I am devoted to improving mental health equity, especially for people with developmental disabilities and their families. This problem affects how people get care, their quality of life, and their future. Through my work and personal life, I have seen these problems up close. I focus on advocacy, education, and support to lessen stigma and help people find better mental health services. As a Direct Support Professional, I support people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. Many also face mental health challenges that are often missed or not handled well. I work to change this by promoting care that respects each person’s dignity, independence, and emotional safety. Education is a key part of my work through yearly training. Families like mine often feel lost when trying to find mental health services, school help, or disability support. I make sure to explain things clearly, connect families to resources, and encourage them to speak up for themselves and their loved ones. When families have good information, they feel less afraid and alone. Giving families knowledge is one of the best ways to make a lasting change. This issue is personal for me as well. I struggled with mental health challenges for much of my life and did not get the correct diagnosis until I was an adult. This delay affected my education, relationships, and stability. Being misunderstood in the mental health system motivates me to push for early help, accurate assessment, and caring support. I talk openly about my mental health to help make these conversations normal and to show that asking for help represents a sign of strength, not weakness. I am also a single parent raising 3 children with autism who also have other mental health challenges, and I also want to address social inequities through demonstrating fortitude and balance. Caregivers are often expected to give endlessly without regard for their own mental health. I challenge this viewpoint by focusing on self-care, boundaries, and mental health, both personally and professionally. Supporting caregivers is essential to helping those they care for! My choice to study psychology is another way I am working to find solutions to these issues. Through my education, I hope to learn how to make changes in systems, not just for individuals. I want to work with parents and caregivers of children with special needs by helping them learn how to manage stress, avoid burnout, and advocate for their children while caring for their own mental health. I hope to help create programs that integrate mental health services into disability services in a fair way. I don't need a big platform or public attention to make a difference on social issues with steady, caring action and persistence. Progress is what matters the most! I hope to reduce mental health stigma, improve access to much-needed support, and help families who are often overlooked. This scholarship would help me keep learning and growing so I can make a greater, more lasting impact in my community.

Adversity has taught me a lot throughout my life, shaping who I am and who I am becoming. One of my biggest challenges was living with untreated mental health issues for many years, all while handling the demands of being an adult, a parent, and a professional. For a long time, I sensed something was off, but I didn’t have the words, diagnosis, or support to make sense of it. I got by by pushing forward, even when things felt too much to handle. For much of my youth and early adulthood, I struggled internally while appearing functional on the outside. Mood instability, emotional exhaustion, and periods of deep self-doubt made everyday life feel like an uphill battle. I worked, raised my children, and showed up for others, all while silently questioning why things that seemed manageable for others felt so heavy for me. The lack of an accurate diagnosis until my thirties meant I spent years blaming myself rather than understanding my brain and mental health needs. That self-blame was one of the most complex parts of the adversity I faced. Things started to change when I finally got a clear diagnosis and the right treatment. Instead of feeling defeated, I felt understood. Learning about my mental health gave me ways to manage it, instead of just struggling through. Therapy, medication, learning more about myself, and using coping strategies became part of my daily life. I also realized how important it is to speak up for myself, which I hadn’t done much before. Overcoming these challenges wasn’t about one big victory, but about taking small, steady steps toward feeling stable, kinder to myself, and growing as a person. This experience shaped me in profound ways. It taught me resilience not as perfection, but as persistence. I learned that strength does not mean never struggling; it means continuing to move forward even when progress feels slow. My adversity deepened my empathy and fueled my passion for helping others, particularly those navigating mental health challenges while caring for families or supporting others. Today, in my work within human services, I draw directly from my lived experience to help individuals with dignity, patience, and understanding. I do not just know the theory behind mental health challenges—I know what it feels like to live them. Adversity also changed how I see myself. I don’t see my struggles as weaknesses anymore, but as sources of understanding. They’ve helped me become a more thoughtful parent, a more caring professional, and a more motivated student. These experiences encouraged me to go back to school so I can make a real difference—not just for myself and my family, but for the wider community I work with. If you’re going through something similar, I want you to know you’re not broken and you’re not alone. Ask for help, even if it feels hard or overdue. There’s no deadline for healing or learning about yourself. Be patient and notice the small wins along the way. Stand up for what you need, keep supportive people close, and give yourself kindness on tough days. Most of all, remember that adversity doesn’t set your limits—it can help you find your purpose. What once felt like my biggest challenge is now the reason, I’m strong, caring, and committed to helping others find hope in their own lives.

To me, legacy isn’t about wealth or recognition. It’s about making a difference. It’s about touching lives, breaking harmful cycles, and leaving hope that lasts after I’m gone. I want my legacy to be built on compassion, resilience, and service, reflecting my own journey and my commitment to helping others heal, grow, and feel seen. My future legacy starts with the work I hope to turn into a meaningful business. I want to create a mental health and family support organization that helps parents and caregivers of children with special needs, especially those with autism. Caregivers are often expected to be strong all the time while dealing with complicated systems, fighting for services, and facing burnout, often putting their own mental health last. I know this reality well, both in my work and in my own life, and I want to build something that supports families with empathy, education, and real help. This business would be more than just a service provider. It would be a safe space. I plan to offer caregiver coaching, mental health education, peer support groups, advocacy help, and workshops on resilience and self-care. I want families to feel empowered, informed, and supported, not overwhelmed or alone. By bringing together clinical knowledge and personal experience, I hope to connect professional resources with real human support. My legacy also comes from how I show up every day. I try to be open about my own mental health journey, including the years I struggled without a clear diagnosis. Sharing my story isn’t always easy, but it helps others feel less alone and more willing to ask for help. I believe being honest is a strong way to lead, especially where there is still stigma. I also make a difference through advocacy and service. As a Direct Support Professional, I lead with empathy, patience, and respect, aiming to show what ethical, person-centered care looks like. I mentor others, encourage growth, and work to create spaces where people with disabilities are treated with dignity and compassion. Every time I help someone feel valued or supported, I add to the legacy I hope to leave. As a single parent, my legacy is closely connected to the example I set for my children. I want them to see what perseverance looks like and to understand that challenges don’t define us—how we respond does. By going after higher education, balancing work and family, and growing even when things are hard, I show them that dreams are worth chasing and purpose is worth fighting for. In the end, I want my legacy to be one of light. Light during hard times. Light for families facing uncertainty. Light for people who feel unseen or unheard. Whether it’s through a future business, a caring conversation, or the example I set, I want my life’s work to send a clear message: you matter, help is possible, and your story isn’t over. That is the legacy I am building. It is grounded in service, fueled by compassion, and meant to last long after I am gone.

I am pursuing a degree in the mental health field because I have seen how much mental health can shape every part of a person’s life, and how hard it can be when support and early help are missing. For most of my life, I struggled with emotional ups and downs and feelings I couldn’t explain. I didn’t get an accurate mental health diagnosis until my thirties. By then, I had spent years feeling misunderstood, worn out, and thinking I just had to “push through” what I now know were untreated symptoms. That experience changed me and helped me see who I want to help. As a single parent raising children with special needs, mental health is not an abstract concept in my life—it is woven into my daily responsibilities, decisions, and advocacy efforts. I understand the emotional weight caregivers carry: the constant vigilance, the burnout, the guilt, and the fear of missing signs that something deeper may be happening beneath the surface. Too often, parents and caregivers are focused entirely on meeting their children’s needs while silently neglecting their own mental well-being. My goal is to change that narrative by helping caregivers feel seen, supported, and empowered rather than overwhelmed and isolated. In my work as a Direct Support Professional, I have become even more committed to the field of mental health. Supporting people with intellectual and developmental disabilities has shown me how trauma, mental health struggles, and barriers in the system come together. I have seen how stigma, lack of access, and poor communication can keep people and families from getting the care they need. I have also seen how compassionate, trauma-informed support—through validation, patience, and consistency—can make a real difference. These experiences have taught me that good mental health care must help both the person and their environment. Through my education, I want to build a strong base in psychological theory, clinical skills, and ethical practice, while keeping a human approach to care. I am especially interested in working with parents and caregivers of children with special needs, including those dealing with autism and mental health challenges. I hope to help families spot early warning signs, find the right resources, and build coping skills for long-term resilience. Just as important, I want to help people who, like me, went years without a proper diagnosis or understanding feel validated and hopeful instead of ashamed or ignored. For me, making a difference means meeting people where they are. It means listening without judgment, teaching without talking down, and standing up for others without giving up. I plan to use my degree in roles that combine direct support, caregiver education, and community outreach. Whether through counseling, creating programs, or advocacy, I want to help break the silence and delays that many families face. In the end, I am pursuing a degree in mental health because I believe no one should spend years wondering what is “wrong” with them or feeling alone. My own experience, work background, and education help me offer empathy based on knowledge and support that leads to action. By helping people and families feel understood and prepared, I hope to make a lasting difference—one person, one family, and one conversation at a time.

I love Wicked because it tells a story that feels deeply human, exploring identity, power, friendship, and the cost of being true to yourself. Even though it takes place in the magical world of Oz, its themes reflect real-life struggles in a way that few musicals do. Wicked is more than just entertaining; it makes you think, challenges you, and feels emotionally real. One of the main reasons I connect with Wicked is its focus on perspective. The musical asks us to rethink what we know about “good” and “evil.” Elphaba, called the Wicked Witch, is not wicked at all. She is principled, smart, and stands up for what is right. Her “crime” is questioning authority and refusing to accept injustice. This feels real because, in life, people who challenge unfair systems are often misunderstood or seen as villains. Wicked shows that history is often written by those in power, and the truth can be twisted when it threatens the way things are. Elphaba’s story also powerfully shows what it’s like to be different. From the start, her green skin makes her an outsider. She is judged before she even speaks and left out before she acts. Seeing her struggle to be accepted, both by others and by herself, feels very real. Many people know what it’s like to be seen only for one trait, diagnosis, background, or identity instead of who they are. Elphaba’s choice not to hide who she is, even when it hurts, is both hard to watch and inspiring. Glinda is just as interesting. She isn’t a villain, but she is influenced by her privilege, popularity, and wanting to be liked. Her choices show how comfort and fitting in can make people drift from their values. What makes Wicked so strong is that it doesn’t show Glinda as mean or shallow—it shows her as human. She cares about Elphaba, but she doesn’t have the courage to give up her status. This moral struggle feels real, because many people face times when doing the right thing means losing something important. The friendship between Elphaba and Glinda is one of the most touching parts of the musical. Their bond is not perfect, but it is loving, sometimes strained, and very meaningful. It shows that two people can care about each other a lot and still grow apart. Their relationship is a lot like real life—friendships change, people go different ways, and love doesn’t always mean staying together. Songs like “For Good” show the bittersweet truth that people can change us forever, even if they don’t stay in our lives. The music in Wicked adds even more emotion. Songs like “Defying Gravity” are not just great performances; they stand for breaking free. When Elphaba decides to stop asking for permission and takes her own power, it’s a powerful moment. It’s about choosing honesty over approval and being true to yourself instead of giving in to fear, even when that choice has real consequences. In the end, I love Wicked because it doesn’t offer easy answers. It pushes us to question labels, authority, and what we think is right. It respects the courage it takes to stand alone and shows how complicated our choices can be. Wicked reminds us that being “good” isn’t always the same as being fair, and sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stand up for yourself, no matter what it costs.

