Growing up in New Jersey has meant growing up with both roots and motion. It is where I learned how to be part of a community, how to show up for people, and how to keep going even when life changes in ways you never expected. New Jersey has always felt like a place where people are honest, direct, and hardworking. I grew up around people who did not wait for life to get easier before they tried to build something meaningful. That shaped me. Whether I was writing songs in my room, performing at local coffee shops, busking at the shore, or volunteering with grief organizations, I learned that your story can become something useful if you are brave enough to share it. One of the biggest challenges I have faced was losing my mom when I was twelve. That kind of loss changes everything. It changed my family, my childhood, and the way I understood the world. I dealt with grief, anxiety, and moments where I felt completely overwhelmed. For a long time, music became the one place where I could say things I did not know how to explain any other way. Songwriting helped me push through. It gave me a way to turn pain into connection. I started writing about grief, growing up, anxiety, identity, and healing. I also became involved with Experience Camps, a nonprofit for grieving children, and A Song For You, where songwriters create personal songs for people in hospice and their families. Those experiences showed me that music is not just something I do for myself. It can help someone feel seen during the hardest moments of their life. New Jersey also taught me how to be independent. I have performed in small venues, local events, restaurants, coffee shops, and community spaces. Those experiences were not glamorous, but they were real. They taught me confidence, discipline, and how to connect with people one song at a time. This scholarship would help me continue my education at Berklee College of Music, where I am studying songwriting and working toward a career as an artist, songwriter, and creative collaborator. College is a huge financial commitment for my family, especially after everything we have been through. Receiving this support would make it easier for me to focus on growing as a musician, taking advantage of every opportunity, and continuing to use my work to help others. My story is not only about loss. It is about what came after. It is about learning to keep singing, keep writing, and keep showing up. Growing up in New Jersey gave me the foundation to do that. It gave me a community, a voice, and the belief that even a difficult story can become something meaningful.

Music has already shown me that positive impact does not have to wait for some perfect future version of myself. After my mom passed away, music became the place where I could put feelings I did not know how to say out loud. That changed the way I think about songwriting. A song can make someone feel less alone. It can give words to something heavy. It can turn pain into connection. That is what I try to do now. Through Experience Camps, I have seen how powerful it is when grieving kids are given a place where they do not have to explain themselves. Being around people who understand loss showed me that healing often starts with being seen. That is something I want my music to do too. I want my songs to make people feel understood, especially when they are carrying something they do not always talk about. I also work with A Song For You, writing personalized songs for people and families facing incredibly difficult moments. That experience has taught me that music is not just performance. It is service. It is memory. It is a way to honor someone’s story and give a family something they can hold onto. So when I think about making a positive impact through music, I do not think of it as something I hope to do someday. I am already trying to do it,

Music has never been just a hobby to me. It has been the way I process life, connect with people, and understand myself. After my mom passed away unexpectedly in 2019, I picked up the ukulele my dad had given me and started writing songs as a way to deal with grief that felt too big for words alone. I wrote my first lyrics when I was twelve, and ever since then, music has become the clearest way I know to turn pain, hope, memory, and love into something meaningful. The position I aspire to pursue in the music industry is singer-songwriter and recording artist. More than anything, I want to build a career writing and performing my own music, while continuing to grow as a storyteller. I also hope to stay involved in the parts of the industry that let me create with purpose, whether that means recording, performing live, collaborating with other writers and musicians, or using music in service of people who need it. I love the idea of a career where I am not just making songs, but building a body of work that reflects who I am and what I believe. I chose music because it has changed my life from the inside out. It gave me a place to put emotions that felt impossible to carry. It gave me confidence when I felt lost. It also gave me a way to connect with others. I have released more than 25 original songs, and each one feels like a piece of my story. I have also had the chance to write bespoke songs through A Song For You, a community that creates deeply personal music for people and families facing incredibly difficult circumstances. That experience showed me that music is not just entertainment. It can be comfort, memory, and healing. Some of my biggest role models in the music industry are artists like Joni Mitchell, Billy Joel, Fleetwood Mac, James Taylor, John Mayer, Ed Sheeran, and Lizzy McAlpine. I admire artists who write honestly, create timeless songs, and make listeners feel less alone. I am especially inspired by musicians who balance strong songwriting with emotional truth. They remind me that a great song does not just sound good. It says something real. I want to make an impact on the music industry by creating songs that help people feel seen. I want to write music that is honest, thoughtful, and emotionally real. I also want to be part of an industry that values connection over image, and substance over noise. If I can make even one person feel understood, hopeful, or less alone because of a song I wrote, that matters to me. I hope people remember me as someone who made music with heart. Someone who told the truth. Someone who used songwriting not just to express herself, but to help others heal, reflect, and feel connected. More than fame or recognition, I want to be remembered for making people feel something real.

