential to our future stability. Being a single parent means there is no backup adult when something unexpected happens. If a child is sick, I adjust. If school demands more time, I adjust. Flexibility has become one of my strongest skills. I have learned to anticipate obstacles rather than react to them. That mindset allows me to continue progressing academically without sacrificing my role as a present, engaged parent. Emotionally, balance requires intentionality. I make time for my children that is undistracted and consistent. We have routines. We talk openly. They understand that “mom has homework,” but they also know they are my priority. In many ways, they are my motivation. Watching me pursue higher education shows them what persistence looks like in real time. Financially, being a single parent in college requires strategy. Tuition, childcare, household expenses, and daily living costs all intersect. This scholarship would directly reduce financial pressure, allowing me to focus more energy on academic excellence rather than constant economic stress. Every dollar of support translates into more stability for my children and more focus on my coursework. My long-term goal is to work in forensic psychology, where mental health, trauma, and the justice system intersect. Completing my degree is the foundation for that career. As a mother, I am deeply aware of how stability and emotional support shape outcomes. I want to contribute to systems that address mental health proactively, especially for individuals whose lives have been shaped by instability. Balancing school and single parenthood has required discipline, sacrifice, and resilience. It has also strengthened me. I am more organized, more motivated, and more focused than I ever was before becoming a parent. My children are not obstacles to my education; they are the reason I refuse to quit. This scholarship would not just support my academic journey — it would support the foundation I am building for my family. Earning my degree means long-term financial stability, meaningful work, and modeling perseverance for my children. Success, for me, is not just personal achievement. It is creating a future where my children grow up seeing that challenges do not define us — commitment does. And I am fully committed.

My experience with mental health has been quiet but defining. I did not have one dramatic breaking point. Instead, I experienced a slow build of depression and anxiety that grew heavier over time. I was working full-time, raising my children, and trying to continue my education. From the outside, I looked stable. Internally, I felt overwhelmed and constantly behind. In 2017, my father experienced a spinal tumor rupture that required emergency surgery. Doctors told us he should not be able to walk afterward. He does walk — but he lives in constant pain, cannot work, and now uses a cane. Watching him survive something catastrophic while witnessing the permanent changes to his life altered my sense of security. It made the world feel fragile. It made time feel urgent. Around the same period, I was leaving an unhealthy relationship and rebuilding my life as a mother. I carried anxiety about the future and depression that showed up as exhaustion and self-doubt. I compared myself to others my age who seemed further along academically or professionally. I interpreted my different timeline as failure. The hardest part was that I did not feel allowed to struggle. I had responsibilities. I had children who depended on me. I believed strength meant handling everything alone. Depression, for me, did not look like staying in bed. It looked like functioning while mentally heavy. It looked like questioning my intelligence while earning good grades. It looked like overthinking every decision. Anxiety lived in the background constantly — finances, school, parenting, my father’s health. Eventually, I realized survival is not the same as healing. I began setting boundaries. I stopped minimizing my emotional weight just because others were struggling too. I learned that pain does not need to compete. I reframed my timeline and stopped measuring my progress against others. I chose to pursue psychology not only because I was interested in behavior, but because I wanted to understand my own patterns and help others navigate theirs. Education became part of my recovery. Each semester completed reinforced that I was capable. Each challenge worked through strengthened my confidence. Instead of seeing myself as behind, I began to see myself as resilient. My commitment to continued growth includes ongoing self-reflection, emotional regulation practices, and intentional balance. I prioritize communication in my home. My children are learning to name their feelings openly. I refuse to equate silence with strength in my family. Academically, I am pursuing psychology with the goal of working in forensic settings, where trauma, substance abuse, and untreated mental illness often intersect with the justice system. I understand how easily internalized shame and anxiety can compound without support. I want to contribute to systems that recognize mental health early and respond with compassion and accountability. Recovery, for me, is not about erasing the past. It is about understanding it and building differently because of it. I still experience anxiety. I still have moments of doubt. But I now recognize those thoughts as signals rather than truths. I no longer view struggle as weakness. I view it as information — something to respond to instead of suppress. Ella’s story reflects perseverance through mental health challenges while pursuing education and sobriety. While my experience differs, I deeply relate to the idea of fighting quietly for stability and growth. My journey has taught me that strength is layered. You can be functioning and struggling at the same time. You can rebuild while still healing. You can carry pain and still move forward. I am not defined by my depression or anxiety. But I am shaped by the resilience I built navigating them. And I am committed to continuing that growth — personally, academically, and professionally.

I have taken many math classes throughout my academic journey, and each one reinforced the same lesson: mathematics is not just about numbers — it is about patterns, change, and understanding systems. Calculus, in particular, represents the point where math shifts from static calculation to dynamic analysis. That shift is what makes it essential in the STEM field. At its core, calculus is the study of change. Whether through derivatives, which measure rates of change, or integrals, which measure accumulation, calculus provides a framework for analyzing how systems evolve over time. In STEM disciplines, very little is static. Populations change. Chemical reactions evolve. Economic systems fluctuate. Even the human brain adapts and responds dynamically to stimuli. Calculus allows professionals in science and technology to model and predict these changes with precision. Although my primary academic focus is psychology, calculus and advanced mathematics remain deeply relevant. Research in psychology relies heavily on statistical modeling, data interpretation, and understanding variability within populations. Many of the statistical methods used in behavioral science are built upon principles rooted in calculus. Concepts such as probability density functions, regression analysis, and optimization models all rely on calculus-based foundations. Without calculus, many of the predictive tools used in modern research would not exist. Beyond specific formulas, calculus trains a particular way of thinking. It encourages breaking down complex problems into smaller components, analyzing how variables interact, and understanding cause and effect over time. This type of analytical reasoning is critical in STEM fields because real-world problems rarely present themselves in simple forms. Whether designing a bridge, developing medical treatments, programming algorithms, or conducting psychological research, professionals must evaluate how multiple factors change simultaneously. Calculus is also essential in technological advancement. Engineering relies on it to model forces and motion. Medicine uses it to understand growth rates of diseases and the spread of viruses. Environmental science applies it to measure changes in climate systems. Data science uses calculus-based optimization to train machine learning models. Even fields that appear less math-intensive on the surface often depend on calculus indirectly through the technologies and research methods they use. For me, studying higher-level mathematics strengthened my discipline and confidence. Calculus demands persistence. It requires sitting with challenging problems and working through them logically instead of giving up. That resilience mirrors the mindset required in STEM careers. Progress often comes from refining models, correcting errors, and adjusting assumptions — processes that calculus naturally reinforces. In a world increasingly driven by data and innovation, calculus provides the language for understanding change. STEM fields depend on that language to create solutions that improve infrastructure, healthcare, technology, and human well-being. Calculus is not just a course requirement; it is the mathematical foundation that allows STEM professionals to predict, design, and innovate. Without it, our ability to model the complexity of the real world would be significantly limited.