Being a single parent has shaped every part of who I am, from my priorities and perseverance to my pursuit of higher education. My journey has not been traditional or easy, but it has been marked by determination, purpose, and a strong commitment to building a better future for my children and my community. As a single parent, I balance full-time work, parenting, and school, while also facing the challenges of raising children with special needs. My days revolve around therapy appointments, school meetings, late-night homework, and early mornings. There are times when I feel exhausted or uncertain, but I stay motivated. My children see everything I do, and I want them to learn resilience from me—not perfection, but persistence. Going to college is not just my goal; it is a promise to my children that obstacles do not set our limits. Going back to school as a single parent took courage and sacrifice. I had to learn how to manage my time again, ask for help, and speak up for myself in class. Balancing schoolwork and parenting taught me discipline, adaptability, and responsibility. I learned to focus on what matters most, keep moving forward even when progress is slow, and use setbacks as motivation. Education became more than just a credential; it became a path to stability, purpose, and service. My lived experiences have profoundly influenced my desire to make a positive impact in my community. As someone who has navigated mental health challenges, chronic stress, and systemic barriers, I understand how easily families—especially single parents—can feel overlooked or overwhelmed. I have seen firsthand how access to education, mental health support, and advocacy can change lives. This awareness has shaped my commitment to working in fields centered on care, support, and empowerment. With my education, I plan to help individuals and families who face challenges like mine. I want to speak up for parents who are stretched thin, for children who need extra support, and for communities that deserve caring, accessible resources. Whether through mental health services, community outreach, or advocacy, my goal is to help create systems that meet people where they are, without judgment or stigma. I also believe in leading by example. As a single parent going to college, I show my children and others in my community that it is never too late to invest in yourself. I hope my story encourages other parents, especially single mothers, to believe their dreams still matter. Education has given me confidence, clarity, and direction, and I am committed to using these strengths to help others. In the end, being a single parent has taught me to value empathy, resilience, and service. Higher education is not just a personal achievement for me; it is a way to create real change. By combining my education with my life experience, I hope to build a stable future for my family and make a lasting difference in my community.

I have seen healthcare from many sides throughout my life. I know what it’s like to meet with providers who hurry through visits, overlook concerns, or don’t see me as a whole person. I have also met professionals whose kindness and patience have shown me the actual value of reasonable care. These experiences confirmed my desire to work in healthcare. I want to be the kind of provider who listens closely, asks thoughtful questions, and treats patients as people, not just problems to fix. As a woman entering healthcare, I understand both the responsibility and the chance to make a difference. Women have long been central to caregiving, but their skills and leadership are often undervalued. I want to help change that by being a confident, skilled, and caring professional who stands up for patients and for fairness in the healthcare system. Representation is important, especially for patients who have felt ignored, and I aim to help build trust and understanding. I decided to study healthcare because I have seen how much the quality of care can affect someone’s life. Healthcare is more than treating symptoms; it means listening, advocating, and seeing the person behind every diagnosis. My choice comes from my own experiences, both as a patient facing health challenges and as someone who has helped loved ones during difficult times. These moments showed me that caring, knowledgeable support can change lives, while a lack of it can cause lasting harm. I want to be part of a system that heals not just bodies, but also restores dignity and hope. I care deeply about reducing gaps in healthcare access and results. Many people face obstacles because of their race, gender, income, or mental health stigma. As a woman in healthcare, I want to speak up for those who are often overlooked. I want patients to feel safe sharing their symptoms, worries, and stories, knowing they will be respected. By focusing on care that respects diverse backgrounds and on patient education, I aim to help people take charge of their health rather than feel left out. I also want to make a broader impact through education and advocacy. This could mean supporting prevention programs, raising awareness about mental health, or helping with community health projects. I want my work to go beyond the clinic or hospital. Healthcare should be proactive, easy to access, and built on trust, and I plan to use my education to help make that happen. In the end, I chose healthcare because it lets me bring together knowledge, compassion, and a sense of purpose. As a woman in this field, I want to lead with empathy, fight unfairness, and help build a system that values everyone equally. My goal is to provide care and also make real change, one patient, one conversation, and one community at a time.

Giving back has always been a part of my life, shaped by necessity, empathy, and my own experiences. I learned about service early on, through my mental health journey, my work with people with disabilities, and as a parent to children with special needs. These experiences showed me that real impact often comes from being present, advocating, and showing compassion where it matters most, not just from big gestures. Right now, I give back as a Direct Support Professional, helping people with intellectual and developmental disabilities live with dignity and independence. My job is more than just helping with daily routines. I build trust, encourage independence, and make sure everyone feels seen, heard, and respected. Many people I support have been overlooked, so I focus on advocating for their needs and highlighting their strengths. This work has taught me patience, humility, and the value of meeting people where they are. I also give back through lived advocacy in mental health spaces. As someone diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder, I also give back by sharing my experiences in mental health spaces. I was diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder as an adult, after years of confusion and silent struggle, so I know how isolating stigma and misunderstanding can be. When it feels right, I talk about my experiences to help normalize mental health conversations, encourage early help, and remind others that asking for support is not a weakness. Whether I’m supporting friends, family, coworkers, or other parents, I try to be someone who listens without judgment and responds with empathy. Involvement in educational systems, healthcare, and support services has required me to become an advocate not only for my own children but also for others who may not have the knowledge or resources to advocate for themselves. I often share information, encouragement, and guidance with other parents who feel overwhelmed or unseen. In doing so, I aim to build a community where isolation once existed. Looking ahead, my future impact is rooted in education and intentional service. Through my studies in psychology and mental health, I look forward to the future implications of teaching and purposeful service. By studying psychology and mental health, I hope to support better people from marginalized communities, especially those facing mental illness, disability, or other barriers. My goal is to find a role where I can use both clinical knowledge and compassion to help people build coping skills, self-advocacy, and hope for the future, and to help shape policies that prioritize early diagnosis, holistic care, and family-centered support. By bridging lived experience with professional training, I hope to create environments where people feel empowered rather than defined by their diagnoses. Ultimately, my vision for impact is simple but powerful: to leave people better than I found them. Whether I’m providing care, advocating, teaching, or mentoring, I want to keep giving back in ways that respect dignity, resilience, and humanity. My past shaped my compassion, my present shows my commitment, and I plan for my future to be about serving others with purpose.

When I was a teenager, I didn’t have the words to describe what I was going through. Life felt unbearably heavy, and some days, just waking up seemed like a battle I wasn’t sure I wanted to fight. I watched others move forward while I felt stuck in a mix of sadness, confusion, and emotional extremes I couldn’t explain. Back then, I thought my struggles were personal flaws, not signs of an undiagnosed mental illness. It took many years before I realized my pain was not a weakness, but a signal that called for understanding, care, and compassion. Mental health has influenced almost every part of my life, including my goals, relationships, and how I see myself and the world. For a long time, I lived without clear answers. As a teenager, I went through deep depressive episodes that made me question my worth and sometimes even my will to keep going. Without a diagnosis or support, I kept these feelings inside and thought something was wrong with me. I learned to appear fine on the outside while struggling quietly on the inside, hiding my pain just to get by. Things started to change in my thirties when I was diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder. The diagnosis didn’t erase the pain of my past, but it helped me make sense of my experiences. Suddenly, the long depressive episodes, bursts of energy and productivity, and the exhaustion that followed all fit together. What once felt like chaos now had a name. Most importantly, the diagnosis allowed me to stop blaming myself and begin to heal. It was a turning point, moving me from just surviving to building a life based on understanding and stability. My experiences with mental health have shaped my goals, especially my decision to pursue education and a career in the mental health field. This choice is deeply personal, not just about academic interest. I know what it’s like to struggle in silence, feel misunderstood, and want help but not know where to find it. These experiences drive me to advocate for people who feel invisible in the healthcare system, especially those from marginalized communities where mental health is often ignored or stigmatized. I want to become a professional who offers both clinical knowledge and empathy based on real experience. Education has become a way for me to change, both for myself and for those I hope to help. Mental health has also transformed the way I approach relationships. For many years, I hid my struggles out of fear that honesty would make me appear weak or unworthy of connection. I learned, often through painful trial and error, that suppressing my truth created distance rather than closeness. Through therapy and self-reflection, I have learned how to communicate openly, set healthy boundaries, and ask for support without shame. These skills have allowed me to build deeper, more authentic relationships rooted in mutual understanding and respect. As a parent, my mental health journey has greatly influenced how I support my children, including those with special needs. My experiences have made me more patient, emotionally aware, and thoughtful about how I teach coping skills. I know how important emotional regulation, validation, and open communication are for a child’s sense of safety and self-worth. I work to create an environment where emotions are recognized, not ignored, and where my children learn early that mental health is important. I want them to grow up knowing it’s normal to ask for help, a lesson I learned much later than I should have. Living with a mental health condition has also reshaped my understanding of the world. I no longer view people’s behaviors at face value. Instead, I see complexity—unspoken struggles, systemic barriers, and invisible battles. Mental health has taught me empathy in its most valid form. It has made me more patient, less judgmental, and more aware of how factors such as race, socioeconomic status, access to healthcare, and family dynamics influence mental health outcomes. My experiences have opened my eyes to the inequities within mental health systems and strengthened my commitment to advocacy and reform. Managing Bipolar II takes ongoing effort, including therapy, medication, self-awareness, and changes to my daily life. Recovery isn’t a straight path, and I’ve learned that making progress doesn’t mean being perfect. Mental health has taught me to be resilient, disciplined, and kind to myself. These lessons have helped me in my studies, letting me face challenges with focus and determination. I no longer see my diagnosis as a limitation, but as a responsibility to care for myself and use what I’ve learned to help others. What once felt like a burden is now a source of purpose. My experiences with mental health have shaped my goals, led me toward helping others, and made my relationships stronger through honesty and empathy. They have also changed how I see the world, grounding me in compassion and advocacy. Going forward, I am committed to using my education, voice, and experience to improve access to mental health support, fight stigma, and help others feel seen, understood, and valued, because I know from experience how life-changing that support can be.

My experience with mental health has involved challenges, resilience, and significant personal growth. For much of my life, I felt emotions I couldn’t name: deep cycles of depression, bursts of energy that started out productive but soon became overwhelming, and a tiring sense that something was wrong with me. As a teenager, I struggled quietly, often thinking my emotional ups and downs were my own fault instead of signs of something deeper. At my lowest, I questioned my worth and whether I wanted to keep going—not because I had no hope, but because I didn’t understand what was happening. I wasn’t diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder until my thirties. At first, the diagnosis felt overwhelming, but it also brought relief. For the first time, I could make sense of my experiences. What used to feel chaotic now had an explanation, and that understanding helped me be kinder to myself. The diagnosis was a turning point that changed shame into self-awareness and fear into determination. I realized that mental illness didn’t limit my potential; instead, it showed me how important it is to care for my mental health on purpose and with consistency. Living with Bipolar II has taught me resilience in unexpected ways. Balancing depressive episodes with my roles as a student, professional, and parent has taken discipline, flexibility, and patience. I’ve learned to pay attention to my body and mind, notice early warning signs, and ask for help without seeing it as a weakness. These skills took time to develop, and I gained them through experience, reflection, and a commitment to growing. Education has played a big role in my healing. Going back to school wasn’t just about getting a degree; it was about rebuilding my confidence and showing myself that mental health challenges wouldn’t decide my future. Studying psychology and mental health has given me both knowledge and a sense of empowerment. Learning about mood disorders, trauma, emotional regulation, and resilience has helped me understand myself better and made me want to help others who feel lost or misunderstood. My educational goals are based on helping others. I want to keep building a career in mental health advocacy and support, especially for underserved and marginalized communities. Because I’ve experienced the confusion and stigma of mental illness, I hope to offer understanding and encouragement to others, especially those who don’t yet have the words or resources to describe what they’re going through. Education gives me the tools to turn my experiences into real impact. For me, recovery isn’t a final goal but an ongoing process. My plan for managing my mental health is thoughtful and realistic. It involves regular medical care, following treatment plans, and staying in touch with mental health professionals. Just as important are daily habits that help me stay stable, like keeping routines, getting enough sleep, setting healthy boundaries, and taking time to reflect. I’ve learned that wellness comes from small, steady actions, not from being perfect. I also depend a lot on support systems like trusted family members, friends, and mentors who understand my journey and remind me that I don’t have to go through it alone. Being open about my mental health has made my relationships stronger and helped me show my children what honesty and resilience look like. I want them to know that asking for help is a strength, not a weakness. Now, I don’t see my mental health journey as something that held me back. Instead, it has made me more empathetic, motivated, and self-aware. My experiences have inspired my academic goals, helped me find my purpose, and strengthened my commitment to recovery and growth. I move forward with hope, not because the journey is easy, but because I have the tools, insight, and determination to keep building a life defined by strength, purpose, and possibility—not by illness.