ollaboration in music is not just a nice bonus to me, it is the whole point. Yes, I love writing alone, but the moments that have shaped me most are the ones where music becomes a shared language between people. Collaboration is where a song stops being a private thought and becomes something alive, something bigger than any one person’s idea. In my intended field as a songwriter and performer, collaboration means trust. It means walking into a room with half a verse and letting someone else hear it before it is “ready.” It means being willing to be wrong, to be edited, to chase the better idea even when it was not yours. It also means listening, not just to notes and chords, but to people. Great collaboration is not everyone trying to be the loudest voice. It is a group building something together that none of them could have built alone. Berklee has taught me that collaboration is a skill, not a personality trait. In classes and writing labs, you are constantly pairing up, swapping demos, rewriting each other’s melodies, and learning how to give feedback that is honest without being harsh. I have learned how to walk into a co write with a clear point of view but still leave space for surprise. I have learned how to communicate what I mean when I do not have the perfect technical word for it. Sometimes I can say, “This line feels too neat,” or “This chorus needs to hit harder emotionally,” and a collaborator helps translate that into a musical choice, a change in harmony, a rhythmic shift, a new hook. Berklee has also shown me how different people approach creativity, some people start with lyrics, some start with groove, some start with a tiny melodic idea, and watching that variety has made me more flexible and more open. The most inspiring collaborative experience in my life so far has been A Song For You. In that community, we write bespoke songs for people who are facing the end of their lives. Collaboration there is deeply human. It starts with listening, to stories, to memories, to what matters most to someone. Then it becomes a team effort to translate a whole life into a few minutes of music. In that setting, collaboration is not about showing off. It is about service. It is about honoring someone’s voice and making sure the song feels like them. That experience changed what collaboration means to me because it raised the stakes. When you are writing a song that might become a family’s keepsake, you pay attention differently. You are more careful with words. You are more intentional with melody. You learn how to accept input without ego because the goal is not your style, the goal is truth. I have been inspired by how generous and supportive that community is, writers helping writers, people sharing ideas, checking details, pushing the song toward clarity and heart. It is collaboration at its best, creative, disciplined, and deeply compassionate. Both Berklee and A Song For You have shown me the same thing in different ways, that collaboration is where growth happens. It makes you better technically, but it also makes you better as a person. It teaches you humility, empathy, and how to build something meaningful with other people. In the career I want, collaboration is not optional. It is how I want to make music, and it is how I want to live inside it.