One of the things I admire most about Sabrina Carpenter is how openly she has evolved in front of the world. Growing up, I first knew her from acting. Later, I saw her shift fully into music — and not just safe, expected music, but confident, self-aware, unapologetic pop. Watching that transformation has been unexpectedly motivating. A song that stands out to me is “Feather.” On the surface, it’s upbeat and playful. But underneath, it’s about releasing emotional weight — about choosing peace instead of staying stuck in something that drains you. The repeated idea of feeling “light as a feather” after walking away resonates more than I expected. There was a time in my life when I carried emotional weight constantly. Between personal struggles, responsibilities, and trying to prove myself, I felt heavy — mentally and emotionally. Letting go wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was gradual. But when I finally stopped carrying things that were not serving me — including unhealthy dynamics and constant comparison — I understood what “light” actually felt like. What I appreciate about Sabrina’s music is the balance. She doesn’t present empowerment as flawless. There’s humor in it. There’s self-awareness. There’s a sense of, “Yes, I went through that — and now I’m choosing better.” That evolution mirrors adulthood. Growth isn’t about pretending the past didn’t happen. It’s about reclaiming it. As someone building my education and future career, I connect with that idea deeply. I have had moments where I questioned myself, felt behind, or doubted my timing. Watching a young woman publicly navigate criticism, reinvention, and success reminds me that growth is rarely linear. Sabrina Carpenter’s confidence doesn’t feel performative — it feels earned. That’s what resonates with me. She demonstrates that you can rewrite your narrative. You can shift from being underestimated to standing fully in your voice. Being a superfan isn’t just about knowing every lyric. It’s about recognizing yourself in the music. It’s about finding moments that reflect your own growth. For me, “Feather” represents emotional release — the realization that peace is lighter than proving yourself to the wrong people. And that’s a lesson I’ll carry far beyond any song.

I decided to pursue a degree in healthcare because I have seen how deeply health — both physical and mental — shapes a person’s identity, stability, and future. In 2017, my father experienced a spinal tumor rupture that required emergency surgery. Doctors told us he should not be able to walk afterward. Today, he walks — but he lives in constant pain, cannot work, and uses a cane. Watching him survive something catastrophic while also witnessing the long-term physical and emotional impact changed how I view healthcare. Survival is not the end of the story. Recovery is layered. Identity shifts. Mental health becomes just as important as physical stabilization. At the same time, I was navigating my own struggles with depression and anxiety. I was working full-time, raising my children, and trying to continue school while feeling constantly behind. I learned firsthand that mental health challenges are often invisible, especially in high-functioning individuals. You can show up every day and still be struggling internally. These experiences led me to pursue psychology, with a specific interest in forensic psychology. I am drawn to the intersection of trauma, mental illness, and systemic outcomes. Too often, mental health is treated as secondary in healthcare and criminal justice systems. I want to be part of changing that. As a woman entering the healthcare field, I recognize the unique perspective I bring. Women are often socialized to listen closely, to observe nuance, and to hold emotional space for others. In healthcare — especially mental healthcare — those skills matter. Patients are not just cases. They are complex individuals shaped by experience, trauma, environment, and identity. I also understand the importance of representation. Many individuals feel more comfortable discussing vulnerable experiences with providers who approach them with empathy rather than authority. I want to be a clinician who balances professionalism with compassion — someone who understands that strength and struggle can coexist. In forensic settings, mental health is frequently intertwined with substance abuse, trauma histories, and systemic inequities. I hope to work in environments where assessment goes beyond behavior and examines context. Accountability is necessary, but so is understanding. When healthcare professionals address root causes rather than just symptoms, long-term outcomes improve. My goal is to contribute to a healthcare system that recognizes mental health as foundational, not optional. I want to advocate for early intervention, trauma-informed care, and integrated treatment models that reduce recidivism and promote rehabilitation. Being a woman in healthcare also means modeling resilience for the next generation. My children are watching me pursue higher education while balancing work and responsibility. They see that women can lead, specialize, and build careers in spaces that require both intellectual rigor and emotional intelligence. Healthcare is not just about treating illness. It is about restoring dignity, stability, and hope. Through my education and future work in psychology, I intend to help create systems where mental health is addressed proactively, compassionately, and without stigma. That is the impact I hope to make — as a professional, as a woman, and as someone who understands that health is never one-dimensional.

I’ve known Taylor Swift’s music for as long as I can remember. I grew up on her older albums — the ones that felt like diary entries set to music. “Teardrops on My Guitar.” “Our Song.” “You Belong With Me.” Those songs weren’t just catchy; they were emotional landmarks of being young, unsure, and hopeful all at once. But what makes a particular Taylor Swift performance especially meaningful to me now isn’t just my own connection to it — it’s my younger sister’s. She is a true superfan. The kind who knows every lyric, every era, every outfit change. Watching her experience Taylor’s music with that kind of intensity has reminded me why those songs mattered in the first place. They weren’t just background noise growing up. They were soundtracks to feelings we didn’t always know how to explain. One performance that stands out to me is “You Belong With Me” during the Eras Tour. When Taylor performs that song now, years after its original release, it feels layered. When we were younger, that song was about wanting to be chosen. It was about insecurity and longing. Now, watching it performed in a stadium filled with people screaming every word, it feels like something different — it feels like reclamation. When my sister sings along, she isn’t just singing about a crush. She’s singing about being seen. About belonging. About growing up with an artist who has grown too. There’s something powerful about watching your younger sibling fall in love with the same music you once did. It creates this quiet bridge between childhood and adulthood. Between who you were and who you’re becoming. Taylor’s performances now feel nostalgic but also triumphant — like proof that the girl writing songs in her bedroom didn’t stay there. What moves me most is not just the performance itself, but what it represents. Taylor Swift built a career by being emotionally honest. She didn’t hide insecurity; she turned it into art. She didn’t outgrow her old songs; she reclaims them on bigger stages. That mirrors life. We don’t erase our younger selves. We grow with them. Watching my sister’s excitement reminds me that those old songs still matter. They still connect. They still validate feelings that so many people quietly carry. Taylor’s performance of “You Belong With Me” isn’t just a nostalgic moment for me. It’s a shared memory across years, across sisters, across growth. And that’s what makes it unforgettable.

My experience with mental health shaped my life gradually, not through one dramatic event, but through a series of moments that forced me to confront vulnerability. In 2017, my father experienced a spinal tumor rupture that required emergency surgery. Doctors told us he should not be able to walk afterward. Today, he walks — but he lives in constant pain, cannot work, and uses a cane. Watching him navigate physical trauma and the loss of his former identity changed how I understood strength. Survival did not mean restoration. Pain did not disappear simply because he was alive. At the same time, I was navigating my own struggles with depression and anxiety. I was working full-time, raising my children, and trying to continue school while feeling constantly behind. I compared my timeline to others and interpreted difference as failure. Depression showed up as exhaustion and self-doubt. Anxiety showed up as overthinking and constant pressure to prove I was capable. For a long time, I believed strength meant handling everything quietly. I minimized my own struggles because they felt smaller compared to what my father endured physically. But I eventually learned that pain does not need to compete. Emotional strain is just as real as physical pain, even when it is invisible. These experiences reshaped my beliefs about mental health. I no longer equate resilience with silence. I understand that someone can be functioning and still struggling deeply. I believe emotional honesty is a form of courage, not weakness. They also reshaped my relationships. As a mother, I am intentional about teaching my children emotional awareness. We name feelings directly. I want them to grow up understanding that asking for help is not failure. I listen differently now — whether with friends, coworkers, or family — because I understand how easy it is to hide mental strain behind productivity. Most importantly, these experiences shaped my career aspirations. I am pursuing a degree in psychology with the goal of working in forensic settings, where trauma, substance abuse, and untreated mental illness often intersect with the justice system. I have seen how unaddressed pain compounds over time. I want to work in environments that address root causes instead of only reacting to outcomes. Mental health care should not be reactive. It should be preventative, accessible, and compassionate. Through my future work, I hope to contribute to systems that recognize invisible struggles before they escalate. I want to help create environments where people are assessed holistically — where emotional history matters as much as present behavior. My father’s resilience taught me about endurance. My own depression and anxiety taught me about emotional awareness. Together, they shaped my understanding that mental health is not secondary to physical health — it is foundational. Through my education and future career, I intend to use that understanding to make a meaningful, lasting impact in the mental health field.