Mental health has played a major and sometimes painful role in my life. Before I even knew how to talk about it, I was already living with it, feeling confused, overwhelmed, and suffering in silence. Living with Bipolar II disorder has changed how I see myself and taught me about resilience, empathy, and why early mental health awareness matters. When I was a teenager, I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I just knew something felt very off. My emotions were strong and changed quickly. Sometimes I felt full of energy and ambition, but then I would suddenly fall into deep sadness, exhaustion, and self-doubt. I felt different from my peers and couldn’t explain why. I blamed myself for being 'too emotional,' 'too sensitive,' or 'too much,' and started to believe I was broken. During my teenage years, that confusion turned dark. I remember moments when I genuinely did not want to be alive anymore. It wasn’t that I wanted to die as much as I enjoyed the pain, the chaos in my mind, and the constant emotional whiplash to stop. I didn’t understand why simple things felt so hard or why my thoughts could turn so cruel toward myself. At that age, mental health was rarely discussed openly, and I didn’t have the words—or the courage—to ask for help. I carried that pain silently, believing I was weak for struggling. When I became an adult, the same pattern continued. I learned how to keep up with work, parenting, and school on the outside, while inside I was dealing with cycles of hypomania and depression. When I had lots of energy, I took on too much and pushed myself too hard. When I was depressed, I struggled with motivation, self-worth, and felt like a failure. I got good at hiding how I felt, convincing others and sometimes even myself that I was okay. It wasn’t until I was in my 30s that things finally made sense. Getting diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder changed my life. At first, it was scary. The diagnosis made me face years of untreated mental illness and pain. But it also felt validating. For the first time, I realized that wanting to disappear as a teenager wasn’t a personal flaw. It was a symptom of an illness I didn’t know about. I wasn’t weak or broken. I was just struggling without support. After my diagnosis, I started treatment, therapy, and became more self-aware. I learned to notice my triggers, respect my limits, and take care of my mental health on purpose. I began to grieve for my younger self, the teenager who wanted to die just because she didn’t know what was wrong. At the same time, I felt proud for making it through those years without answers. Today, living with Bipolar II has given me a sense of purpose. I feel deep compassion for others who struggle in silence, especially young people who feel alone or misunderstood. It has made me want to speak up for mental health education, early diagnosis, and better access to care. No one should have to wait years to understand themselves. Mental health has had a big impact on my life, but it doesn’t define me by my hardest times. Instead, it has given me strength, perspective, and a sense of purpose. I am still here, not because it was easy, but because I learned my life has value, even on the toughest days. That is a truth I hold onto now, with hope and purpose.

Mental illness has been one of the most defining and misunderstood parts of my life. It has influenced how I see myself, how I move through the world, and how much I understand the struggles of others. For a long time, only I could see my challenges. On the outside, I looked capable and determined. On the inside, I was often fighting a quiet, exhausting battle just to stay balanced and hopeful. I have been diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder, depression, and anxiety. These conditions have touched almost every part of my life, from my energy and focus to my confidence and self-worth. Sometimes, depression made even simple tasks feel overwhelming, and getting out of bed took more strength than anyone realized. During hypomanic times, I pushed myself to keep going, not seeing how much it would cost me later. Living with these ups and downs has meant always paying attention to myself and making changes as needed. For many years, I struggled in silence. Like many people, I was afraid of the stigma around mental illness and worried that admitting my struggles would make me seem weak or unable to cope. Instead of asking for help, I tried to handle everything myself: school, work, parenting, and daily life. Meanwhile, my mental health was getting worse. This way of coping led to burnout, self-doubt, and times when I wondered if I could build the future I wanted. Over time, I learned that real strength comes from being honest and persistent, not from staying silent. Going to therapy, sticking with treatment, and finding healthy ways to cope changed my life. I learned to notice warning signs, speak up for what I need, and be kind to myself on tough days. Managing mental illness is not something you do just once. It takes ongoing self-care, responsibility, and growth. Some days are harder than others, but every step forward has made me more resilient. Mental illness has also shaped my empathy and sense of purpose. Because I know what it feels like to be overwhelmed, misunderstood, or judged, I am very sensitive to what others go through. My experiences have taught me patience, compassion, and the value of meeting people where they are. Instead of letting my diagnoses hold me back, I use them to guide the kind of person I want to be: someone who listens without judgment and supports others with real care and understanding. Today, I see my mental health journey not as a weakness, but as a source of strength and insight. It has taught me to keep going, to stay humble, and to put my well-being first, even as I work toward my goals. I keep pursuing my education and personal dreams with a better understanding of what I need and more confidence in myself. Mental illness has been a hard part of my story, but it has also taught me a lot. It has made me more resilient, more compassionate, and clearer about my purpose. My diagnoses do not define me. What defines me is my drive to grow, to heal, and to use what I have learned to bring understanding and hope to myself and others.

My journey toward higher education has been anything but simple. It has been shaped by challenges, responsibility, and perseverance, but also by a strong belief that education can change my life and the lives of those around me. Managing chronic health conditions while staying focused on my studies has been one of my biggest challenges. Dealing with high blood pressure, PCOS, type 2 diabetes, and mental health struggles has meant I need discipline, medical care, and self-advocacy every day. Some days, fatigue, pain, or emotional exhaustion made it hard to concentrate, but I learned to adapt instead of giving up. I built routines, reached out for help, and reminded myself that my health does not define my abilities or my future. Along with my health challenges, I also balance school with being a single parent to children with special needs and working full time. My roles as a student, parent, and provider all overlap, often making life feel overwhelming. I study late at night after my kids go to bed, wake up early before work, and face moments of doubt. Financial stress and limited time have pushed me to become organized, resilient, and focused on my goals. Even with these challenges, I stay committed to my education because I believe it is the key to stability, opportunity, and lasting change. These challenges have not discouraged me; instead, they have given me a sense of purpose. My experiences have helped me understand how systemic barriers, health disparities, and limited resources affect people and families, especially in marginalized communities. Education has given me the words, knowledge, and confidence to see these problems more clearly and to look for solutions instead of focusing on limitations. In the future, I want to use my education to give back by working in mental health and human services, helping people and families who face challenges like mine. I hope to advocate for mental health care that is accessible, compassionate, and culturally sensitive. Through direct support, community outreach, or policy work, my goal is to help others see their value and potential, even when life is hard. I also want to be a role model for my children and my community, showing that perseverance, education, and self-belief can break cycles and create new opportunities. My path through higher education has been challenging, but it has strengthened my belief that real change starts with resilience, learning, and the courage to keep moving forward.

Living with chronic illness has deeply influenced my education, pushing me to be persistent, flexible, and strong in ways that go beyond schoolwork. Managing Type 2 diabetes, high blood pressure, PCOS, and ongoing mental health challenges like depression has touched almost every part of my academic life. These conditions affect my energy, mood, and focus, but they have also made me more resilient and more determined to keep learning, no matter the obstacles. Type 2 diabetes requires me to stay alert and disciplined every day. I have to check my blood sugar, take medication, and make lifestyle changes, even when I have exams or big assignments. When my blood sugar is off, I feel tired, foggy, and have trouble focusing, which makes schoolwork harder. Managing high blood pressure also means regular doctor visits and keeping my stress in check, so I have to pace myself, especially when school gets busy. PCOS makes my health and education even more complicated. It affects my hormones, energy, and overall well-being, often making me feel tired and making my diabetes and mental health symptoms worse. Because PCOS symptoms can be unpredictable, I’ve learned to listen closely to my body and take charge of my health while keeping up with school. Dealing with a condition that people often misunderstand has also taught me how important it is to speak up for myself with doctors and teachers. On top of my physical health issues, dealing with depression has also shaped my education. Sometimes, I’ve struggled to find motivation, and finishing assignments has taken a lot of mental effort. Depression affects more than just my mood—it makes it harder to concentrate, remember things, and believe in myself. Balancing schoolwork while managing my mental health often feels like carrying a weight that no one else can see. Even with these challenges, I have stayed focused on my education. For me, being resilient means speaking up for myself with teachers, being honest when my health affects my work, and using academic accommodations as a way to succeed, not as a weakness. I’ve built routines, learned to manage my time, and practiced self-care to support my health. Getting professional help and finding healthy ways to cope have helped me manage depression and stay involved in my studies. Living with chronic illness has also given me a stronger sense of purpose. Dealing with diabetes, PCOS, high blood pressure, and mental health issues has made me more aware of the gaps in healthcare, mental health support, and education for people with chronic conditions. These experiences have made me want to use my education to help and speak up for others facing the same challenges. What used to feel like limits now give me empathy, understanding, and motivation. Getting this scholarship would make a big difference in helping me keep going with my education. Paying for medical appointments, prescriptions, treatments, and ongoing care is stressful, especially on top of tuition and other school costs. This scholarship would ease some of that stress, so I could focus more on my studies and keep up with my healthcare and mental health needs. More than financial assistance, this scholarship represents belief in resilience, perseverance, and potential. This scholarship means more than just monetary help—it shows belief in resilience, perseverance, and potential. With this support, I can keep working toward my goals with more stability and confidence. I want to use my education to build a better future for myself and to raise awareness about mental and physical health. Chronic illness does not set my limits; strength and determination do.

Supporting the mental health of others has always been a part of my daily life. It shapes who I am as a parent, a professional, and a student. As a Direct Support Professional, I work with people who have intellectual and developmental disabilities, and many also face anxiety, trauma, or challenges with emotional regulation. In my job, I do more than provide care. I listen, help calm difficult situations, validate feelings, and create safe spaces where people feel seen and respected. Often, just being a steady and caring presence helps someone move from feeling overwhelmed to feeling understood. My commitment to mental health support starts at home. As a single parent of children with special needs, I work every day to encourage emotional awareness, open communication, and self-regulation. I show healthy ways to cope, support honest emotional expression, and make mental wellness a priority, even when things are stressful. These experiences have shown me that emotional support is not always about saying the right thing. It is about being patient, showing empathy, and being there consistently. As a psychology student, I am working to build the knowledge and clinical skills that will help me support others even more. My studies help me spot mental health warning signs, use proven coping strategies, and understand how trauma, environment, and identity affect emotional well-being. I want to use my education to work in mental health services and advocate for people from marginalized communities who often face barriers to care. In my future career, I want to create spaces where people feel safe, heard, and able to heal. Whether I am providing counseling, working in community mental health programs, or doing advocacy, my goal is to help others build resilience and self-worth. Mental health support has changed my life and the lives of those I help. I am committed to using my experience and training so that others never feel alone as they work toward healing.

I want to build a life that is stable, meaningful, and focused on helping others. I hope my children will see that resilience, compassion, and education can truly change a family’s path. What I am working toward is not just a job or a title, but a future based on mental health advocacy, community support, and healing across generations. My education is the foundation of what I want to build. As a psychology major and a mental health professional, I am gaining the knowledge and skills to support people and families who are often overlooked, including those facing mental illness, developmental disabilities, trauma, and other challenges. For me, education is a way to empower myself and others. Every class I finish and every new idea I learn helps me become a better advocate and a stronger leader in my community. I am also working to create a healthier view of mental health, beginning at home. As a single mother of children with special needs, I know how stress, stigma, and limited resources can affect families. By showing emotional awareness, practicing self-care, and staying persistent, I am making my home a place where we talk about mental health openly and support each other. I want this approach to reach beyond my family and into my community, where I encourage open conversations about mental wellness and help others feel comfortable seeking support. In my career, I focus on service and inclusion. As a Direct Support Professional and supervisor, I help create systems that support dignity, self-advocacy, and independence for people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. Every small step, like improving training, pushing for better support, or just listening, adds up to a more compassionate and fairer environment. In the end, I am working toward a future where challenges do not set limits but inspire purpose. This journey is making me stronger and more empathetic, and it is having a positive impact on my community. By focusing on education, advocacy, and service, I hope to build a life that lifts up my family and helps create a more caring and resilient world for everyone.