My music background really starts with the moment my life changed, the sudden death of my mom. Before that, music existed in my world the way it does for a lot of kids, something I enjoyed, something I sang along to, something that felt fun. After she died, music became something else entirely. It became the only place where I could put feelings I did not know how to say out loud. Grief is not one emotion, it is love, missing, anger, confusion, and quiet all mixed together. People try to comfort you, but most of the time they do not know what to do with the truth of it. I didn’t either. Songwriting became my language when regular language failed. That is why my background is rooted in writing. I write because it helps me survive my own mind. When I’m overwhelmed, I write to make the chaos less chaotic. When I miss my mom, I write to feel close to her. When I’m angry, I write so the anger has somewhere to go besides staying trapped in my body. I have written dozens of original songs, and I have released 25 of them so far. Writing taught me how to be honest. Releasing taught me how to be brave. Putting a song out into the world is not just posting audio, it is sharing something personal and letting other people meet you there. A big part of my growth has also come from writing music for other people, not just for myself. I work with A Song For You, where we write bespoke songs for people who are facing the end of their lives. That experience changed how I understand songwriting. When you are writing for someone in that situation, you cannot hide behind pretty words or vague meanings. You have to listen deeply. You have to learn who they are, what they love, what they want their people to remember. The goal is not to sound impressive. The goal is to create something that feels like them, something that can hold their story, and sometimes become a gift for the people they leave behind. It has made me a stronger writer, and it has made music feel even more meaningful to me, because I’ve seen what a song can do when it is created with love and intention. As I complete my degree, I want to keep building a life where music is both my career and my contribution. Creatively, I want to continue releasing original music consistently and growing as a performing songwriter. I want to collaborate more, push my writing further, and develop a live show that feels like my real self, not a polished version of me. I want to write songs that are specific enough to be honest, but universal enough that someone listening can say, “That is my story too.” Professionally, I want to build a sustainable career as an artist and songwriter, and I want my work to matter. I do not want music to just be content. I want it to be connection. Losing my mom is what sparked my songwriting, but it also gave me clarity about why I make music at all. I want to keep turning emotion into something people can hold, and keep proving that a song can be more than sound, it can be comfort, memory, and healing.

Music has changed my life by giving me a way to survive things I did not know how to survive, and by giving me a way to connect with people in a deeper, more honest way than I ever expected. After my mom died, everything felt harder to explain. People asked how I was doing, and I learned how to say “fine” even when I wasn’t. I learned how to keep moving and get through the day, but grief doesn’t follow a schedule. It shows up in quiet moments, in the car, late at night, when you least expect it. For a long time, I didn’t have language for what I was feeling. It wasn’t just sadness. It was missing someone and loving someone and being angry that they are gone, all at once. It was confusing and heavy, and I didn’t always want to talk about it out loud. Music became the first place where I could be completely honest. When I play or write, I don’t have to explain myself first. A melody can hold feelings that feel too big for conversation. A chord change can say what I can’t. Writing songs gives me somewhere to put everything I am carrying so it doesn’t stay trapped inside me. Music doesn’t rush me. It doesn’t tell me to get over it. It lets me feel what I feel, and somehow that makes it easier to breathe. Over time, music stopped being something I did occasionally, and became something I live inside. I have written dozens of songs, and that number keeps growing because songwriting is how I process the world. Some songs come from grief, some come from joy, some come from the tiny moments people think are small until you put them into lyrics and they suddenly matter. I have also released my music into the world, publishing 25 songs so far. That has changed me too, because releasing a song is an act of trust. It is saying, this is real, this is mine, and I am not going to hide it. Music has also changed my life because it gave me purpose, not just comfort. I work with A Song For You, where we write bespoke songs for people who are facing the end of their lives. That experience has completely reshaped how I think about songwriting. When you are writing for someone in that situation, there is no room for pretending. You have to listen closely. You have to find the words that carry their story with respect. You have to create something that feels like them, something that can be held onto by the people they love. Music has become how I process my life in real time. When I’m overwhelmed, writing helps me sort through it. When I’m happy, writing helps me capture it. When I’m anxious, practicing gives me something steady to hold onto. And the biggest change is confidence. Not the fake kind, but the kind that comes from doing something true to you over and over again. Music has helped me trust my instincts, trust my emotions, and trust that my voice matters. It has given me a way to honor where I come from and what I’ve been through, without being defined only by loss. Music changed my life by turning pain into meaning, and meaning into connection. It gave me a voice when I felt voiceless, and it showed me that my story can help someone else feel understood. That is the kind of change that doesn’t wear off.