My understanding of mental health was shaped by two experiences that forced me to redefine strength. In 2017, my dad had a tumor in his spine that ruptured. He required emergency surgery. Doctors told us he should not be able to walk afterward. Metal rods were placed in his spine to stabilize it. Today, those rods are broken — and yet he still walks. But survival did not mean restoration. He lives in constant pain. He cannot work anymore. He uses a cane. Every step costs him something. Watching that unfold changed how I see resilience. From the outside, he is a miracle. From the inside, he endures daily physical suffering that most people will never see. Around that same period of my life, I was leaving an unhealthy relationship. I was pregnant, overwhelmed, and trying to hold my life together. I focused on stability. I worked full-time. I raised my children. I tried to keep school moving forward. I told myself that strength meant handling everything quietly. It didn’t. The aftermath of that relationship left me anxious, hyper-aware, and constantly questioning myself. I carried self-doubt that made me feel behind in life. I compared my timeline to others and saw failure instead of growth. Depression showed up as exhaustion. Anxiety showed up as overthinking and constant internal pressure to prove I was capable. The hardest part was that both of these realities existed at the same time. My father was in visible physical pain. I was in invisible emotional pain. And I convinced myself that mine did not matter as much. But pain does not need to compete. Watching my dad walk despite medical predictions taught me about physical resilience. Living in a relationship that diminished my sense of security taught me about emotional resilience. Both came with lasting effects. Both reshaped how I see mental health. When my dad lost his ability to work, I saw how identity can shift overnight. A provider becomes dependent. A strong figure becomes physically vulnerable. That kind of loss impacts more than the body. It affects self-worth. When I left my relationship, I had to rebuild my own identity. I had to relearn confidence. I had to sit with anxiety that I masked with productivity. I kept functioning because I had children who depended on me. But functioning does not equal healing. These experiences shaped my beliefs about the world. I no longer believe strength means silence. I no longer believe resilience means the absence of struggle. I understand that someone can walk and still be hurting. Someone can show up every day and still be depressed. Destigmatizing mental health begins with acknowledging complexity. We often praise people for “pushing through” without asking what it costs them emotionally. We celebrate survival while ignoring the aftermath. I saw that in my father. I lived that myself. These experiences also shaped my relationships. I am slower to judge and quicker to listen. At home, I create space for emotional honesty with my children. We name feelings directly. I want them to understand that asking for help is not weakness. It is awareness. Academically, these experiences guided me toward psychology. I want to work in forensic settings where trauma, substance abuse, and untreated mental illness intersect with the justice system. I understand how unaddressed pain compounds over time. I understand how silent shame can distort thinking. I understand how easily people internalize the belief that they are behind or broken. My father defied medical expectations but lives with daily pain. I left an unhealthy relationship and rebuilt, but I still work through anxiety and comparison. Both realities taught me that mental health is not separate from life’s events — it is woven into them. My understanding of the world now includes nuance. I see resilience and vulnerability existing together. I see that invisible struggles are often the heaviest. I see that destigmatization requires honesty — even when it feels uncomfortable. Mental health shaped my beliefs by teaching me that survival is not the finish line. Healing is ongoing. Strength is layered. And silence is often the greatest barrier to support. Because of what I have witnessed and lived, I choose openness over stigma. I choose empathy over assumption. And I am building a career rooted in understanding the full picture of a person — not just what is visible.

Mental health became personal to me during a season when I felt constantly behind in life. I was working full-time, raising my children, and trying to move forward in school. From the outside, everything looked stable. I paid my bills. I showed up to work. I took care of my kids. I met deadlines. But internally, I was struggling with depression and anxiety that I did not fully recognize at first. I just thought I wasn’t strong enough. What weighed on me most was comparison. I felt like everyone else my age was ahead — graduating on time, starting careers, moving forward without interruption. My path had pauses and redirections. I had responsibilities that changed my timeline. Instead of seeing that as growth, I saw it as failure. Depression, for me, did not look dramatic. It looked like exhaustion. It looked like sitting in front of assignments and feeling mentally heavy even though I wanted to succeed. It looked like doubting my intelligence and questioning whether I was capable of finishing what I started. Anxiety showed up as constant overthinking — replaying conversations, worrying about money, worrying about school, worrying about whether I was doing enough as a mother. The hardest part was feeling like I didn’t have permission to struggle. I had children who depended on me. I had responsibilities that required consistency. So I kept moving, even when I felt emotionally drained. I told myself that pushing through was the only option. There were quiet moments — usually late at night — when the weight of feeling “behind” would settle in. I remember thinking that I had somehow delayed my own future. That thought hurt more than I expected. It made progress feel smaller than it actually was. What changed was not one dramatic breakthrough. It was perspective and education. As I continued studying psychology, I began learning about cognitive distortions, trauma responses, and how depression can alter perception. I realized that my thoughts were not always facts. Feeling behind did not mean I was failing. Anxiety did not mean I was incapable. Understanding the science behind mental health gave me language for what I was experiencing. Slowly, I shifted from comparison to intention. Instead of asking, “Why am I not where they are?” I began asking, “What am I building right now?” That reframing allowed me to see my progress clearly. I was working, parenting, and earning my degree simultaneously. That was not weakness. That was resilience. The reality of suicide — especially among individuals who feel isolated or hopeless — reinforces how dangerous internalized comparison and silent depression can become. When someone feels like they are falling behind or disappointing others, shame grows quietly. I understand how heavy that mindset can be. That awareness has changed how I show up for people. I listen differently. I take emotional distress seriously, even when someone appears high-functioning. My experiences with depression and anxiety shaped my academic direction. I am pursuing psychology with the goal of working in forensic settings where untreated mental illness and trauma often intersect with the justice system. I see how mental health struggles can escalate when they are ignored. I want to be part of systems that intervene earlier and offer support before hopelessness turns into irreversible decisions. Mental health is not theoretical to me. It is lived. It is ongoing work. It is choosing to challenge distorted thinking instead of accepting it as truth. I am not behind. My path has simply been different. And learning that difference does not equal deficiency has been one of the most important lessons of my life.

When I think about what I want to build, it isn’t just one thing. It’s a foundation. I am building a future where my children grow up watching resilience instead of fear. I am building a career in forensic psychology where accountability and compassion exist in the same space. I am building stability after years of learning how to survive before I knew how to thrive. For a long time, my focus was simply getting through each day — working full-time, raising my children, and slowly working toward a degree that took longer than I expected. My path has not been linear. I started college years ago, paused, redirected, and eventually found my passion in psychology. That shift was not failure; it was growth. Now, I am intentionally building toward a future that aligns with who I am and the impact I want to make. Academically, I am building expertise in understanding behavior. I am especially drawn to forensic psychology because so many individuals in the justice system struggle with untreated trauma and mental health disorders. Instead of asking, “What’s wrong with you?” I want to ask, “What happened to you?” If we build systems that address root causes rather than just consequences, we strengthen entire communities. Reducing recidivism, supporting rehabilitation, and improving access to mental health resources creates ripple effects that extend far beyond one individual. Personally, I am building generational change. My children are watching me pursue higher education while balancing work and responsibility. They see discipline, persistence, and growth in real time. That matters. I want them to understand that setbacks are not endings. They are redirections. I am also building confidence — the kind that comes from earning your progress. Every semester completed, every goal reached, and every obstacle navigated reinforces that aiming higher is not about perfection. It is about persistence. The future I am building is one where my education becomes a tool for service. A career where I can assess, advocate, and intervene in ways that reduce cycles of trauma and incarceration. A home where my children feel secure and supported. A community where mental health is not an afterthought but a priority. Aiming higher, to me, means refusing to settle for survival. It means choosing growth, even when it feels uncomfortable. It means building something stable enough that others can stand on it too. And I am just getting started.