As a psychology student and mental health professional, my learning continues well beyond textbooks and online classes. I use a variety of online platforms, tools, and digital resources to better understand psychology, mental health advocacy, and human behavior. More importantly, these resources help me apply what I learn in real-life situations. They have become key links between theory and practice, supporting my growth as a student, caregiver, advocate, and future mental health professional. Online academic databases, like Google Scholar and my college’s digital library, are among the most valuable tools I have. They give me access to peer-reviewed articles, evidence-based studies, and up-to-date research on topics such as trauma, neurodevelopmental disorders, bipolar disorder, and community mental health. Reading this research helps me go deeper than a basic understanding and think critically about how psychological theories are tested and improved. This has made me better at using evidence-based practices in my work as a Direct Support Professional, especially when helping people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. I also use learning platforms like Coursera, Khan Academy, and OpenStax, which explain complex psychological ideas in simple ways. These resources are helpful when I need to review basics like cognitive processes, abnormal psychology, or ethical decision-making from a new angle. Their flexibility lets me learn at my own pace while managing work, parenting, and school. By supporting what I learn in class, these tools help me understand the material better and feel more confident using it in real life. Mental health advocacy organizations like the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), Mental Health America, and SAMHSA have also shaped how I use what I learn. They provide webinars, toolkits, and real-life examples that link psychological theory to community support. Since I have personal experience with mental health challenges and raise children with special needs, these platforms help me turn academic knowledge into caring, trauma-informed advocacy. They also remind me to stay connected to the real experiences of the people I want to help. I often listen to podcasts, watch TED Talks, and follow educational YouTube channels about psychology and mental health. Hearing from professionals, researchers, and people with lived experience on topics like resilience, stigma, emotional regulation, and recovery helps me connect with the material in a more personal way. These formats show me how psychological ideas appear in daily life and help me explain complex topics in clear, caring ways, which is important in mental health work. Online discussion boards, peer forums, and virtual classrooms have also helped me learn from others. Taking part in academic discussions pushes me to express my ideas clearly, think about different viewpoints, and reflect on my own beliefs. This kind of teamwork is similar to mental health work, where understanding others is very important. All these online platforms and tools have changed the way I learn and use what I know. They help me link theory to practice, research to advocacy, and learning to service. By using these resources on purpose, I am building a strong academic base and getting ready to be a caring, knowledgeable mental health professional who can make a real difference for others.

This opportunity means a lot to me because it is more than just financial help. It gives me hope, encouragement, and reminds me that my story matters. My path has not been easy or simple, but through every challenge and success, my faith has been the steady foundation that helped me keep going when I wanted to give up. I see this opportunity as a point where perseverance, prayer, and purpose come together. At times, the responsibilities and challenges in my life felt like too much to handle. As a single parent working full time and going to school, I was often pushed past what I thought I could manage. Caring for children with special needs brought even more emotional, physical, and financial stress. Some days I was exhausted and unsure, and I wondered if I could keep going with my education. But in those moments, my faith reminded me that I was not alone. During hard times, my faith was my safe place. When things felt impossible and problems kept coming, prayer helped me find clarity and strength. I learned to trust that even if I could not see what would happen, God was still helping me. Faith taught me to be patient when things moved slowly and to be brave when I was afraid. It showed me that my struggles were not failures, but steps toward a bigger purpose. One of my hardest challenges was figuring out how to keep going while dealing with both my own struggles and those passed down through my family. There were times when I felt so tired and invisible that I wanted to give up. But my faith kept me steady in those dark times, reminding me that my life still mattered—not just for me, but for my children and the people I hope to help. Deciding to keep going was an act of faith. Because I never gave up on my beliefs, I have reached goals that once seemed out of reach. I went back to school, managed work and family, and did not let my situation decide my future. Each time I reached a new goal in school, it showed not just my hard work, but my faith in action. I started to see my story as one of resilience and growth, not just struggle. Faith helped me see challenges as steps forward, not as things that stopped me. As I look to the future, I plan to keep letting my faith guide me as I aim higher. My goals are not just about my own success—I want to help others, especially people facing mental health issues, disabilities, and other big challenges. Faith reminds me to lead with kindness, humility, and honesty. It encourages me to speak up for people who are often ignored and to focus on purpose, not pride, in my future work. This opportunity would lift a big weight off my shoulders and let me focus more on my education and my purpose. It shows that sticking with faith really does matter. I live out my faith every day, letting it guide my choices, shape my values, and remind me that real success is about making a difference, not just reaching goals. My story is about endurance, belief, and growth. With faith guiding me, I am committed to keep moving forward, reaching higher, helping others, and honoring the purpose I have been given.

Mental health matters to me as a student because it helps me show up, learn, keep going, and succeed in all areas of life. School requires focus, resilience, and self-belief, but those are hard to maintain without good mental health. For me, mental health is not just a topic in textbooks. It is something I deal with every day as I juggle classes, a full-time job, parenting, and my own healing. Taking care of my mental health is how I survive, grow, and respect myself. As a student, I have learned that my ability to learn is directly connected to my emotional and psychological state. There have been moments when stress, anxiety, or mood instability threatened to derail my academic goals. Instead of viewing those struggles as personal failures, I began to understand them as signals—indicators that I needed support, structure, and compassion. Prioritizing mental health has taught me how to advocate for myself, ask for accommodations when needed, and develop healthier coping strategies. This awareness has not only improved my academic performance but also strengthened my confidence and sense of agency. Living with mental health challenges, including Bipolar II, has shaped how I speak up for mental health in my community. At home, I start with honesty. As a parent, especially to kids with special needs, I try to make our home a safe place where we talk about feelings instead of ignoring them. I show how to manage emotions, talk openly about how we feel, and remind my children that asking for help is okay. By making these conversations normal, I hope to end the silence and stigma many families face. Within my school community, I advocate for mental health by being open about my journey when appropriate. I have learned that vulnerability can be powerful. Sharing my experiences—balancing school with mental health, parenting, and work—often encourages others to open up about their own struggles. Whether it is through class discussions, peer conversations, or group projects, I actively promote understanding, empathy, and flexibility. I remind peers that behind every deadline or grade is a human being with a complex life. In my job and in my community, I focus on taking action to support mental health. I work in mental health and human services, helping people who are often left out or ignored. I speak up for care that understands trauma, puts people first, and respects different cultures. I push back against labels like “difficult” and try to see the real needs behind behaviors. For me, advocacy means listening, believing people’s experiences, and helping them get the support they need. I also support mental health by making education a priority. I look for information about mental health, proven ways to help, and local resources so I can share the right facts with others. Wrong information leads to stigma, but learning helps people get help and support each other. By working toward my degree, I am preparing myself to make a real difference for others. In the end, mental health matters to me as a student because it stands for hope—the idea that people can heal, grow, and do well even when life is hard. Advocacy is not always big or public. Sometimes it means checking on a classmate, setting healthy limits, or just getting through tough days. With my words, actions, and education, I want to help build a community where mental health is seen as necessary, not just a nice extra.

There was a time in my life when faith stopped being something I talked about easily and became something I held onto for dear life. On the outside, I kept up with work, parenting, and my responsibilities. Inside, though, I was falling apart. I felt drained in every way as I tried to handle mental health struggles, single parenthood, money problems, and the constant worry about being strong enough for my children. Three of them have special needs. What I faced wasn’t just one event, but a slow build-up of pain that made me wonder if I had the strength or even the reason to keep going. There were times when I wanted to give up completely. I felt crushed by expectations I couldn’t meet and fears I couldn’t calm. At night, the silence felt overwhelming, filled with unanswered prayers, self-doubt, and a deep sense of being alone. During this darkest time, my faith changed from something in the background to something I depended on to survive. I remember one night especially well. After a long day of appointments, emotional outbursts, and my own struggles, I put my kids to bed and sat on the edge of my own bed, crying. It wasn’t because I was weak, but because I was completely worn out. I didn’t have the words for a perfect prayer. All I could say was, “God, I can’t do this alone anymore.” In that moment, something shifted. My situation didn’t change, but my heart did. I realized that faith didn’t mean I had to be strong—it just meant I had to be honest. Trusting my faith didn’t make my problems go away overnight. I still had tough days, setbacks, and a lot of uncertainty. But faith helped me see things differently. It reminded me that my life mattered beyond my pain and that my struggles had meaning. Through prayer, reading Scripture, and quiet moments, I started to notice small signs of grace, like encouragement when I needed it, opportunities showing up at the right time, and a sense of peace that didn’t match my circumstances. My faith also gave me purpose when I felt lost. It reminded me that I was still needed—not just by my children, but by others who might one day need someone who understands pain, strength, and hope. This belief led me to choose a career in mental health. I wanted to become the person I once needed: someone who listens without judging and reminds others that their story isn’t over. Looking back, I can honestly say that faith didn’t take away my hardships, but it helped me get through them. It showed me that real strength isn’t about never struggling but about choosing to keep going anyway. By leaning on my faith, I learned that even imperfect prayers are heard, and tired hearts can find new hope. Even now, I still have challenges, but I don’t face them alone anymore. My faith guides me, grounds me, and reminds me that purpose can come from pain. I’m still here, not because life got easier, but because faith gave me the courage to believe my life still matters.

I remember sitting in a waiting room with my child, paperwork piled on my lap, as a clinician explained a diagnosis using words that felt cold and clinical. Even so, their meaning weighed heavily on me. I had questions, fears, and a strong need to be understood, but I felt invisible. In that moment, I realized how overwhelming mental health systems can be, especially for Black families and single parents who already face so many barriers. That experience started my journey into higher education and led me to pursue a degree in psychology. I am an African American woman, a single mother, a full-time professional, and a psychology student motivated by my own experiences. My path to college was not straightforward. I faced mental health struggles, caregiving duties, financial stress, and the ongoing challenge of caring for my family while working on my own goals. Each challenge made my purpose clearer: I want to help others feel seen, heard, and supported. I chose to study psychology because mental illness has affected almost every part of my life. I have my own mental health diagnosis, have seen substance use disorder affect loved ones, and have raised children with special needs who need ongoing support in schools and with doctors. These experiences made me more determined. I want to be a mental health professional who understands trauma from real life, not just from books, and who provides care that is compassionate, culturally aware, and respectful. Representation in this field is very important. African Americans make up less than 5% of licensed psychologists in the United States, and Black women are an even smaller group. In my program, there are very few students who share my background, family responsibilities, and experiences. I take this seriously. I represent voices that are often missing from clinical spaces, voices shaped by resilience, culture, and survival. My plan to help my community starts with service. In my current job, I support people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, and I have seen how steady, caring support can change lives. I want to build on this by working in community mental health, speaking up for early help, and supporting families who face complicated systems with few resources. I am especially passionate about helping Black families and single parents who often face stigma, misinformation, or distrust when they seek mental health care. Inspiring the next generation is equally important to me. Inspiring the next generation matters to me just as much. I want young people, especially young Black girls, to see someone like them succeed in a field where they have not often been represented. I plan to mentor, share my story, and show that success does not require a perfect path. By being honest about my struggles and staying committed, I hope to show that perseverance is typical and encourage others to consider careers in mental health and higher education. Purpose. I am proof that adversity can fuel direction, that education can be transformative, and that representation creates possibility. By pursuing this degree, I am not only investing in my future—I am widening the path for those who will follow. My goal is to increase the odds, change the narrative, and leave my community stronger than I found it.