My decision to pursue a career in music started the day my mom died. It was sudden, and it didn’t just make me sad, it changed the shape of my whole life. One moment I had a mom, and the next moment I didn’t, and everything I thought I understood about the world felt unreliable. After that, people tried to help the best way they knew how. They told me I was strong. They told me she would want me to be happy. They told me time heals. I know those words come from love, but none of them touched what grief actually felt like inside my body, the shock, the anger, the emptiness, the way it could hit me out of nowhere and take over an entire day. For a long time, I didn’t know how to talk about it. I could show up and get through school and be “fine” when I needed to be. I could answer the questions people ask when they don’t know what else to say. But grief doesn’t stay in one lane. It shows up in the quiet moments, in the car, in the shower, in the middle of a random Tuesday. It’s love and missing someone and rage and confusion all mixed together. And I didn’t have the language for that, not in a way that felt honest. Music became the first place where I could tell the truth without trying to make it easier for anyone else. I didn’t start writing because I was thinking about a career. I started writing because I needed somewhere for everything to go. When I couldn’t explain what I was feeling, I could sit with a melody and it would hold it for me. When words felt impossible, a chord progression could say what I couldn’t. Music didn’t ask me to be okay. It didn’t ask me to be “over it.” It let me be exactly where I was. That is how “Mom’s Song” started. I didn’t write it to impress anyone. I wrote it because I missed her and I wanted to talk to her, and I couldn’t. It became the closest thing I had to a conversation. It let me hold onto memories and say the things that felt too raw to say out loud. Writing it felt like taking something that was spinning inside me and giving it a shape. It didn’t fix what happened, nothing can, but it gave me a way to breathe again. What surprised me most was what happened when I shared it. People didn’t just react like they were hearing a song. They reacted like they were hearing a truth. Some people cried. Some people told me about their own grief. Some people said they had never been able to put those feelings into words, but the song did it for them. That was the moment I realized music can be bigger than me. It can be a bridge between people who are hurting in the same way, even if their stories are different. That is why I want to pursue music as my career. Because I don’t want to make songs that only sound good. I want to make songs that do something. I want to write the kind of music that tells the truth when it’s hard, the kind of music that makes someone feel seen, the kind of music that gives people language when they have none. Losing my mom changed everything, and music is how I survive that change, how I carry it, and how I turn it into connection instead of silence.

My family became a single parent household the day my mom died. There is no way to soften that sentence. It changed everything, the routines, the tone of the house, the way time felt, and the way my dad and I learned to move through the world. When you lose a parent, you lose more than a person. You lose the “default setting” of your life. Suddenly there are a hundred small things that do not have a place to land. Questions, milestones, bad days, good news. In our home, my dad became the one holding all of it. He grieved while still being the parent, the planner, the driver, the motivator, the steady voice. Watching him do that shaped me. It taught me that love is an action, not a feeling you wait to have. It also taught me that you do not get to choose whether life hits you, you only get to choose what you do with it. For me, what I did with it was write. Music became the place where I could tell the truth without making it “small” for other people. I have written songs about my mom, not as a dramatic concept, but as a real person I miss. I wrote about the holes grief leaves behind, and the strange ways it shows up years later. I wrote about wanting to remember her voice, her advice, her presence, and being afraid of forgetting details I never thought I would need to fight for. Those songs are painful sometimes, but they are also proof that love continues. I did not want my grief to only be something that happened to me. I wanted it to become something that helps someone else. That is why I got involved with Experience Camps, a nonprofit that supports kids who have lost a parent or sibling. I understand that kind of loss, and I know what it feels like to be a kid carrying something too big. I have used my time and creativity to support that mission, including fundraising and awareness efforts, and contributing through projects like ExperienceCraft. I have also been involved with A Song For You, which reinforced something I believe deeply, music is not just entertainment, it is connection. It is a way to sit with people in their hardest moments and make them feel seen. Being raised in a single parent household made me independent, but it also made me purposeful. I do not want to create art that only points inward. I want to build a future where my talent is useful. Maybe that means writing and performing songs that raise money for grief support organizations. Maybe it means creating workshops for kids who do not have words yet, and helping them turn emotion into something they can hold. Maybe it means producing projects that spotlight stories people try to hide because they think they are “too much.” I do not need to know my exact job title to know my direction. I want to keep using music to turn pain into something that heals, and to keep building a life where the worst thing that happened to my family also became the reason I learned how to help other people feel less alone.