Mental health is important to me because I know what it feels like to carry responsibility before you feel fully ready for it. I am a psychology student, a full-time employee in the banking industry, and a mother of two young children. For a long time, I operated in survival mode. I focused on what needed to get done: work, bills, school, parenting. But survival and stability are not the same thing. I learned that mental health is not optional. It is foundational. There were periods in my life where I felt behind. I started school years ago, paused, returned, switched directions, and finally found my path in psychology. Watching others move forward on a more traditional timeline sometimes made me question myself. But growth does not follow a straight line. Mental resilience is built in the spaces where you decide to continue despite doubt. Choosing psychology was not random. I am deeply interested in understanding why people behave the way they do, especially in high-stakes environments like the criminal justice system. I want to pursue forensic psychology because untreated trauma, addiction, and mental illness often sit at the center of criminal behavior. When we ignore mental health, we repeat cycles. When we address it, we create opportunity for change. As a student, mental health impacts everything — focus, discipline, motivation, and self-belief. As a mother, it impacts the emotional environment my children grow up in. I am intentional about modeling emotional awareness. I teach my children to name their feelings instead of suppressing them. I show them that strength includes vulnerability. I want them to grow up understanding that mental health is just as important as physical health. Advocacy for me is both personal and academic. Personally, I advocate by being open about growth and struggle instead of pretending everything is perfect. I refuse to normalize burnout as success. In school, I advocate by engaging deeply with coursework related to trauma-informed care, behavioral intervention, and rehabilitation. I am particularly interested in how systems can shift from punishment-focused approaches to treatment-focused models when appropriate. Accountability matters. But so does access to support. Through my involvement in the Jeremiah Program, which supports single mothers pursuing higher education, I am actively developing leadership and emotional resilience skills. The program reinforces the idea that when women are supported holistically — academically, financially, and emotionally — they thrive. Being part of that community has strengthened my commitment to mental health empowerment not just for myself, but for others navigating similar challenges. Mental health empowerment means removing stigma. It means shifting the conversation from “What is wrong with you?” to “What have you experienced?” It means recognizing that high-functioning individuals can still be struggling internally. It means building systems that prioritize prevention, early intervention, and accessible care. My long-term goal is to work in forensic or correctional settings where I can assess and support individuals dealing with trauma and substance use disorders. I want to be part of a system that reduces recidivism by addressing root causes rather than surface behaviors. Mental health is not a secondary issue in those environments — it is central. I am not pursuing this path because it is easy. I am pursuing it because it matters. Mental health shapes families, communities, and futures. It shaped mine. And I intend to use my education to strengthen it for others.

Substance abuse does not just affect one person. It ripples through families, children, communities, and entire systems. I have seen how addiction can distort relationships, create instability, and leave people feeling powerless. But I have also seen something else: resilience. I have seen people who hit rock bottom and still fight their way back up. That fight is what inspires me. I am pursuing a degree in Psychology with a focus on forensic psychology because I want to work with individuals involved in the criminal justice system, many of whom struggle with substance abuse. Addiction and incarceration are deeply connected. Too often, people are punished without receiving the treatment or support they need to truly change. I want to be part of the solution that addresses behavior at its root rather than simply reacting to the outcome. As a mother of two, my perspective is shaped by responsibility. Everything I do academically and professionally is centered around creating stability and opportunity for my children. I returned to school while working full-time, determined to build a future that allows me to help others while providing for my family. Balancing work, school, and motherhood has strengthened my time management, resilience, and commitment to long-term goals. I do not give up easily. Through my studies, I have become deeply interested in understanding why people do what they do. Addiction is not simply about poor choices. It often involves trauma, mental health disorders, lack of resources, and cycles of poverty. When individuals are released from prison without adequate support, relapse becomes likely. Without intervention, the cycle repeats. I want to work in correctional or forensic settings where I can assess, counsel, and advocate for individuals who are struggling with substance use disorders. My goal is not just to evaluate behavior but to help change it. Being accepted into the Jeremiah Program has also reinforced my commitment to growth and leadership. This program supports single mothers pursuing higher education and emphasizes personal development, accountability, and community. Through it, I am gaining tools that will strengthen both my professional and personal impact. I am not just working toward a degree. I am building a foundation for generational change within my own family while preparing to serve others. Substance abuse often isolates people. Shame and stigma make it harder for individuals to seek help. I want to contribute to changing that narrative. Whether through assessment, rehabilitation programs, or policy advocacy, I hope to work in environments where treatment and accountability coexist. People must take responsibility for their actions, but they also deserve access to support systems that give them a genuine opportunity to recover. The Deanna Ellis Memorial Scholarship represents more than financial assistance. It represents belief in students who want to confront difficult issues head-on. My career goal is to work in forensic psychology, potentially within correctional facilities, helping individuals address addiction and related behavioral challenges. Long-term, I hope to pursue graduate studies so I can expand my ability to assess, diagnose, and develop intervention strategies for justice-involved populations. Addiction destroys families, but recovery rebuilds them. If I can play even a small role in helping someone break that cycle, then my education will have served its purpose. My commitment to this field is personal, academic, and long-term. I am ready to do the work.

Some defining moments are loud. Others happen quietly, in the space between what is and what should be. For me, the most defining moment of my life was not a single dramatic event, but the realization that the environment I was living in was not the environment I wanted my children to grow up believing was normal. There was a point when I understood that staying in a harmful relationship would shape more than my own life—it would shape theirs. That awareness changed everything. It shifted my thinking from survival to responsibility. It forced me to ask difficult questions: What are my children learning about love? About conflict? About strength? And more importantly, what example am I setting? Leaving was not easy. Change rarely is. It required confronting fear, uncertainty, and the discomfort of starting over. But in that decision, something fundamental shifted in me. I stopped viewing myself as someone enduring circumstances and began seeing myself as someone capable of creating new ones. That moment reshaped my understanding of strength. I had once associated strength with endurance—how much I could tolerate, how much I could absorb without breaking. But I began to understand that true strength is not about how much you can withstand. It is about knowing when to draw a boundary. It is about protecting what matters most, even when the path forward is unclear. Choosing stability for my children meant rebuilding from the ground up. It meant prioritizing education, long-term goals, and personal growth. It meant confronting the parts of myself that had accepted less than I deserved and deciding that my children would see something different. I wanted them to witness resilience, but not silent suffering. I wanted them to see accountability, courage, and the willingness to change. That decision directly influenced my academic journey. Returning to school and committing to higher education became more than personal ambition; it became a statement. I was not defined by my past circumstances. I was building a future intentionally. Every course completed and every milestone reached became evidence—not just to others, but to myself—that change was possible. The experience also deepened my interest in psychology and mental health. I became increasingly aware of how environments shape behavior and how cycles can continue when they are not examined. I want to work in spaces where individuals feel supported in breaking patterns that no longer serve them. I understand firsthand how difficult change can be. But I also understand its power. Today, I define myself not by what I endured, but by what I chose. The defining moment of my life was choosing a different path—not only for myself, but for my children. That choice required courage I did not know I possessed. It required stepping into uncertainty with clarity of purpose. Who I am today—a student, a mother, a future mental health professional—is rooted in that decision. It shaped my values, strengthened my resilience, and clarified my direction. I no longer measure strength by endurance alone. I measure it by action. Some defining moments do not look dramatic from the outside. They look like quiet decisions. But those quiet decisions can alter entire futures. Mine did.