I did not start my education with a clear dream or a detailed plan. I started it tired, sitting at my kitchen table late at night, surrounded by therapy schedules, unfinished homework, and the heavy responsibility of raising three children who rely on me in unique ways. At first, education was not about ambition; it was about getting through each day. Over time, though, it became much more. Education gave me direction when life felt too much and purpose when the future seemed unclear. It became the link between who I had to be and who I want to become. I was raised in a family shaped by both strength and struggle. From an early age, I witnessed the impact of mental health challenges, substance use, and instability on the people I loved most. Even under challenging circumstances, I learned resilience by watching adults persevere through hardship while still showing up for their families. Those experiences planted questions that stayed with me long before I could articulate them: Why do some people receive support while others are left behind? Why does access to care feel like a privilege instead of a right? Though I didn’t yet have answers, those questions quietly shaped my sense of purpose. Becoming a parent made my sense of responsibility and direction even stronger. As a single mother of three children with special needs, my life is centered on advocacy, patience, and persistence. Balancing full-time work, caregiving, and school is one of the hardest things I have ever done. My days are filled with therapy appointments, school meetings, work shifts, and late-night studying after my children go to bed. Sometimes, I feel so tired that quitting seems easier. But education gives me a reason to keep going. Every class I finish reminds me that I am building a better future for myself and my children. My academic journey has been anything but linear. Along the way, I have had to confront my own mental health challenges, including learning to manage bipolar II disorder while meeting academic and professional expectations. There were times when self-doubt convinced me that I was asking too much of myself, that success belonged to people with fewer responsibilities and fewer obstacles. Education taught me to challenge those beliefs. Through coursework in psychology and human services, I learned to view mental health not as a personal failure, but as a condition deserving understanding, treatment, and compassion. That shift reshaped how I see myself and strengthened my desire to support others navigating similar struggles. Working as a Direct Support Professional helped me see my goals more clearly. In this job, I support people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, who are often misunderstood or left out. Education helped me connect what I learned in class to real situations. Ideas like person-centered planning, trauma-informed care, and ethical advocacy now guide my daily work. I have seen how respectful support can help people find their voice, make choices, and live with dignity. These experiences showed me that my education is not just about getting a degree; it is about becoming someone who can make a real difference. One of the hardest things I have faced is believing that I belong in academic spaces. For years, I felt left behind in many ways: financially, emotionally, and academically. Education changed that story by showing me that my life experience is a strength, not a weakness. Being a single parent, mental health advocate, and caregiver adds to my learning and makes me more committed to this field. I study not just out of curiosity, but with urgency, because I know what I learn can truly help others. Looking forward, I want to use my education to speak up for fair, ethical, and culturally aware mental health and disability services. My goal is to work in jobs where I can help families find their way through complicated systems, especially those facing money or social challenges. I hope to support programs that treat mental health and disability with respect and see how family, community, and care are all connected. Education has given me the words, confidence, and skills to help create solutions instead of just watching unfairness happen. To my children, my education means hope. They watch me study after long days, go to class even when I am tired, and choose to keep going instead of giving up. I want them to know that education is not about being perfect; it is about being strong. By staying in school, I am showing them that challenges do not set our limits—they show us how strong we are. Education has shaped my goals by giving my life meaning. It turned hard times into purpose and confusion into direction. I am no longer just reacting to what happens; I am working to build a future based on service, compassion, and advocacy. Through education, I am changing my own life and showing that growth is possible even in the toughest times. With determination, knowledge, and courage, we can build a future that goes beyond just surviving and moves toward lasting impact.

Adversity has never entered my life quietly. It has come in waves, both physical and mental, often overlapping and forcing me to decide whether to pause or keep going. There were times when just getting out of bed felt like a win, when exhaustion was stronger than ambition, and when my career goals seemed far away and uncertain. Still, each challenge has shaped how I move forward, teaching me that resilience is something I practice every day. Mental health challenges have been one of the biggest obstacles I have faced. Dealing with them meant I had to be honest about my limits, but I refused to let those limits define me. Sometimes I lost focus, struggled to find motivation, and doubted myself. Instead of giving in, I took steps to protect my future. I got professional help, stuck with treatment, and learned to spot early warning signs so I could act before things got worse. Making my mental health a priority became a key part of my life—not a weakness, but a strategy that helped me keep going. Physical challenges have also affected me, especially the constant tiredness from juggling work, school, parenting, and caregiving. Some days, my body reminded me that determination by itself was not enough. Rather than ignore these signs, I learned to work more efficiently. I created routines to make the most of my energy, set goals I could realistically achieve, and let myself rest without feeling guilty. This discipline helped me stay consistent in my studies and work, even when I felt worn out. Another important step I took was changing how I see progress. Facing adversity showed me that success is not always about big achievements; sometimes it comes quietly through steady effort. I broke my goals into smaller steps, like finishing one class or learning one skill at a time, and focused on growing instead of being perfect. This helped me keep moving toward my career goals, even when things were tough. My work experience has also given me strength. By supporting people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, I learned to stay calm in a crisis, speak up for others under pressure, and lead with empathy. These experiences made me even more committed to a career in mental health and reminded me why it is important to keep going. Even when I faced my own challenges, helping others gave me purpose and made me stronger. Most importantly, I have focused on my reason for doing this work. My wish to help others with mental health challenges comes from what I have gone through myself. Every obstacle has made me more understanding, compassionate, and determined to make a real difference. Adversity did not stop my career goals; it made them clearer. Today, I keep moving forward with purpose. I take care of my mental and physical health, ask for help when I need it, and stay committed to growing and learning. The challenges I have faced did not stop me; they taught me how to adapt, keep going, and lead honestly. My career goals exist because I learned how to overcome adversity.

Some dreams come from ambition. Mine grew out of exhaustion, resilience, and the quiet understanding that survival should not be anyone’s highest goal. My “pie in the sky” dream is to create a trauma-informed mental health and support center for families who are often overlooked, like single parents, caregivers of children with special needs, and people facing mental illness without enough support. This dream feels just out of reach, not because it lacks purpose, but because it asks for more courage, patience, and growth than anything I have tried before. This dream did not happen overnight. It grew from my life experiences. I was raised by a single mother who worked in mental health, and she taught me that compassion is something you show every day, often quietly and without praise. My grandparents also helped raise me, showing me, what perseverance looks like when resources are few, but love is strong. These early lessons stayed with me as my life took unexpected turns. As an adult, I became a single parent myself, raising children with special needs while working full time and managing my own mental health. I have lived inside the systems meant to help families like mine—and I have seen how easily people fall through the cracks. I’ve felt the isolation of caregiving, the weight of advocating for children who depend on me to speak for them, and the frustration of navigating mental health services that are often fragmented, overwhelmed, or financially inaccessible. Those experiences didn’t break me; they clarified my purpose. My dream center is more than a place for therapy. It is a community space that combines mental health care with education, advocacy, and real support. It is a place where parents are understood, not judged. Children with special needs are recognized for their strengths, not just their diagnoses. Care is based on dignity, safety, and long-term healing, not just responding to crises. This vision feels big, but I know it is needed because I see the need every day. Making this dream real will take careful steps. Education is the first step. Getting my degree in psychology is more than a personal goal; it is a promise to serve others in an ethical and informed way. Beyond school, I need to keep learning through real-world experience, mentorship, and learning about trauma-informed and community-based care. For me, growth means staying open to new ideas, even when they challenge what I already believe. I also know that making this dream last is essential. Passion by itself is not enough for real change. I will need to build leadership skills, learn about funding and policy, and find ways to build partnerships that strengthen the mission. This will take humility, persistence, and the courage to ask for help. At its heart, this dream is about courage. It is the courage to see my own experience as a strength, not a weakness. It is the courage to picture a future that is more than just surviving. And it is the courage to keep going, even when the dream seems distant. My “pie in the sky” dream may seem far away, but every step I take, every class I finish, every challenge I face, and every person I help brings it closer. I am not chasing this dream for recognition or success. I am building it because families like mine deserve more than just getting by. I am committed to becoming someone who turns possibility into purpose.

Balancing my education with my responsibilities as a single parent, while working full time and raising children with special needs, takes intention, discipline, and steady resolve. My family relies on me as their caregiver, advocate, provider, and emotional support. My education is closely tied to these roles; it is the path I am creating to bring long-term stability and opportunity to my children and myself. As a full-time employee and single parent, I rely on structure. I plan my days around work, therapy appointments, school meetings, medical needs, and my studies. I use early mornings, late evenings after bedtime, and weekends for coursework to stay on track. I approach my education with the same commitment I give to my job, setting clear goals, tracking deadlines, and staying disciplined even when I am tired. This routine helps me meet my work responsibilities and still be present for my children’s unique needs. Raising children with special needs has taught me patience, adaptability, and resilience. These qualities shape how I approach my education. Some days bring unexpected challenges, like a therapy session running long, a school issue needing quick attention, or a child needing extra emotional support. Instead of seeing these moments as setbacks, I plan for flexibility. I break assignments into smaller steps, communicate early with instructors, and focus on steady progress instead of perfection. For me, balance means making sure nothing important is left behind, even if every day is not perfect. My children are my main motivation. They watch me come home after a long day at work and still open my textbooks. They see me keep going on hard days, not because it is easy, but because it matters. I want them to know that their potential is not limited by challenges and that perseverance and compassion can go together. By working full time, caring for my children, and earning my degree, I hope to show them resilience, determination, and self-advocacy—qualities I want them to carry into their own lives. This scholarship would help me keep this balance. Financial strain is one of the biggest challenges single parents face in higher education, especially when raising children with special needs. Costs like tuition, books, childcare, transportation, medical bills, and therapy add up, and the pressure is always there, even with a full-time job. This scholarship would ease much of that burden, letting me focus more on my studies and less on financial worries. Scholarship support would also mean I would not need to take on extra work hours, which often take away from family time, mental health, and my studies. With this help, I can be there for my children, stay engaged in my coursework, and keep my focus on finishing my degree. It would give me the stability I need to move from just getting by each day to building a lasting future. Earning my degree means more than personal success. It stands for advocacy, security, and new possibilities for my family. With careful planning, full-time effort, and this scholarship’s support, I am confident I can succeed in school while being a good parent. This opportunity would help me earn my degree and keep building a future based on resilience, purpose, and hope for both myself and my children.

Some of the most important lessons I have learned about mental health did not come from textbooks or diagnoses. They came from surviving days when getting out of bed felt impossible, and from being the steady presence my children needed even when my own mind felt unsteady. Mental health has shaped who I am and who I am becoming. It is the foundation of my beliefs, my relationships, and my career goals. I live with Bipolar II disorder, a diagnosis that once felt like a verdict rather than an explanation. Before understanding my mental health, I internalized my struggles as personal failures—questioning my worth during depressive episodes and pushing myself relentlessly during periods of hypomania. Receiving a diagnosis did not define me, but it gave language to my experience and allowed me to pursue healing intentionally. Through therapy, medication management, and self-advocacy, I learned that mental health is not a weakness to hide, but a responsibility to honor. That belief now shapes how I show up for myself and for others. My experience with mental health has deeply shaped my relationships, especially as a mother to special needs children. Parenting children who need patience, structure, advocacy, and emotional awareness has shown me how important mental wellness is every day. I have learned that emotional regulation, empathy, and clear communication are not just skills—they are lifelines. My children have taught me that progress is not always a straight line and that compassion matters even on the hardest days. I work to create a home where emotions are recognized, asking for help is encouraged, and mental health is valued as much as physical health. These experiences led me to a career in mental health services. I now work as a Direct Support Professional (DSP), helping people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, and have been in this field for over 10 years. In this job, I have seen how often mental health needs are missed in marginalized groups and how much difference steady, caring support can make. I have watched people thrive when they are respected, given choices, and supported as whole individuals. This work has shown me that healing happens in relationships when people feel safe, heard, and valued. My long-term goal is to keep learning in psychology and mental health so I can help more people. I want a job that combines clinical skills with advocacy, especially for people with disabilities, low-income families, and underserved communities. As an African American woman, I know how stigma, cultural barriers, and lack of access can keep people from getting mental health care. I hope to help break down those barriers by offering support that respects culture and trauma, and by showing that mental health professionals can come from the same communities they serve. I want to make a positive impact by meeting people where they are, without judgment or assumptions. My approach to mental health care is based on dignity, empowerment, and working together. I believe people are experts in their own lives, and my job is to support their healing, not control it. Mental health care should feel human, caring, and easy to reach, not scary or distant. Mental health has challenged me in ways I did not expect, but it has also given my life direction. It has made my relationships stronger, deepened my empathy, and shaped my purpose. I am choosing a career in mental health not because I have never struggled, but because I understand struggle. I am committed to turning my experience into real change, one person, one family, and one moment of care at a time.