I did not always have the language for who I was, I just knew I felt different. For a long time, I learned to edit myself in small ways, how I spoke about crushes, which stories I told, how much of my personality I let show. I got good at reading rooms. I could sense when it was safe to be honest and when it would cost me something, attention, acceptance, or peace. Coming out to myself was not one moment, it was a series of quiet decisions to stop negotiating with my own truth. The challenges did not end there. I have dealt with the fear of being misunderstood, the pressure to “explain” my identity, and the emotional math of wondering whether someone’s support is real or conditional. I have also felt the weight of being the “representation” in a space, the person who has to stay calm and educate others, even when I am tired. Over time, I learned to set boundaries, find community, and choose environments that do not require me to shrink. I learned that pride is not just confidence, it is endurance. It is showing up anyway. Music has been my most honest form of advocacy. When I could not say something out loud, I could write it. Songwriting gave me a way to turn fear into clarity and isolation into connection. I have seen how one song can make someone feel less alone, how a lyric can give someone the words they have been missing. That is the kind of impact I want to build on through higher education. My aspiration is to deepen my craft and my leadership through college, studying songwriting and production so I can create work that is emotionally precise, culturally aware, and useful. I want the technical skills to produce and release music at a professional level, and the academic foundation to understand how art, identity, and policy intersect. I plan to use my education to advocate for LGBTQ+ rights by creating platforms where queer stories are treated with care, not as trends. That means collaborating with LGBTQ+ organizations, performing at benefit events, mentoring younger queer artists, and developing projects that directly support community needs through fundraising, awareness, and safe, welcoming spaces. I also want to work in environments, in studios, on teams, in creative leadership roles, where inclusion is the standard and not an afterthought. Receiving this scholarship would significantly relieve financial pressure and make these goals possible. Tuition, housing, and academic costs add up quickly, and for many students, that burden forces difficult choices, taking on extra jobs, reducing course loads, or skipping opportunities like internships, studio time, professional development, and mental health support. This scholarship would allow me to focus more fully on my education and creative work, invest in the tools I need to succeed, and take on the kinds of experiences that build a real career and a meaningful advocacy path. I am proud of what I have already overcome, and even more committed to what I want to build next. With support, I can turn my education into sustained advocacy, using music to expand empathy, protect dignity, and help LGBTQ+ people feel seen, safe, and valued.

Music has been the one thing in my life that has always made sense, even when nothing else did. I started writing songs after my mom died, when I was twelve. At that age I did not have the language to explain what I was feeling. Talking felt impossible. Music gave me another way to speak. Sitting with my ukulele, I could say things in a melody that I could not say out loud. That is still why I write today. What started as a way to get through grief slowly became my path. Writing songs for myself turned into sharing them with friends, then open mics, then finally releasing my own music on streaming platforms. So far I have written and released more than twenty five original songs, all of which I recorded using Logic. Every new release has been its own small lesson in writing, arranging, vocal producing, and finishing work instead of just starting it. I used to think being a songwriter meant waiting for inspiration. Now I know it is also structure, patience, and learning to show up even when you are tired or scared. Music has guided my educational choices at every step. It is the reason I chose to study Songwriting at Berklee College of Music. In my classes I am learning how to take the instinctive parts of my writing and give them shape, through harmony, lyric craft, and form. Ear training and theory have helped me understand why certain progressions hit me so hard. Lyric writing workshops have pushed me to be clearer and more honest, and to write from specific images instead of vague emotion. Ensemble and performance classes have also taught me how sound changes in a room, and how arrangement, dynamics, and silence can be as powerful as words. Some of the most important musical experiences I have had have involved using songs to hold other peoples stories, not just my own. One example is working with A Song For You to write a custom song with a grieving family. Hearing their memories, shaping their words into lyrics, and then singing it back to them was one of the most meaningful things I have ever done. It reminded me that music is not just about self expression. It can also be service and connection. Looking ahead, my goals sit at the intersection of songwriting, sound, and emotional impact. I want to keep developing as a topliner and lyricist, writing for both myself and other artists. I also want to grow more as a vocal producer, so I can capture performances that feel honest, not over polished. Long term, I see myself writing songs that help people feel seen in the same way certain songs once helped me, and working on projects that use music to support people who are grieving or going through hard transitions. In short, music has been my teacher, my outlet, and my way forward. It has shaped how I learn, how I process, and how I imagine my future. I am excited to keep studying it in a deeper, more intentional way, and to keep finding new ways for sound to connect people who might otherwise feel alone.