When I think about what it means to be a fan, I don’t immediately think about posters or merchandise. I think about my younger sister standing in the living room, singing at the top of her lungs. She was obsessed with Wicked. The soundtrack played constantly. At first, I heard it in the background—familiar melodies drifting through the house. But eventually, I stopped just listening and started singing with her. We didn’t just sing the songs; we acted them out. We took turns being Elphaba and Glinda. We exaggerated the dramatic moments. We harmonized badly and confidently. It became something we did together, something that belonged to us. Being a fan of Wicked wasn’t about memorizing lyrics. It was about connection. The story itself is powerful. It centers on friendship, misunderstanding, identity, and the courage to stand apart from expectation. At the time, I don’t think I consciously analyzed those themes. But looking back, they mattered. Elphaba’s journey—being judged before being understood—felt relatable in ways I couldn’t fully articulate yet. “Defying Gravity” wasn’t just a song; it was a declaration of self-worth. Singing it together felt empowering, even if we were just kids in a living room. What being a fan gave me most, though, was shared joy. It created a space where my sister and I weren’t worrying about school, expectations, or growing up. We were simply present. We were loud. We were creative. We were bonded by something bigger than ourselves. In a world that constantly moves forward, those moments felt suspended in time. As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate what fandom truly represents. Being a fan means allowing yourself to care deeply about something. It means leaning into passion without embarrassment. It means finding meaning in art and sharing that meaning with others. For my sister and me, Wicked became part of our shared language. Even now, hearing a single note from the soundtrack takes me back to those moments. Fandom also taught me something about identity. Wicked challenges traditional narratives of good and evil. It asks the audience to reconsider assumptions and look beyond surface judgments. That message has stayed with me. It reminds me to question easy labels and to seek deeper understanding—something that continues to influence how I view people and the world around me. Being a fan is not passive. It shapes relationships. It builds community. It creates memory. My love for Wicked is inseparable from my love for my sister. The musical may have started as her obsession, but it became our tradition. Through singing, laughing, and acting out scenes, we built something lasting. To me, that is what being a fan truly means: finding connection in shared passion and carrying that connection with you long after the music fades.

When people picture someone in STEM, they rarely picture someone in combat boots with multiple ear piercings and dark eyeliner. They picture neutral clothing, minimal expression, and a personality that blends into professional expectations. I do not blend in easily. I have ten piercings on one ear, I wear jewelry daily, and I gravitate toward darker aesthetics. I also tend to speak directly and think out loud. For a long time, I wondered if those things made me less compatible with academic and scientific spaces. They do not. I am pursuing psychology, a field rooted in research, data, and human behavior. Psychology qualifies as STEM not because it is sterile or rigid, but because it seeks measurable truth about how people think and act. Ironically, my alternative presentation and direct communication style have strengthened my place in this field rather than weakened it. Growing up, I internalized the idea that professionalism meant softness and conformity. Comments from others—including family members—suggested that dressing outside traditional norms made me look unserious or inappropriate. Being told that I looked “too much” forced me to confront an uncomfortable question: was I willing to shrink parts of myself to appear credible? STEM spaces often reward precision and clarity. My tendency to speak plainly, even when it makes others uncomfortable, has become one of my greatest academic strengths. In psychology, clarity matters. Research questions must be precise. Observations must be direct. Ethical concerns must be addressed honestly. My lack of a social “filter” has evolved into an ability to ask hard questions and challenge assumptions. Instead of muting that trait, I have learned to refine it. There is a difference between being reckless and being courageous. STEM needs more of the latter. Visually presenting as alternative has also taught me resilience. Walking into classrooms or professional environments where I do not match the expected aesthetic requires confidence. There is an unspoken assumption that intelligence looks a certain way. I challenge that assumption simply by existing in those spaces. My presence communicates that competence does not require conformity. Psychology, in particular, benefits from diversity in lived experience and identity. Many individuals seeking mental health support feel like outsiders. They fear judgment. They fear being misunderstood. When professionals reflect a wider range of expression, it signals safety. It signals that there is no single mold for intelligence or stability. My alternative identity allows me to connect with people who may otherwise feel alienated by traditional institutions. STEM thrives when it expands beyond narrow stereotypes. Innovation requires perspective. Research requires questioning. Progress requires people willing to stand slightly outside the expected norm. My piercings and combat boots do not interfere with my ability to analyze data, conduct research, or understand behavioral theory. If anything, they represent my refusal to equate professionalism with erasure. Goths belong in STEM not because of aesthetic rebellion, but because intelligence has no dress code. Curiosity has no uniform. Dedication has no required hairstyle. I will continue pursuing psychology with both analytical rigor and unapologetic authenticity. My goal is not only to contribute to research and mental health advocacy, but also to quietly widen the image of what a scientist can look like.

Humility as Strength in the Tao Te Ching Through the image of water in Chapter 8 of the Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu quietly challenges everything we tend to believe about strength and success. Instead of praising power, recognition, or authority, he points to something ordinary—water—and calls it the “highest good.” That choice immediately forces the reader to pause. If water represents the highest form of goodness, then perhaps everything we assume about greatness needs to be reconsidered. “The highest good is like water. Water benefits all things and does not compete. It flows to low places that others disdain. Therefore it is close to the Tao” (Lao Tzu 8). At first, the metaphor feels almost too simple. Water is common. It does not command attention. It does not try to dominate the space around it. Yet that simplicity is intentional. When Lao Tzu writes that water “benefits all things and does not compete,” he is presenting an alternative model of strength. Most human systems are built on competition. In school, in careers, in politics, success is often defined by surpassing others. The language of rising, climbing, and winning shapes how we understand progress. Water does none of these things. It does not seek to win. It does not compare itself to other rivers. It simply flows and, in doing so, sustains life. The phrase “does not compete” is more radical than it first appears. Competition assumes scarcity: if one rises, another must fall. Water operates differently. It nourishes without diminishing itself. It does not require recognition to maintain its value. Lao Tzu seems to suggest that moral excellence does not depend on superiority. Instead, it depends on alignment with one’s nature. Water does not attempt to be fire. It does not try to be stone. It fulfills its function fully and quietly. That fulfillment becomes its strength. The next line deepens this idea: “It flows to low places that others disdain.” The word “disdain” introduces judgment. Humans avoid what appears low because we associate it with weakness or failure. We are conditioned to seek elevation to stand out, to move upward socially and professionally. Water moves downward. It gathers in valleys, basins, and riverbeds. These places are not glamorous, yet they are essential. Life collects there. Crops grow there. Entire ecosystems depend on those low spaces. By choosing to inhabit what others reject, water becomes foundational rather than decorative. This reframes humility. Humility is often misunderstood as self-minimization. Lao Tzu presents it differently. Water’s descent is not self-erasure; it is strategic alignment. It moves with gravity rather than against it. There is intelligence in that movement. Resistance to gravity would be futile, but cooperation creates flow. In this sense, humility becomes wisdom. It is not about lowering oneself unnecessarily; it is about recognizing how reality works and moving within it effectively. Water’s softness also complicates traditional definitions of strength. We typically equate strength with hardness rigidity, firmness, force. Yet hard objects break. Stone cracks. Metal bends and fractures. Water, though soft, endures. Over time, it erodes rock and reshapes landscapes. Its power lies not in aggression but in persistence. Lao Tzu uses this paradox to redefine resilience. What yields can survive. What refuses to bend may shatter. Strength, then, is not the ability to resist everything, but the capacity to adapt without losing identity. The final line, “Therefore it is close to the Tao,” moves the passage from metaphor to philosophy. The Tao represents the natural order the underlying way reality unfolds. It is not a law imposed from above but a pattern that exists regardless of human intention. Water embodies this pattern because it follows its nature effortlessly. It takes the shape of whatever contains it. It can exist as a stream or an ocean, yet it remains water. It responds to its environment without fighting it. Lao Tzu implies that moral living requires similar responsiveness. Instead of forcing circumstances to conform to ego, one moves with awareness and balance. This has political implications as well. Leadership that mirrors water would not rely on domination or spectacle. It would focus on stability and nourishment. A leader who “does not compete” would not govern through rivalry but through service. Lao Tzu’s philosophy frequently critiques excessive control and forceful rule. The metaphor of water reinforces that critique. Sustainable authority arises from consistency and humility, not intimidation. Just as water sustains life quietly, ethical leadership supports communities without drawing constant attention to itself. The passage also carries psychological weight. Modern culture encourages constant striving toward recognition, advancement, and visibility. There is pressure to demonstrate worth through achievement. Water offers a different measure of value. Its impact is not immediate or dramatic, but it is lasting. It reshapes its surroundings gradually. This suggests that growth is often subtle. Persistence matters more than intensity. The metaphor encourages patience in a culture that celebrates urgency. What makes this passage especially powerful is its accessibility. Lao Tzu does not rely on abstract philosophical terminology. He uses something everyone understands. We have all seen water gather in low spaces. We have all watched it carve paths through soil and stone. By grounding moral philosophy in a tangible image, he makes the lesson harder to dismiss. The metaphor lingers because it reflects reality. On a personal level, this passage challenges how I think about progress. It is easy to equate advancement with visibility. Achievements that are noticed feel more meaningful. Yet water reminds me that unseen effort still shapes outcomes. Small, steady actions accumulate. Like water shaping rock, consistency over time creates transformation. Strength does not always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like persistence in quiet spaces. Ultimately, Lao Tzu’s comparison of the highest good to water dismantles the belief that greatness must be loud or elevated. By redefining strength as humility and adaptability, he offers a model of ethical life grounded in harmony rather than competition. Water becomes more than a natural element—it becomes a philosophical guide. Its downward movement is not weakness but wisdom. Its softness is not fragility but endurance. In calling water the “highest good,” Lao Tzu invites us to reconsider not only what it means to be strong, but what it means to live well. Works Cited Lao Tzu. Tao Te Ching. Translated by Stephen Mitchell, Harper Perennial, 1988.