Growing up in a single-parent household shaped not only who I am, but who I am determined to become. I was raised primarily by my mother, a single parent who worked tirelessly in the mental health field, and at different points in my life, I was also raised by my grandparents. Together, these experiences gave me an early understanding of sacrifice, resilience, and compassion—lessons that continue to guide my future goals and the way I hope to serve others. My mother took on the roles of both provider and protector. I saw her work long hours and come home tired, but she always made time for her clients and for my brother and me. Her dedication showed me that caring for others is more than a job—it is a calling. I learned how mental health can affect people and families, often in ways others cannot see. Even as a child, I realized that empathy and patience can make a real difference. When needed, my grandparents became another steady part of my life. Their home gave me stability, wisdom, and unconditional love. They taught me values like faith, accountability, and perseverance. My grandparents showed me that family matters, even if it is not traditional. Growing up with them taught me to adapt, be grateful, listen, and respect different views, especially when life felt uncertain. Growing up in a single-parent home meant I faced hardships early on. We had financial struggles and emotional stress, and sometimes the future seemed uncertain. These challenges made me stronger. I learned to be independent and saw education as a way forward. I realized that while limited resources can be a barrier, determination and support can help overcome them. These experiences shape my goals for the future. I want to use what I have learned and my education to help people, especially those who feel overlooked or overwhelmed by life. My mother’s work and my own experiences have inspired me to pursue a career in mental health. I hope to support and speak up for people and families who are struggling, especially those from single-parent homes, blended families, or communities with less access to support. In the future, I want to work directly with people, offering compassion, guidance, and hope. Through counseling, advocacy, or community programs, I hope to be a steady support for others, just as my mother and grandparents were for me. I want to help break cycles of trauma, reduce mental health stigma, and remind people that their situation does not define their value or limit their potential. Growing up with a single mother and grandparents taught me that strength is not about being loud, but about being steady. It means showing up every day, even when it is hard. These lessons built my resilience, empathy, and desire to help others. My goals are based on service, gratitude, and the belief that helping even one person can make a difference. I am proof that love, perseverance, and support, in any form, can lead to a meaningful life.

There was a time in my life when I truly wondered if I wanted to keep going. The burden of hardship, responsibility, loss, and exhaustion felt so heavy that giving up seemed easier than moving forward. During those times, my faith became more than just belief; it became my lifeline. When I lost sight of my own worth or future, God quietly and consistently reminded me that my life still had purpose here. Even when I felt broken, invisible, or overwhelmed, my faith reassured me that I was not done and that I was still needed. My relationship with God has helped me through times of pain, uncertainty, and personal struggle. Faith gave me the strength to get through moments when I felt I couldn’t stand on my own. It showed me that suffering doesn’t mean I’ve been abandoned; instead, it can be where growth, compassion, and resilience begin. Prayer became a safe place when I didn’t have answers. Scripture reminded me that my story wasn’t meant to end in despair. Through faith, I learned my life has value beyond my situation, and even my hardest moments could become meaningful. Faith has changed how I look at challenges. Instead of seeing obstacles as reasons to give up, I now see them as preparation. God has used my experiences, especially the painful ones, to help me grow in empathy, patience, and humility. These qualities shape how I treat others and handle my responsibilities. My faith has taught me to lead with compassion, listen before judging, and show grace to others and to myself. As I continue in my career, my faith will keep guiding me. It shapes my values and reminds me why my work is important. I see my career not just as a job, but as a calling and a chance to serve others, speak up for those who feel unheard, and bring hope where it’s needed. Faith gives me a sense of responsibility not only to employers or organizations, but also to God, encouraging me to act with honesty, integrity, and purpose. When I face stress or doubt in my career, my faith helps me keep going. It reminds me that success isn’t just about titles or achievements but about making a difference. When challenges come up, as they always do, I trust that God will give me strength, guidance, and clarity. My faith also encourages me to keep growing, reminding me that learning and humility are key to serving others well. Most importantly, my faith reminds me that my life and my work have meaning. The same God who helped me when I wanted to give up still guides me toward a future with purpose. I am here because I am meant to be. My faith has turned my pain into motivation, my struggles into strength, and my survival into a mission. As I build my career, I hold on to this truth: I am here for a reason, and through faith, I will keep moving forward, serving, growing, and making a difference.

Addiction became part of my life before I even knew what it meant, or understood words like “dependency,” “recovery,” or “overdose.” It showed up quietly, hidden in broken promises, tense moments, and a constant feeling that something could fall apart at any time. By the time I could name it, substance abuse had already changed my family, my relationships, and the path my life would take. My father battled substance abuse when I was growing up. Even though he loved me, addiction brought instability that changed how I see trust, responsibility, and feeling safe. Living in that environment made me grow up fast. I realized addiction isn’t just something that happens to strangers—it affects families, changes childhoods, and shifts what we think of as “normal.” Because of this, I believe substance abuse is a disease, not a moral failing, and it needs compassion, treatment, and accountability. In 2012, my uncle died from an overdose. His loss was sudden and left a grief that words can’t ease. That was when I first understood how final addiction can be—how it can take away future conversations, holidays together, and any chance of recovery. Losing him made me believe even more that substance abuse is harsh when help comes too late, and that prevention and access to care are absolutely necessary. My relationship with my brother has shown me just how complicated addiction is. He still struggles with substance abuse, and loving him means finding a hard balance between hope and setting limits. I’ve learned that you can’t make someone recover, no matter how much you care. Still, his experience has made me believe even more that people facing addiction deserve support, dignity, and steady access to help—not judgment or being left alone. Substance abuse has affected many people in my generation. I finished high school in 2010, and since then, I’ve seen several classmates die from overdoses. These were people I knew and sat next to in class—now they’re gone, leaving behind families and loved ones. These losses aren’t just numbers to me; they’re personal reminders of how serious and far-reaching this crisis is. Seeing this has convinced me that substance abuse is a public health emergency that needs urgent, big-picture solutions. Not every story in my life has ended in loss. My best friend beat drug addiction and is now doing well, building a stable and meaningful life. Still, recovery didn’t erase the physical and emotional scars from years of substance use. Seeing her deal with these long-term effects taught me that recovery isn’t a finish line—it’s a process that needs ongoing support. Her strength has shown me what can happen when compassion, accountability, and treatment come together. These experiences have strongly influenced my career goals. They have led me toward a path in mental health, advocacy, and service, where I can help address addiction with empathy and proven care. I want to be part of a system that supports people and families, focuses on prevention, and treats addiction as the complex human issue it is. Substance abuse has changed my beliefs, tested my relationships, and helped me find my purpose. While it has brought real loss, it has also given me empathy, determination, and a strong commitment to help—so fewer families have to go through the same pain.

Alzheimer’s disease is often called a slow goodbye, but that phrase doesn’t capture it all. It isn’t just one farewell; it’s many. You lose someone bit by bit, even as they’re still there, watching their memory fade while your love remains strong. My family’s experience with dementia started before I really understood the disease, and it’s still part of my life today. Through my grandfather’s struggle with Alzheimer’s, my grandmother’s recent dementia diagnosis, and my work with older adults facing these challenges, I’ve learned a lot about love, grief, patience, and the quiet strength it takes to care for someone who is slowly slipping away. My grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease several years before he passed away in 2013. At first, the changes were small: he forgot things, misplaced items, and repeated stories. He would laugh about it and try to ease our worries with his usual charm and humor. But Alzheimer’s doesn’t stay subtle. Over time, the disease took hold, and the man who once remembered every birthday, story, and family detail started to forget the people who loved him most. One of the most challenging moments for me was the first time he looked at me with uncertainty in his eyes. He smiled politely, the way you would smile at a stranger, and asked my name. I remember feeling a wave of confusion and heartbreak all at once. How do you introduce yourself to someone who once held you as a baby, who watched you grow, who helped shape the person you became? In that moment, I realized Alzheimer’s disease does not just steal memory—it steals shared history. It takes decades of love and compresses them into fragile, fleeting moments. As his condition got worse, my grandfather needed constant care. Talking with him became hard, then almost impossible. He grew frustrated as he sometimes realized what was happening, and other times lived in memories from long ago. Seeing him struggle was heartbreaking, and watching my family go through it was just as hard. Alzheimer’s doesn’t just affect one person; it changes whole families. It takes emotional energy, time, money, and a patience that’s hard to keep up. When my grandfather died in 2013, we grieved, but it also felt like the disease had taken him long before his body was gone. For years after my grandfather passed, it felt like the Alzheimer’s chapter was over—painful, but finished. Then, in January 2024, my grandmother was diagnosed with dementia. Hearing that news felt like a mix of déjà vu and dread. This time, it felt different. My grandmother is still steady and still herself. She laughs, tells stories, and knows her family. But we all know what’s coming, and that thought is always there. With dementia, it’s not if things will change, but when. She’ll turn 80 this February, and every milestone now feels bittersweet. What makes my grandmother’s diagnosis especially difficult is the anticipatory grief—the mourning that happens before loss fully arrives. Every conversation feels precious. Every phone call carries an unspoken fear: Will this be the day something changes? I find myself holding onto her words more tightly, memorizing the sound of her voice, the way she says my name. Dementia teaches you to live in the present, whether you want to or not. It forces you to appreciate moments you once took for granted, knowing they may not always be there. At the same time, my work with older adults in care facilities has taught me more about Alzheimer’s and dementia than I ever expected. I’ve worked with people at all stages of memory loss—some just diagnosed, others much further along. I’ve seen confusion become fear, and restlessness turn into silence. I’ve also seen moments of clarity that feel like small miracles: a resident remembering a song, a smile at a familiar face, or a hand squeeze that says more than words. Working in a care facility taught me that dignity does not disappear with memory. Too often, society views individuals with dementia as shells of who they once were. But I have learned that identity is not solely stored in the mind—it lives in emotion, in habit, in connection. Even when residents could not remember names or places, they could still feel kindness. They responded to tone, touch, patience, and compassion. These experiences reshaped the way I view care—not as a task to complete, but as a relationship to nurture. One of the hardest things I learned at work is how invisible dementia can be to people who haven’t seen it up close. Many think forgetfulness is harmless, confusion is just a phase, or changes in behavior are on purpose. But dementia takes away control and leaves emotions exposed. Fear, embarrassment, and frustration are always there. I’ve seen residents cry because they knew something was wrong but couldn’t explain it. I’ve comforted people looking for parents who died long ago. These moments stay with you, even after your shift ends. From my family and my work, I’ve learned that caregiving is both loving and selfless. Caregivers often grieve quietly, feeling tired and guilty, devoted and heartbroken at the same time. My family went through this with my grandfather, and we’re getting ready to do it again with my grandmother. That thought is scary, but it also gives us strength. Dementia can take away memory, but it can’t take away love. Love changes and finds new ways to be there. Alzheimer’s and dementia have also taught me about resilience—not the dramatic kind, but the quiet strength that shows up every day. It’s the resilience of families who stay patient when conversations repeat. It’s the resilience of caregivers who keep showing compassion, even when they’re worn out. It’s the resilience of people with dementia who face a world that feels less and less familiar. These diseases show both how fragile and how strong people can be. Maybe the most important thing I’ve learned is how urgent empathy is. Dementia doesn’t choose who it affects. It touches families, communities, and generations. As more people get older, more will be affected—either themselves or through someone they care about. Still, there’s a lot of stigma and misunderstanding. We need more awareness, better support, and a stronger commitment to respecting our elders. My experiences have made me feel responsible to speak up—not just at work, but in my own life—for those whose voices are fading. Now, as I watch my grandmother live her life with grace, I realize how precious time is. I keep my grandfather’s memory with me, even though he couldn’t keep it himself. I also hold onto the stories and faces of the residents I’ve worked with. Alzheimer’s and dementia have changed me in ways I didn’t choose but feel deeply. They’ve taught me that remembering is a gift, that love should be intentional, and that being present matters more than being perfect. Even though these diseases bring loss, they have also brought clarity. They’ve taught me to accept discomfort, to love without expecting anything in return, and to honor people for who they are right now, not just who they were. Alzheimer’s may erase memories, but it has left lasting lessons in my life—lessons I’ll carry with me, even after the names and dates are gone.