I grew up learning to navigate life through music. I did not come from a musical family, but after my mom passed away when I was young, songwriting became the place where I could finally put feelings somewhere. At first it was just a private outlet, a way to make sense of things I did not know how to say out loud. Over time it became something much bigger. It became the way I connect with people, understand myself, and turn difficult experiences into something that can help someone else feel less alone. I started writing songs at twelve, sitting on my bedroom floor with a notebook and whatever small melody I could figure out. Now I am studying Songwriting at Berklee College of Music, working every day to develop my voice, my lyrical style, and the emotional honesty I want my music to carry. I have released more than twenty five original songs on streaming platforms, and each one marks a moment in my growth as a writer. Melody is where I feel most at home. I love finding clean structures, strong toplines, and vocal phrasing that feels natural and human. My goal is always the same. Say something real. Say it simply. Say it in a way someone can hold on to. One of the most meaningful projects I have worked on so far is my partnership with A Song For You. I had the chance to write a custom song with a grieving family who wanted to honor their loved one. That experience changed the way I think about music. It reminded me of why I started writing in the first place. Music has the power to make people feel seen. It can hold grief, hope, fear, joy, and love all at the same time. Being trusted with someone’s story is something I will never take lightly, especially because I know how much it meant to me when music helped me through my own loss. My future goals build on that idea. I want to be a songwriter and artist who creates work that makes people feel understood. I want to write songs that help others process what they are going through, especially young people dealing with grief, mental health challenges, or major changes in their lives. I also want to continue writing for organizations that support healing. Turning someone’s story into a song is not just creative work. It is service. It is connection. It is empathy in a form people can return to whenever they need it. Giving back is something I try to do consistently. Through Experience Camps I have supported fundraising efforts that help kids who have lost a parent or sibling attend grief support programs. I also volunteer my time with younger musicians, offering feedback on their lyrics or helping them record rough demos so they can start building confidence in their own voices. Even small things like that can make someone feel encouraged and capable. Music changed my life, and now I want to use it to change the lives of others. My hope is to build a career that is not only creative, but meaningful, grounded in honesty, and centered on helping people feel seen.

Losing my mom to a sudden heart attack has been the greatest obstacle I have ever faced. I was still young when it happened, and I did not fully understand how something that seemed so invisible could take someone so important from me. My mom’s death left me with grief, uncertainty, and responsibility far beyond my years. It also forced me to face the reality of cardiac disease and its impact not only on health, but on families and futures. The first challenge was emotional. Watching my mom struggle with health issues and then losing her so suddenly left me with anxiety and fear that it could happen to me or to others I love. I had to learn how to manage those fears while also grieving. Therapy, music, and community became lifelines. I wrote songs as a way to process what I was feeling, and I became involved in projects that gave purpose to my pain. For example, I helped co-create GriefSucks.com, a platform for young people dealing with loss, where I contributed writing and videos to help normalize conversations around grief. I also wrote personalized songs for grieving children through A Song For You, including one for a set of twins who lost their parent. Helping others navigate their grief reminded me that I was not alone in mine. The second obstacle was practical. Without my mom, my family changed overnight. My dad became the sole parent, and I had to grow up quickly to help my younger siblings and keep our home stable. At the same time, I kept pursuing school and music because I knew my mom would want me to. Graduating high school, releasing original songs, and attending Berklee College of Music were all milestones I reached while carrying the weight of her absence. Each step forward was a reminder that while grief is part of my story, it does not have to define my future. The third challenge has been living with the awareness of heart disease. I now understand how important prevention, education, and awareness are. I am more mindful about my own health and encourage my peers to be aware too. I carry the lessons of my mom’s story and try to honor her by making choices that support long-term well-being. These obstacles have shaped both my character and my goals. I have learned resilience, compassion, and the value of openness. I want to continue my studies at Berklee and use music not only as a career path but also as a way to connect with others and create safe spaces for healing. I also plan to keep building platforms like GriefSucks.com that provide resources for young people facing mental health challenges and loss. My mom’s heart attack changed everything, but it also gave me a mission. I want to live in a way that honors her strength, while helping others who carry the weight of grief or fear because of cardiac disease. This scholarship would support me in pursuing my education, while allowing me to keep turning hardship into hope.