Growing up and navigating adulthood with challenges that impact my mental and emotional well-being has shaped not only how I move through the world, but why I want to dedicate my career to helping others. Living with anxiety and trauma-related stress has made higher education feel intimidating at times. There were semesters where simply showing up required more strength than most people could see. But those invisible battles built resilience, empathy, and an unshakable belief that people deserve support—not judgment—when they are struggling. As a first-generation college graduate and mother of two young children, my path has not been linear. I began college in 2018 and will complete my second degree in 2026. There were pauses along the way due to personal circumstances and healing. For a long time, I viewed those delays as failures. Over time, I realized they were evidence of perseverance. My experiences have reshaped my beliefs about success. Success is not speed. It is endurance. It is choosing to continue, even when the path feels heavier for you than it does for others. Living with mental health challenges has deeply influenced my relationships. It has made me more patient, more observant, and more compassionate. I understand what it feels like to carry something invisible while trying to function normally. Because of that, I approach others with curiosity instead of assumption. In group projects, at work, and within my community, I naturally step into supportive roles—organizing tasks, checking in on teammates, and making sure everyone feels heard. Leadership, to me, is not about authority. It is about creating environments where people feel safe enough to thrive. Professionally, my experience has shaped my career aspirations in forensic psychology and mental health advocacy. I want to work with individuals involved in the justice system—many of whom struggle with untreated mental health conditions or trauma. I am drawn to understanding why people behave the way they do, not to excuse harmful behavior, but to address root causes and prevent cycles from continuing. My lived experience allows me to connect with others in a grounded, authentic way. I know what it means to feel overwhelmed and misunderstood, and I want to be part of systems that respond with rehabilitation and support rather than stigma. In addition to my academic work, I actively pursue leadership through mentorship programs and community involvement. I am preparing to participate in the Jeremiah Program to strengthen my leadership and professional development skills as a parent and student. I consistently maintain Dean’s List standing while working full time and raising my children. Balancing these responsibilities requires discipline, time management, and emotional intelligence—skills that directly translate into effective leadership. Disability does not define my limits; it has defined my perspective. It has taught me that strength often looks quiet and that perseverance is built in private moments. My goal is to transform my experiences into advocacy, support, and systemic change for others navigating invisible challenges. I do not simply want to succeed for myself—I want to widen the path for those walking behind me.

I chose to pursue healthcare because I have experienced firsthand how deeply mental and emotional wellbeing shape every aspect of a person’s life. Health is not limited to physical treatment; it includes safety, stability, and access to support during vulnerable moments. My journey into the health sciences began not in a classroom, but through lived experience that revealed how critical accessible, compassionate care truly is. I am currently an undergraduate psychology student with minors in Sociology and Juvenile Justice. My academic path has not been traditional. I began college in 2018 during a period of personal instability and later stepped away when circumstances in my life became unsafe and overwhelming. As a young mother navigating an abusive relationship, I struggled academically and emotionally. During that time, I saw how trauma can quietly disrupt education, decision-making, and long-term stability. When I removed myself from that environment and became the sole provider for my children, I returned to school with clarity and purpose. My studies in psychology are not abstract concepts to me; they represent tools for prevention, healing, and systemic change. Sociology has helped me understand how social structures impact access to care, and Juvenile Justice has expanded my awareness of how untreated mental health needs often intersect with the legal system. I chose healthcare because I want to work at the intersection of mental health and community systems. Too often, individuals struggling with trauma or behavioral health challenges are met with punishment instead of support. I want to be part of a healthcare system that recognizes early intervention as a form of protection. I am particularly interested in trauma-informed care and preventative mental health services for families and youth. The health industry can feel difficult to enter due to the years of education required and the financial burden attached to advanced training. As a low-income, single mother, continuing my education requires discipline, sacrifice, and strategic planning. However, my experiences have strengthened my resolve rather than diminished it. I have earned Dean’s List recognition while balancing full-time work and parenting, demonstrating that I am not only passionate about this field but capable of sustaining the effort it demands. The difference I hope to make through my future work is centered on accessibility and dignity. I want individuals who feel unseen or overwhelmed to encounter providers who understand the weight of instability. I want to advocate for systems that prioritize mental wellness before crisis occurs. Long term, I plan to pursue advanced education in psychology so I can contribute to clinical practice and potentially policy reform that supports families impacted by trauma. Healthcare is often discussed in terms of treatment, but I view it as restoration restoration of confidence, stability, and opportunity. My personal experiences have shaped my desire to ensure that others do not have to navigate hardship without guidance or resources. By pursuing health sciences, I am not only building a career; I am committing to being part of a system that protects and strengthens communities. I believe that meaningful change in healthcare begins with providers who understand resilience, and I intend to bring both professional training and lived perspective into the field.

