My mom always did an incredible job of making my brother and me feel rich—rich in health, rich in support, and abundantly rich in love. She had a special way of feeding our imaginations and making nothing feel like everything. Growing up, I had no idea how little we actually had because, to me, having a roof over my head, a full stomach, and weekend trips to the YMCA pool were all I needed to feel happy. One memory has stayed with me ever since I was a child. It was the first time I realized we might not be as wealthy as the kids on the TV show Jessie. I came home from school, opened the refrigerator, and found it nearly empty. Hoping for better luck, I checked the pantry and found only a packet of ramen noodles and a few seasonings. I remember wondering, What happened? How are we going to eat dinner tonight? To my surprise, later that evening, a hot plate of spaghetti was sitting in front of me at the dinner table. It was in that moment that I realized we weren't rich. Things didn't magically appear, no matter how much my mother made us believe she was a magician. Looking back now, I understand that the meal wasn't magic at all—it was sacrifice, resourcefulness, and unconditional love. Somehow, she always found a way to make sure my brother and I never went to bed hungry, even when she carried the weight of impossible choices on her shoulders. My mother made fairytales come to life throughout my childhood. She made dreams feel possible and filled our home with hope, even without anyone by her side to help. She worked long hours and spent what little free time she had finding ways to make ends meet when she should have been resting. Yet she never let my brother or me feel the burden she carried. Because of her, I believed for years that we were just as fortunate as everyone else. She refused to let our circumstances define our childhood. As I've grown older, I've realized that true wealth isn't measured by the size of a house or the balance of a bank account. It's measured by the love you're surrounded with, the sacrifices people make for you, and the hope they inspire. My mother gave me all of those things, even when she had so little to give herself. Since then, I have dedicated my life to creating my own kind of magic through hard work, perseverance, and every opportunity that comes my way. Every accomplishment I achieve is rooted in the lessons my mother taught me. My mom never had the opportunity to attend college, and my father did not make it past the eighth grade, let alone support or be present in my life. Yet here I am, living proof that even being accepted into college is magic. I want to show my mother that the seed she planted has grown into a fruit-bearing tree, reaching heights beyond what either of us once imagined. Earning a college degree is more than a personal goal—it is my way of honoring her sacrifices and proving that the magic she created changed the course of my life.

I hate steamed vegetables. Every evening, like clockwork, dinner appeared in front of me: baked chicken, creamy mashed potatoes with gravy, and the dreaded steamed carrots. My mother prepared every meal with love, yet I stared at those vegetables as if they were impossible obstacles. I watched my brother eat his without hesitation and wondered why something so simple felt so difficult for me. Why couldn’t I just be like everyone else at the dinner table? I did not realize it then, but music would eventually help me answer that question. I discovered the problem was never the taste, it was the texture. One day, I tried eating the vegetables cold and uncooked instead. Same outcome, different process. For the first time, I felt understood rather than defeated. My passion for music entered my life in the same way. At fourteen, I transferred to a new high school and suddenly found myself in an environment where I felt completely out of place. I went from being surrounded by diversity and culture to feeling isolated in a school where I stood out everywhere I went. I faced bullying, judgment, and constant reminders that I was a Black girl in a world where I did not feel welcomed. Every morning, I dreaded walking onto campus. My confidence disappeared, and I began to feel invisible. Then I joined the school Rock Band. What began as a class quickly became the one place where I felt accepted. I had always loved to sing ever since I was a little girl, but in that moment, music transformed from a hobby into a necessity. Before I knew it, I was performing at every pep rally, sporting event, and school gathering, receiving awards and being featured in the school yearbook. When I performed, wrote lyrics, or experimented with sound production, I no longer felt like the outsider everyone else saw. I felt powerful. For the first time in my life, I realized I did not need to change who I was in order to belong. During my junior year, I wrote and performed an original song at a school showcase. After the performance, another student approached me and admitted that my lyrics made her feel less alone during a difficult time in her life. Even if it was only for a few moments, I made someone feel like they belonged. That moment changed everything for me. I realized music was more than self-expression; it was connection. It had the power to reach people who felt isolated in the same way I once had. Music became my anchor during moments of self-doubt and uncertainty. It gave me the confidence to become the first person in my family to graduate high school, attend college, and travel out of state to pursue my dreams. Most importantly, it taught me that standing out is not a weakness, it is a gift. Through my hard work and dedication to my craft, I was blessed to be accepted into the prestigious Berklee College of Music, where I will major in Songwriting and continue being a role model for those who need a reason to believe in themselves. I want to create music that tells honest stories and builds community. My goal is to write and produce music that helps others feel seen, understood, and valued, especially those who feel like outsiders in their schools, homes, or communities. Just like uncooked vegetables once gave me a seat at the dinner table, music gave me a place in the world. Now, I intend to create that same feeling of belonging for someone else.