Living with anxiety has been one of the most defining challenges of my life. It has shaped how I see myself, how I connect with others, and how I pursue my goals. At times, it has felt like a shadow I could not escape. Over the years, I have learned to face it directly and use it as fuel for growth. My struggles with anxiety began in middle school. It showed up as racing thoughts, trouble focusing, or feeling paralyzed in situations that should have been simple. In high school, the pressure to excel academically and creatively made those feelings worse. I spent too much time hiding behind “I’m fine” when inside I was not. Things began to change when I realized that silence was isolating me. Asking for help through therapy, mentors, and creative outlets became my first act of courage. Creativity became one of my strongest tools. Songwriting gave me a way to process what I was feeling, and sharing those songs helped me realize I was not alone. That inspired me to get involved in projects that combined creativity with service. I co-created GriefSucks.com, a digital community for young people struggling with loss, where I contributed writing, videos, and content aimed at breaking down the stigma around grief and mental health. I also worked with A Song For You, where I wrote personalized music for grieving children, including a set of twins who had lost a parent. Both experiences showed me that my struggles could be transformed into empathy and action, and that even small creative acts can help others feel seen. When I began college at Berklee, I carried both excitement and fear. Surrounded by incredible talent, I often felt the weight of imposter syndrome. There were nights when I questioned if I truly belonged. But instead of letting anxiety hold me back, I leaned into community. I joined songwriting circles, collaborated with other musicians, and pushed myself to perform even when my nerves told me not to. Every time I walked onto a stage, I proved to myself that I could do hard things. Berklee has challenged me, but it has also helped me grow into someone more confident, resilient, and willing to take risks. My academic goals remain central to my journey. I am determined to complete my undergraduate degree while continuing to develop as both a musician and an advocate for mental health. I see a future where I can combine these passions, whether through music therapy, nonprofit leadership, or programs that use art as a form of healing. Managing recovery is about consistency. I continue therapy, practice journaling, and rely on routines that help ground me when anxiety spikes. I surround myself with supportive peers and mentors who remind me that I do not have to fight alone. Most importantly, I speak openly about mental health. I have seen how vulnerability creates connection, and that when I share my experiences, others often feel safe enough to share theirs too. Ella’s story resonates with me because I understand what it feels like to face invisible battles while striving for a brighter future. My path has been different, but it has also required resilience, courage, and a refusal to give up. This scholarship would not only ease the financial strain of continuing my education, it would also affirm the values I have built my life around. My journey with anxiety has shaped me into someone determined, empathetic, and hopeful. I plan to carry that forward, using both my education and my creativity to support others walking a similar path.