Becoming a single mother while pursuing higher education reshaped not only my responsibilities, but my sense of identity. My journey has not followed a straight or traditional timeline. I began college in 2018 during a period of personal instability and eventually stepped away when my circumstances became overwhelming. At the time, I was navigating an unhealthy and unsafe relationship while pregnant with my son. The emotional toll of that experience led to depression and academic struggles. Leaving school was not a lack of ambition; it was a reflection of survival. The most challenging part of my journey has been rebuilding while carrying full responsibility for my children. As a single mother, there is no pause button. There are no off days. Financial pressure, time constraints, and the emotional weight of being the sole provider often collide with academic deadlines and professional goals. Balancing coursework after long workdays and caring for two young children has required discipline and resilience I never anticipated needing. Yet within those challenges, I discovered clarity. Leaving an abusive environment and choosing stability for my children was a turning point. I realized that the future they would believe possible depended on the example I set. Returning to school was no longer about personal achievement alone; it became about breaking cycles. I made the decision to rebuild my academic path intentionally, earning Dean’s List recognition and completing my transfer pathway while working full time and parenting. Today, I am pursuing a degree in psychology with minors in Sociology and Juvenile Justice, fields that reflect my desire to understand trauma, systemic barriers, and behavioral health. The most fulfilling aspect of my journey has been watching my children witness my growth. They see me studying after they fall asleep. They see persistence. They see accountability. I am not only earning a degree; I am modeling resilience. Education has become the foundation through which I am creating long-term stability for my family. As a low-income single mother, financial limitations remain one of the most significant obstacles. Higher education offers the promise of career advancement and economic security, but without support, the path can feel fragile. This scholarship would provide more than financial assistance; it would represent affirmation that determination and perseverance matter. My long-term goal is to work in mental healthcare, particularly in spaces where trauma and justice systems intersect. My lived experience has given me insight into how instability and unsafe environments can impact mental health, academic performance, and generational outcomes. Through further education, I hope to contribute to a system that supports families before they reach crisis. I want my children to grow up understanding that adversity does not define their limits. Education is not simply a personal goal for me it is generational investment. Completing my degree in 2026 represents more than academic progress; it symbolizes healing, independence, and the deliberate creation of a safer future for my family. The challenges of single motherhood have strengthened my resolve rather than diminished it. I am not pursuing education to escape my circumstances. I am pursuing it to transform them. Through continued growth and opportunity, I am building stability not only for myself, but for the two young lives watching me lead.

For a period of my life, I was not building a future, I was surviving my present. While pregnant with my son, I found myself in an abusive relationship that left me emotionally and physically unsafe. During that time, I struggled with depression and instability while attempting to continue my education. The stress of that environment affected my academic performance, and I ultimately stepped away from school. I take responsibility for that chapter of my journey not with shame, but with clarity. I was overwhelmed, and I had not yet built the stability required to succeed academically. Leaving that relationship was not just a personal decision it was a turning point. Becoming the sole protector and provider for my children forced me to confront what kind of future I wanted them to witness. I realized that the environment I tolerated would shape their understanding of love, strength, and possibility. I made the decision to break that cycle. Returning to school required more than re-enrollment. It required healing, discipline, and a commitment to redefine myself beyond survival. I rebuilt my academic foundation step by step while raising two children and working full time. This time, my education became intentional. I earned Dean’s List recognition and completed my transfer pathway with renewed focus. What once felt uncertain now feels purposeful. I am pursuing a degree in psychology with minors in Sociology and Juvenile Justice, driven by a desire to understand how trauma, social systems, and behavioral health intersect. Experiencing depression and instability firsthand profoundly shaped my commitment to mental healthcare. I understand how unsafe environments and unaddressed trauma can derail potential and diminish confidence. I also understand the power of support, accountability, and informed intervention. My goal is to work in spaces where psychology intersects with justice and community systems, particularly serving individuals and families navigating trauma and systemic barriers. I want to contribute to a healthcare framework that recognizes mental health as foundational to stability, rehabilitation, and long-term well-being. As part of my continued academic growth, I will soon have the opportunity to engage in an immersive global learning experience that will expand my perspective on social systems and mental health practices. This opportunity represents more than travel; it reflects the confidence and academic momentum I have rebuilt. I am committed to broadening my understanding so that I can return equipped with greater cultural awareness, adaptability, and insight into how communities can better support vulnerable populations. Completing my degree in 2026 is not a delay in my journey; it is evidence of resilience. My academic timeline reflects perseverance rather than setback. After stepping away to prioritize safety and healing, I returned stronger, more disciplined, and deeply committed to long-term impact. Resilience is not the absence of hardship. It is the decision to rise after it. That decision continues to define my path forward as a student, as a mother, and as a future mental health professional determined to break cycles and build stability for others.

Every experience shapes who we become, but some experiences fundamentally redefine our purpose. For me, becoming a single mother while pursuing higher education did not simply add responsibility to my life — it clarified my calling. Navigating financial strain, emotional stress, and academic pressure simultaneously has required resilience, discipline, and unwavering determination. These challenges have not weakened my ambition; they have strengthened my commitment to pursuing a career in mental healthcare. As the sole provider for my children, I have learned firsthand how deeply mental health intersects with every aspect of life. Financial instability affects emotional well-being. Chronic stress impacts physical health. Lack of access to support systems can alter the trajectory of a family. I have experienced what it feels like to carry the weight of responsibility while striving to build a better future. Through those experiences, I began to recognize a profound truth: healthcare is not limited to physical treatment. Mental healthcare is foundational to stability, safety, and long-term well-being. My academic path in psychology reflects that understanding. As an undergraduate student, I am driven by a desire to study human behavior at its core — particularly in areas where mental health intersects with trauma, crisis intervention, and systemic barriers. I am especially interested in forensic and clinical psychology, where professionals work with individuals navigating complex life circumstances, including involvement in the justice system. In these spaces, mental healthcare can prevent recidivism, support rehabilitation, and restore dignity to individuals who often feel unseen. The resilience required to balance full-time work, motherhood, and college has shaped the way I approach both education and life. There have been evenings spent studying after my children were asleep and mornings that began long before sunrise. There have been financial sacrifices and moments of doubt. Yet, through perseverance, I have maintained academic progress and remained focused on long-term goals. Each obstacle has reinforced my belief that meaningful impact requires endurance. Growing up and later raising children in a single-parent household also gave me insight into how systems often overlook families like mine. Navigating healthcare, education, and social services can feel overwhelming without adequate support. These lived experiences have deepened my empathy and strengthened my resolve to advocate for accessible, trauma-informed mental healthcare. I want to be a professional who not only understands diagnostic criteria and evidence-based practices, but who also understands what it feels like to sit on the other side of the desk — searching for guidance, stability, and hope. Mental healthcare is preventative healthcare. Untreated psychological distress contributes to addiction, chronic illness, family instability, and incarceration. By addressing mental health early and compassionately, we create ripple effects that improve communities as a whole. My goal is to contribute to a healthcare system that recognizes the interconnectedness of mind and body and prioritizes intervention that is both evidence-based and humane. The RELEVANCE Scholarship emphasizes ambition, drive, and impact. My ambition is not rooted in prestige, but in purpose. My drive has been tested and strengthened through personal and financial adversity. My desired impact is clear: to serve individuals and families who feel overwhelmed by circumstance and to offer them competent, compassionate mental healthcare. My challenges have not deterred me from pursuing a career in healthcare — they have defined why I must. Every experience has shaped who I am becoming: a resilient student, a determined mother, and a future mental health professional committed to making healthcare more accessible, empathetic, and effective for those who need it most.