The first time I truly understood the power of small, sustainable habits was not in a classroom. It happened during a quiet moment at work. I was supporting an individual with intellectual and developmental disabilities who struggled with anxiety and emotional regulation. Each morning started with distress, often affecting the rest of the day. Instead of trying to fix everything at once, we focused on one small habit: taking five slow breaths together before starting the day. At first, it seemed almost insignificant. But over time, those five breaths became a grounding ritual. Mornings became calmer, communication improved, and confidence slowly replaced fear. That experience showed me that meaningful wellness is built not through drastic change, but through small, consistent actions practiced every day. This is precisely the message Dr. Steve Aldana champions. Dr. Aldana’s belief that lasting health improvements come from sustainable daily habits matches how I see my role in continuing his mission. Through my education in psychology and my work as a Direct Support Professional (DSP), I have seen firsthand how small changes can create powerful, long-term impact, especially for individuals who traditional wellness models often overlook. Working as a DSP has shaped my passion for wellness in essential ways. I support individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities, many of whom also live with mental health challenges. In this role, I have learned that wellness must be practical and tailored to each person. Significant goals or strict expectations often lead to frustration or failure, while small, achievable habits encourage success. Whether it is building a consistent sleep routine, practicing emotional regulation skills, encouraging healthy communication, or creating a predictable daily structure, these habits build stability and trust over time. This reflects Dr. Aldana’s focus on sustainability, with change that lasts because it fits into real life. My education in psychology supports this approach by helping me understand the science behind behavior change, stress, and mental health. It has shown me that people are more likely to succeed when wellness strategies are realistic, supported, and reinforced regularly. I am passionate about using this knowledge in ways that are compassionate instead of judgmental. Too often, wellness is seen as something people should achieve through motivation alone, without considering trauma, disability, financial stress, or burnout. I want to help shift that view toward one that values accessibility and long-term success. My own mental health journey has also shaped how I see wellness. I know from experience how overwhelming significant changes can feel during hard times. I have learned that focusing on small, manageable actions like getting through the day, keeping routines, and practicing self-compassion can make a real difference. This experience deepens my commitment to helping others focus on progress rather than perfection. Wellness should feel empowering, not exhausting. Looking ahead, I see myself continuing Dr. Aldana’s mission by working in mental health leadership, advocacy, or program development. I want to help shape systems in workplaces, caregiving settings, or human service organizations that prioritize preventative care, emotional well-being, and realistic expectations. Burnout is common in helping professions, and I believe small, consistent wellness practices can significantly improve both employee well-being and the quality of care provided. By combining my education, professional experience, and passion for wellness, I want to be a bridge between research and real life. Like Dr. Aldana, real change does not come from grand gestures, but from small habits practiced every day. These habits restore dignity, build resilience, and improve lives one step at a time.

I chose a career in mental health because of my own experiences, not because it was easy or distant. Mental health has affected me in personal ways, shaping how I see myself, interact with others, and move through life. My journey into this field comes from my own mental health challenges, my work as a Direct Support Professional (DSP), and being a mother to children with special needs. These experiences have shaped my path and given my life meaning. Living with mental illness showed me early on how lonely it can feel when others can't see your struggles. I often felt misunderstood, ignored, or told to just keep going without help. These moments stayed with me, but they also inspired me. I realized that no one should have to face their inner battles alone. I wanted to be someone who truly understands what it means to struggle and keep moving forward, not just from what I've learned, but from what I've lived. I carried that understanding into my work as a DSP. Supporting people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, many of whom also face mental health challenges, has taught me the value of patience and being present. I have been there during emotional crises, helped people manage strong feelings, and stood up for their dignity when they couldn't do it themselves. These moments are hard, but they matter. They remind me that mental health care is about building connections, being consistent, and showing compassion, not just following plans or interventions. But my biggest lessons have come from being a mother to children with special needs. Parenting has made me an advocate, a protector, and an emotional anchor, sometimes all at once. I have worked through complicated systems, fought for the services my children need, and felt the weight of seeing them struggle in a world that isn't always made for them. This has shown me how much mental health affects families and how important it is for caregivers to get support, information, and to be heard. My children have taught me what real resilience looks like: showing up every day, even when you're tired, because that's what love means. Taking care of my own mental health while caring for others has been one of the hardest things I've faced. There were times when I felt pulled in too many directions, between my job, my children, and my own healing. But these challenges made me stronger. They taught me to be empathetic without judging, strong without being harsh, and patient without expecting anything in return. I bring these lessons to my work, making sure everyone I support feels noticed, safe, and respected. My future goals focus on service and advocacy. I plan to keep learning and move forward in the mental health field so I can help people and families even more. I want to work in systems of care to make mental health services easier to access, more trauma-informed, and more compassionate, especially for marginalized communities and families with children who have special needs. I chose this career because mental health work is personal for me. It comes from my struggles, is kept going by love, and is guided by purpose. As a DSP, a parent, and someone who has faced mental health challenges myself, I am committed to using my experiences to make a real difference. I believe healing starts when people feel understood, and I am dedicated to offering that understanding to others.

Being an African American woman has shaped every part of who I am. It affects how I move through the world, how I see injustice, and how strongly I feel responsible for creating change. My identity is not separate from my path; it is the foundation of it. I carry the weight of generations who were denied opportunity, along with the strength of those who survived. That mix has shaped my resilience, my purpose, and my steady commitment to service. Growing up, I learned early that the world does not always give Black women the same grace or benefit of the doubt. I have had times when my voice was questioned, my abilities underestimated, or my presence ignored. These were not just rare moments; they happened often. Instead of making me feel smaller, these experiences made me more aware. They showed me how systems work, who gets left out, and how much we need people who understand marginalization from their own experience. As an African American woman, I have often had to work twice as hard just to be seen as capable. Perseverance was not just a saying for me; it was something I needed to get by. In school, at work, and in leadership, I have always had to stand up for myself and show that I belong. Over time, this became my purpose. Now, I work not just for my own success, but to make things better for those who will follow. My identity has also shaped my empathy. I know that barriers like race, gender, and income do not exist alone—they add up and make life more complicated. This understanding has guided my career and academic goals, especially my wish to help communities that are often left out. I am drawn to work that values dignity, access, and fairness, because I have seen what happens when those things are missing. Being an African American woman will continue to guide my path—not as a limitation, but as a source of leadership. I intend to use my education and professional platform to challenge inequities, advocate for inclusive systems, and uplift voices that are too often ignored. Representation matters, and I understand the power of simply being present in spaces where people like me have historically been excluded. My success is not just personal; it is communal. I also know that being seen comes with responsibility. I want younger Black girls to see someone like them going after education, leading with confidence, and standing tall. I want excellence, ambition, and kindness to feel normal in places where stereotypes used to be the story. My identity drives me to be both a trailblazer and a bridge. In the end, my journey as an African American woman has taught me resilience, purpose, and responsibility. It has shaped both my past and my future. I move forward with intention, honoring those who came before me and working to make the path easier for those who will come next.

I am a student, a single parent, and someone who hopes to become a mental health professional. My experiences have taught me resilience, even before I knew what it meant. These lessons are the foundation for how I want to make a difference in my future career. Raising three children with special needs as a single mother has taught me to advocate for them in systems that are often underfunded and hard to navigate. I have balanced full-time work, school, medical appointments, education plans, and the emotional work of caregiving. These challenges did not hold me back; they helped me see my goals more clearly. I have seen how families can be left behind when services are hard to access or lack respect. I have also seen how much difference it makes when professionals offer support with compassion and skill. My own mental health journey further shaped my path. Being diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder forced me to confront stigma from the inside out. I experienced how easily people are reduced to diagnoses and how rarely their full humanity is considered. With treatment, self-education, and persistence, I learned to manage my condition while excelling academically and professionally. That experience strengthened my belief that mental health care should empower people rather than define them by their struggles. It also solidified my desire to work in the mental health field, where empathy must be paired with evidence-based practice. I am studying psychology because I want to work in mental health and disability services, especially with people who are often overlooked, like those with intellectual and developmental disabilities, caregivers, and people with serious mental health conditions. I hope to support people directly and also help improve how care is provided. I want to help create services that respect people's independence, are sensitive to trauma, and understand different cultures. Too often, people have to fit into systems that do not reflect their real lives. I want to help change this. I already work in human services, supporting people with disabilities and providing daily care. This job has taught me about responsibility and standing up for what is right. I have seen how treating people with respect can build their confidence, while neglect can do real harm. These lessons have made me even more committed to improving policies and practices that protect dignity and encourage independence. I want my impact to go beyond one-on-one support. I plan to speak up for better access to mental health care, more support for caregivers, and education that fights stigma. Whether I am teaching in the community, leading teams, or working on policy, I will use my voice to help those who are often not heard. I believe real change comes when people with lived experience help shape how things are done. In the end, my career will reflect my values of resilience, compassion, and justice. I am driven by purpose, not by status. Every challenge I have faced has helped me understand what people really need to succeed. By bringing together my education, experience, and advocacy, I hope to help build support systems that connect people to opportunities and focus on their strengths, not their limits.

Growing up in a single-parent, low-income household taught me early that perseverance is not a choice but a necessity. I learned to be resourceful, patient, and resilient as I watched my parent stretch what we had to meet our needs. Sometimes, stability felt fragile and food, housing, or time were uncertain. Still, those challenges built my work ethic and determination instead of breaking them. I learned to keep going even when the way forward seemed overwhelming. Those experiences shape how I show up in the world today. I know what it feels like to be unseen, overworked, and just one setback away from crisis, and that understanding drives my commitment to service. I am especially passionate about supporting individuals and families facing poverty, disability, and mental health challenges. These are communities I have lived in, not just studied. I approach my work with empathy, dignity, and the belief that everyone deserves support that respects their humanity. I am working toward these goals through higher education and hands-on service. As a psychology major and a direct support professional in human services, I support people with intellectual and developmental disabilities and advocate for ethical, person-centered care. Balancing full-time work, school, and parenting is not easy, but my background has taught me to keep going through exhaustion and uncertainty. My life experience helps me connect with others and advocate for change. I plan to keep using my voice, education, and lived experience to help build systems that uplift people who are struggling, instead of

I learned how to get through daily life before I learned how to understand my feelings. I could go to work, take care of my children, meet deadlines, and keep going, even on days when getting out of bed felt impossible. On the outside, I looked capable and calm. On the inside, I was dealing with waves of heavy emotions and restless energy that I couldn’t explain or name. For a long time, I thought this struggle was my own fault, not a mental health issue. My perspective started to shift when I was diagnosed with bipolar II disorder. Getting that diagnosis felt both unsettling and validating. It was unsettling because bipolar disorders are often misunderstood and carry stigma, but it was also validating because my experiences finally made sense. Bipolar II is not always dramatic or easy to spot. It can hide behind being productive, responsible, and seeming “high-functioning.” For me, it meant going through long periods of depression followed by times of hypomania that others saw as motivation or strength. I kept this to myself while juggling life as a single parent, full-time worker, and student, thinking that just getting by meant I was healthy. Learning to manage this mental health challenge has been a slow and intentional process, not something that changed overnight. One of the hardest things I had to accept was that my diagnosis doesn’t set my limits or take away my worth. With therapy, medication, and self-reflection, I started to notice my emotional patterns instead of blaming myself. I learned to spot early warning signs, create routines that help me stay balanced, and allow myself to rest without feeling guilty. Learning to ask for help was just as important. For years, I thought being independent meant being strong, and I saw needing support as a weakness. Living with bipolar II made me see resilience differently. It’s not about pushing through no matter what, but about knowing when to slow down, speak up, and get help. As a single parent with children who have special needs, this change was crucial. I realized that taking care of my mental health isn’t selfish—it’s necessary. My children see how I handle challenges, and I want them to know that mental health matters just as much as physical health. Looking ahead, I am dedicated to supporting others and raising awareness by speaking up in places where mental health is often overlooked or misunderstood. In my work in human services and my studies in psychology, I try to promote trauma-informed, person-centered care that recognizes how complex mental health conditions like bipolar II can be. I want to challenge harmful stereotypes and show that having a diagnosis doesn’t take away ambition, empathy, or purpose. Awareness also starts with being honest. When it makes sense, I share my story to help make talking about mental health more normal. Staying silent lets stigma grow, but being open helps people connect. I want others to feel safe talking to me, knowing I will listen without judging and respond with understanding. Whether I’m advocating, mentoring, or working, I hope to help people see that they are not broken, weak, or alone. Living with bipolar II has taught me self-awareness, compassion, and resilience. These qualities now guide me. I no longer try to “overcome” my mental health as if it’s something to fight. Instead, I am learning to live well with it and help others do the same. This journey has shaped my healing and given me a sense of purpose.