The most meaningful relationship in my life is the one I have with my children. Becoming a mother changed not only my daily responsibilities, but my identity, my priorities, and the way I understand connection. Before I had children, I saw relationships as important. After becoming a mother, I understood that relationships shape who we become. Motherhood forced me to grow in ways I did not expect. Children observe everything. They notice tone, patience, consistency, and emotional reactions. I realized quickly that the way I communicate, respond to stress, and navigate challenges directly influences how they learn to do the same. That awareness has made me far more intentional in how I build and maintain relationships—not just with them, but with everyone in my life. One of the biggest lessons my relationship with my children has taught me is the importance of emotional safety. Children thrive when they feel secure, heard, and understood. That does not mean life is always easy or calm, but it does mean they know they can come to me without fear of rejection. I work hard to create that space for them. I listen, even when I am tired. I explain, even when it would be easier not to. I apologize when I am wrong. That humility and openness have strengthened our bond. That experience has deeply influenced how I connect with others outside my home. I have learned that real connection requires presence. It requires listening without immediately trying to fix. It requires patience. In my professional life and academic journey, I try to approach others with empathy rather than assumption. Everyone is carrying something unseen. Being a mother has made me more aware of that. Balancing work, school, and parenting has not always been simple. There have been moments of stress and exhaustion. But even during those seasons, my relationship with my children has grounded me. They are the reason I returned to school. They are the reason I am pursuing a degree in Psychology. I want to build a career where I can support others in developing healthy emotional foundations, because I see every day how powerful those foundations are. My children have also influenced the way I define strength. Strength is not harshness or control. It is consistency. It is showing up. It is regulating your own emotions so you can model stability for someone else. That understanding shapes how I approach friendships, academic collaborations, and future professional relationships. I value honesty, reliability, and emotional maturity because those qualities build trust. This relationship has also taught me that connection is built over time. It is built in small daily interactions, not grand gestures. Bedtime conversations, shared laughter, and honest discussions about mistakes matter more than perfection. That perspective carries into my broader relationships. I focus on building steady, authentic connections rather than surface-level interactions. As I continue my education and work toward a career in the mental health field, the lessons I have learned through motherhood guide me. I want to create environments—whether clinical, educational, or community-based—where people feel emotionally safe. I want to help individuals develop resilience, self-awareness, and healthy communication skills. Those goals are rooted in the relationship that shaped me most. The relationship I have with my children has made me more patient, more self-aware, and more intentional. It has taught me that connection is not accidental; it is built through consistent effort and care. That understanding influences how I move through the world, how I approach my future career, and how I choose to show up for others. Through this relationship, I have learned that meaningful connections do not just support us—they transform us. And I carry that lesson into every relationship I build.

One of the biggest challenges I have faced during school has been learning how to balance my education with full-time work, motherhood, and the pressure of building a stable future. I am not a traditional college student who can focus only on classes. I work full-time, I raise my children, and I chose to go back to school knowing my life was already full. At times, that decision felt overwhelming. When I started my Business Transfer pathway, I believed that if I simply worked hard enough, everything would fall into place. I quickly learned that hard work alone does not remove stress. There were nights I stayed up late completing assignments after my children went to bed. There were mornings I went to work exhausted, knowing I would come home and shift into “student mode” again. I constantly moved between roles employee, mom, and student without much time to pause. The hardest part was not just managing time. It was managing the mental pressure. I felt like I could not afford to fail. Going back to school was not just a personal goal; it was an investment in my children’s future. That responsibility weighed on me. I compared myself to younger students who did not carry the same obligations. I questioned whether I had started too late. I wondered if I was capable of maintaining strong academic performance while handling real-life responsibilities. There were moments when I felt stretched thin and doubted myself. I remember sitting at my desk late at night, staring at an assignment while mentally replaying everything else I needed to accomplish the next day. It felt like there was no room for mistakes. I had to succeed. Instead of allowing that pressure to shut me down, I had to change my mindset. I realized that waiting to “feel ready” or waiting for life to slow down was unrealistic. Life was not going to become easier just because I was in school. I had to become stronger within it. I shifted my focus from perfection to consistency. I built structure into my days. I created detailed schedules, made task lists, and learned how to prioritize what truly mattered. I stopped comparing my path to anyone else’s and started focusing on steady progress. I also learned to advocate for myself. If I needed clarification from a professor, I asked. If I needed to reorganize my study time, I adjusted. I stopped assuming that struggling meant I was incapable. It simply meant I was growing. Despite the challenges, I maintained Dean’s List standing. That accomplishment means more to me than the title itself. It represents resilience under pressure. It reflects late nights, disciplined mornings, and the choice to keep moving forward even when I felt exhausted. It proved to me that I am capable of academic excellence, even in less-than-ideal circumstances. Another challenge came when I realized my academic interests were evolving. While completing my business pathway, I discovered a deeper passion for psychology and mental health. Changing my academic direction required courage. It meant reevaluating my long-term goals, preparing for a transfer, and stepping into a field that demands both emotional intelligence and academic rigor. Making that shift felt uncertain at first, but it also felt honest. I had to trust myself enough to pursue what truly aligned with my purpose. The transfer process itself brought anxiety. I had to navigate credit evaluations, financial planning, and long-term career questions. I worried about affordability and whether pursuing advanced education would be realistic while supporting my family. However, instead of letting uncertainty stop me, I approached it strategically. I researched programs, met with advisors, and created a plan. I reminded myself that long-term goals require short-term discomfort. Through these challenges, I have developed more than time management skills. I have developed emotional endurance. I have learned how to function under pressure without losing sight of why I started. I have learned that discipline is more reliable than motivation. Most importantly, I have learned that my circumstances do not define my potential. Balancing school, work, and motherhood has not been easy. There have been moments of exhaustion and doubt. But those moments did not break me. They strengthened my confidence in my ability to adapt and persevere. Every obstacle has reinforced my commitment to building a meaningful career, particularly in the mental health field, where resilience and empathy matter. This journey has shown me that challenges are not barriers; they are tests of persistence. I am pursuing education not because it is convenient, but because it is necessary for the future I am creating. For myself, and for my children. Overcoming these challenges has shaped me into a more disciplined, focused, and determined student. It has shown me that I am capable of more than I once believed and I am only getting started.

If you asked me a few years ago to describe myself, I probably would have listed my responsibilities before my goals. I am a mother, a full-time employee, and a student working toward my degree in Psychology. But over time, I have realized that those roles are not separate from who I am, they are the foundation of why I am pursuing the career path I have chosen. I returned to school while balancing full-time work and raising my children. That decision was not made lightly. It required discipline, sacrifice, and the willingness to grow through discomfort. Maintaining strong academic performance while managing real-life responsibilities has shaped me into a resilient and focused individual. Being on the Dean’s List is an accomplishment I am proud of, but what matters more to me is what it represents: persistence and long-term vision. My passion lies in psychology and mental health. Throughout my life, I have seen how deeply mental health affects individuals, families, and communities. I have also seen how often people struggle in silence. I plan to build a career in the mental health field where I can support individuals who feel overwhelmed, unheard, or uncertain about their path forward. Whether that leads me toward clinical work, counseling, or advanced study in psychology, my goal is to create spaces where people feel safe, understood, and supported. I believe positive impact begins at the individual level. When one person gains tools to regulate emotions, process trauma, or build healthier habits, it creates ripple effects in families and communities. I want to contribute to that ripple effect. My lived experiences balancing work, school, and motherhood have strengthened my empathy and emotional awareness. I understand pressure, responsibility, and the weight of trying to build something better for the future. Those experiences will allow me to connect authentically with the people I hope to serve. In addition to my academic goals, I am also building an entrepreneurial mindset. Running my own small business while pursuing my degree has taught me initiative, adaptability, and accountability. I have learned how to problem-solve, manage time effectively, and remain forward thinking even during stressful seasons. These skills will support me in any professional environment, particularly in fields that require both structure and compassion. Ultimately, my career goal is not just about financial stability or professional success. It is about impact. I want my work to matter. I want to help break cycles of emotional neglect and misunderstanding by equipping people with knowledge and support. I want my children to see what perseverance looks like and understand that growth is possible regardless of starting point. Through education, resilience, and service, I plan to make a positive impact not by changing the entire world at once, but by showing up consistently for the individuals who need support. I believe meaningful change begins one person at a time and I am committed to being part of that change.