The first time I realized how deeply mental health shapes opportunity, dignity, and survival, I was standing in a hospital hallway holding my breath, hoping the system would see my child as a human being and not a problem to manage. That moment made clear what I had been learning all my life: mental health care is not equally accessible, compassionate, or empowering for everyone, especially for marginalized communities. I am a psychology major, a frontline supervisor in human services, and a single parent to three children with special needs. My experience as a caregiver, advocate, and professional has shaped how I see mental health, justice, and impact. Mental health is often discussed in abstract terms—diagnoses, treatment plans, funding streams—but for marginalized individuals, it is profoundly personal and deeply political. I have watched families navigate systems that were not built for them: families with limited resources, individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities, people whose voices are dismissed because of disability, poverty, trauma, or stigma. I have also lived this reality myself. Experiencing mental health crises within my own family exposed me to both the power of supportive care and the harm caused by rigid, under-resourced systems that prioritize compliance over compassion. These experiences changed how I think. I no longer see mental health as something to be 'fixed,' but as something to support with dignity, cultural humility, and respect for each person's choices. I believe good mental health care must look at the social forces that cause distress, like poverty, discrimination, trauma, and unfair systems, not just individual symptoms. This belief shapes my studies and my work. In my current job in human services, I support people with intellectual and developmental disabilities who are often left out of mental health systems. Many also have mental health diagnoses, long histories in institutions, or trauma from not being heard. I work to make sure our services are person-centered, trauma-informed, and focused on self-advocacy. This means training staff to listen first, respecting informed choices, and questioning practices that put convenience before people. Small changes, like how we record behavior, respond to crises, or include people in decisions, can make a big difference. My own mental health journey has made me a stronger advocate. Dealing with burnout, grief, fear, and resilience while parenting and working full time taught me that mental health support needs to be ongoing and easy to access, not just there in a crisis. It encouraged me to speak up, even when it would be easier to stay quiet. I push for policies and practices that make care more available, protect the rights of disabled people, and recognize caregivers as whole people who deserve support, not just invisible workers keeping things running. In my studies, I want to learn more about psychological theory while staying connected to real-world practice. I hope to keep working with marginalized communities as a mental health professional who combines clinical knowledge with lived experience. I want to help create systems that empower people, focus on healing, and see resilience even during hard times. Ultimately, my impact will come from showing up—consistently, compassionately. In the end, I believe my impact will come from showing up consistently, with compassion and courage, for people whose voices are often ignored. Mental health support saved my family, not because the system was perfect, but because someone listened. I want to be that person for others and help change the systems that decide who gets heard

I didn’t pick my path in supporting the intellectual disability community from a list of careers. It grew naturally from my own life. Before I even knew words like policy, advocacy, or person-centered care, I was learning patience, empathy, and resilience through my own experiences. Today, my work is grounded in those early lessons and in the relationships that have shaped me as both a professional and a parent. I am a caretaker not only by profession, but by identity. I am the parent of children with special needs, and raising them has been one of the most transformative forces in my life. Their diagnoses did not define them, but they did open my eyes to a world many people never see—a world where systems are challenging to navigate, resources are often inadequate, and families are expected to advocate relentlessly to secure basic support. Through my children, I learned how much strength it takes simply to be heard. I’ve been in meetings where people talked about my children as problems to solve instead of people to understand. I’ve felt the pain of seeing others underestimate them or overlook their humanity. These moments were hard, but they sparked a determination in me to make sure no one with an intellectual disability is reduced to a diagnosis or denied dignity because of someone else’s lack of understanding. That determination carried over into my work. Working directly with people with intellectual and developmental disabilities showed me how much respectful, caring support matters. I saw that steady care, advocacy, and encouragement help people build confidence, independence, and a stronger sense of self. I also saw what happens when support systems fail: caregivers burn out, needs go unmet, and people’s voices are ignored. These experiences made it clear to me that this work isn’t just meaningful—it’s necessary. My work lets me connect two worlds: the personal side of caregiving and the structured side of professional support. Seeing both sides has shaped how I approach my career. I know the fear families feel when they trust others with their loved ones. I also know that trust, communication, and empathy aren’t just ideas—they are daily actions that make a real difference in people’s lives. Going back to school is part of my commitment to this work. I am studying to become a stronger advocate, leader, and change-maker in the intellectual disability community. Education gives me the tools to do more than just react to problems. It helps me work toward lasting solutions, like better services, improved training for support staff, and policies that truly meet people’s needs. I want to make a difference by being a voice for both sides: the families who fight for their loved ones and the individuals who deserve respect, independence, and opportunity. My goal is to help create places where people with intellectual disabilities are not just supported, but empowered. I want them to be seen for their strengths, included in decisions about their lives, and treated with the dignity everyone deserves. This career isn’t just my job—it’s part of who I am. My children inspire me, and my experiences guide me. I am committed to making the intellectual disability community stronger, more caring, and more fair, one relationship, one voice, and one system at a time.

For a long time, I felt I had to protect my voice instead of using it. Speaking up seemed risky, as if it could take away the stability, safety, or control I had worked so hard for. One moment forced me to face that fear and changed how I see my own strength. I work full-time in human services, advocating for people with disabilities. Outwardly, my job felt meaningful, but inside, I grew more uncomfortable. I noticed that decisions are often made for the people we support, not with them. Their preferences were ignored for the sake of efficiency, convenience, or routine. Each time, I felt a heavy weight in my chest. I knew this was more than poor practice; it was a failure to respect their dignity. My life outside of work was overwhelming. I was a single parent, constantly balancing work, school, and my children's needs. Stability wasn’t optional for me—it was survival. The thought of speaking up made my stomach twist. I worried about being labeled “difficult” or “too emotional.” I worried about retaliation. Most of all, I worried about what would happen to my family if my honesty cost me my job. So, for a while, I stayed quiet. But silence has a weight. Each day I didn’t speak, I felt a weight to staying silent. Each day I kept quiet, my guilt grew. I went home thinking about the people I supported, knowing they deserved better advocacy. One evening, after a tough day, I realized that silence was changing me in ways I didn’t like. I felt smaller, disconnected, and ashamed. I saw that protecting my voice was costing me my integrity. I shook. My hands trembled. I remember feeling exposed, as if the room could see straight through me. I explained what I had been witnessing and how it conflicted with our ethical responsibility. I shared examples, not to accuse, but to illuminate the human impact behind the decisions. When I finished, the room was silent. My heart pounded as I waited for pushback—or consequences. Instead, something unexpected happened. Others started to speak up, too. Some said they had noticed the same problems but didn’t know how to bring them up. The conversation didn’t solve everything, but it opened a door. Small changes followed, such as more intentional listening, greater respect for choice, and greater awareness. In that moment, I saw how powerful honesty can be, even when it is quiet and imperfect. That confidence doesn’t come from being fearless—it comes from acting despite fear. I learned that my voice doesn’t have to be loud to be impactful; it just has to be truthful. Speaking up didn’t eliminate my anxiety, but it replaced my shame with self-respect. That moment also connected to my role as a parent. I have spent years speaking up for my children, especially when they couldn’t do it themselves. Finding my voice at work showed me that I deserve the same courage. It reminded me that my experiences, perspective, and empathy are not weaknesses; they are strengths. As I move forward, especially as I pursue psychology, I hope to use my voice to support mental health, ethical care, and people who are often overlooked. I want to challenge systems with compassion and speak up, even when it feels hard. My voice may shake, but I will not stay silent. That experience taught me that using your voice doesn’t mean you are unafraid; it means you have chosen to stay true to your values, even when it is easier to keep quiet.

Balancing being a student and a single parent is already difficult, but doing this while working full time and raising three special needs children makes every part of my life more complex. My daily routine leaves no room for mistakes. Every responsibility falls on me alone, whether it is academic, financial, emotional, or logistical. I am the only provider, advocate, caregiver, employee, and role model in my home. If something goes wrong, there is no backup, and I cannot take a break when I am exhausted. Still, I stay committed to my education because I believe it is the best way to create long-term stability and opportunity for my children. Time is my biggest challenge. Working full time means my days are packed with strict schedules and constant demands. My mornings start early as I get my children ready for school, manage their medications, help with sensory needs, and make sure everyone is calm enough to begin the day. After that, I go straight into my job, where I am expected to do my best. When work ends, my parenting duties pick up again with therapy appointments, homework help, behavior support, and emotional care filling my evenings. I only become a student after my children are asleep, often studying late at night when I am already tired. There is little time to rest and even less flexibility. Raising three special needs children brings extra responsibilities that cannot be delayed or ignored. My children need special care, set routines, and ongoing advocacy in both school and medical settings. IEP meetings, therapy sessions, evaluations, and unexpected emergencies are part of our daily life. These duties rarely fit neatly with work or school deadlines. Sometimes I have to leave work or pause my studies to handle urgent needs, knowing I will have to catch up later, often losing sleep or sacrificing my own well-being. The mental effort of always planning and anticipating my children’s needs is huge, but it is something I cannot avoid. Financial pressure is another major challenge. Working full-time allows me to meet basic needs, but it does not eliminate financial strain—especially with the added costs associated with special needs parenting. Therapies, medical care, adaptive tools, transportation, and educational supports create ongoing expenses that extend far beyond standard household costs. At the same time, I am paying for tuition, books, and other academic necessities. As a single parent, every dollar must be carefully accounted for. There is a constant tension between investing in my education and ensuring my children receive the support they need. This pressure is not just financial—it is emotional, as every decision feels weighted with long-term consequences. Emotionally, handling all these roles at once takes a lot of strength, even if others do not see it. I have to stay calm and supportive for my children, be focused and dependable at work, and keep myself disciplined and motivated as a student. Some days, the exhaustion is overwhelming, but quitting is not an option. My children rely on me for care, stability, advocacy, and hope. They notice how I handle stress, deal with setbacks, and keep going even when things are tough. They are my biggest motivation. I want them to learn that perseverance is not about being perfect, but about moving forward even when it is hard. This is why this scholarship would be life-changing. It is more than just financial help—it means relief and stability. It would ease the constant pressure of meeting every responsibility while carrying the financial load by myself. With this support, I could focus more on my education without having to sacrifice my children’s needs or my work performance. It would let me put my energy into learning and growing, instead of always worrying about getting through each day. Having that breathing room would make a huge difference in my ability to do well in school and be there for my children. This scholarship would also help pave the way toward a future defined by security rather than constant strain. My education is not just a personal goal—it is a long-term investment in my family’s future. Completing my degree will allow me to pursue a career that offers greater financial stability, flexibility, and the ability to advocate effectively for others, especially individuals with special needs. My lived experience, combined with formal education, positions me to make a meaningful impact in my field. This scholarship would help ensure that I can reach that point without burning out or compromising my children’s well-being along the way. For my children, this scholarship means more than just financial help—it means possibility. They see me working full time, studying late at night, and always standing up for them. I want them to know that their challenges do not limit their future and that education can change lives. By supporting my education, this scholarship helps create a home filled with resilience, determination, and hope. It shows my children that even when life is hard, growth is still possible. In the long run, this scholarship would help me move from just getting through each day to building a stable future. It would let me focus on making my family’s life more secure—emotionally, financially, and professionally. Instead of constantly reacting to problems, I could plan for the future with confidence. This support would help end cycles of stress and uncertainty, replacing them with new opportunities and growth. Being a full-time employee, a student, and a single parent to three children with special needs has taught me discipline, empathy, adaptability, and perseverance. These roles have not made me weaker—they have made me stronger. This scholarship would support not just my education, but a family working toward stability, dignity, and a better future. With this help, I will keep building a life where my children can thrive, showing them that determination and education can truly change our lives.