Music has always been more than a creative outlet for me. It is how I process experiences, connect with others, and find meaning in moments that can be hard to explain with words alone. My passion comes from witnessing the way music can shift someone’s mood, give them strength, or remind them they are not alone. That power to heal and connect is what drives me to keep writing, recording, and performing. One of the most meaningful projects I have ever worked on was through A Song For You, an organization that creates bespoke music for people facing end-of-life care or serious illness. I had the honor of writing a custom song for twins whose family wanted something deeply personal to hold onto. Listening to their story, shaping it into melody and lyrics, and then seeing their reaction reminded me why I write music in the first place. It is not just about chasing streams or applause. It is about creating something that leaves a lasting impact on someone’s heart. That experience taught me that music can be an act of service, and that lesson continues to shape my career goals. My passion also extends beyond the music itself into using my platform to talk about issues that matter. I was a co-creator and content creator for GriefSucks, an initiative designed to provide support and honest conversation for young people dealing with loss. Through blogs, videos, and social media posts, I worked to make grief less isolating. Sharing stories, resources, and candid reflections showed me how creativity and advocacy can come together. I realized that my role as a musician is not limited to writing songs. It is also about sparking dialogue and building communities where young people feel seen. As I look ahead, giving back to the youth will be a central part of my career. I want to expand the kind of work I have already started, writing bespoke songs for those in need, creating safe spaces for difficult conversations, and using music to empower young people to tell their own stories. Whether it is through workshops, mentorship, or collaborations with nonprofits, I hope to make music accessible as a tool for healing and self-expression. On a practical level, I envision running songwriting programs for young people who might not otherwise have access to instruments, lessons, or creative outlets. Teaching them how to write their own lyrics or melodies could give them a new way to process their feelings, just as music has done for me. I also plan to continue working with organizations that combine music with social impact, so that my career is about both personal achievement and collective growth. Music is my passion because it changes lives, including mine. It has given me resilience, community, and purpose. My goal is to pass that gift forward to the next generation, making sure that young people know they are not alone, their voices matter, and their stories deserve to be heard.

Grief is universal, yet it is one of the least discussed topics, especially among young people. After experiencing loss myself, I realized how isolating it can feel. Friends often do not know what to say, and the silence can make the pain heavier. I wanted to change that. That motivation led me to co-create GriefSucks.com, a platform designed to make conversations about grief more open, honest, and accessible. The site shares real stories, resources, and creative expressions from people who have experienced loss, giving others permission to acknowledge their feelings instead of hiding them. We also provide simple guides to help peers, teachers, and friends better support someone going through grief. Since launching, I have helped design the site, write content, and spread the word through social media and personal outreach. The impact has been powerful. Visitors from across the country have left messages saying the site made them feel less alone, or gave them the words to start a difficult conversation. For me, those responses show that the site is already breaking down barriers and giving people comfort. Looking ahead, I want to expand GriefSucks.com into a more interactive community. I envision partnerships with schools and grief organizations, where students could use the site as a resource in classrooms and counseling offices. I also want to create forums where young people can safely connect with peers who understand their experience. Ultimately, my goal is to make grief less of a taboo subject and more of a shared human experience that we can talk about with honesty and compassion. By continuing to grow this project, I hope to help others realize that grief is not something you have to carry alone.

Growing up in New Jersey shaped the way I see the world and the way I see music. It is a place that taught me the value of community while being close enough to New York City to feel the pull of possibility. That mix of groundedness and ambition has driven me to use music not only for myself but as a way to help others. One of the clearest examples is A Song For You. Through this project I have written and recorded original songs for families who are grieving. Each song is built from their memories and their stories. I talk to them about the person they lost and then turn those memories into music that is uniquely theirs. I have seen the impact it has when someone hears a song that captures their love and their pain. It helps them feel understood and less alone, and it gives them something permanent to hold onto. I also co-created GriefSucks.com, a platform where kids and teens who have experienced loss can share their own stories and connect with others who understand what they are going through. The site has become a place for honesty and support. Young people can speak openly about grief in ways that are not always possible in their everyday lives. It is simple but powerful, and it shows that even a small project can give people a voice. These experiences convinced me that music is more than a career path. It is a form of service. Through my education I want to strengthen the skills that will allow me to keep building projects like these while also growing as a songwriter and performer. My goals are to refine my craft so I can capture emotions more effectively, to learn production and business skills so I can expand these projects to reach more people, and to deepen my performance abilities so I can connect with audiences both large and small. Looking to the future, I see two paths that work together. On one side I want to release original music that carries messages of resilience and hope to wide audiences. On the other, I want to continue creating programs and platforms that help people directly, especially children and families who are grieving. For me the most important thing is that the music always serves a purpose, whether it is a song on stage or one written for a single family. New Jersey will always be part of this story. It is where I learned that community is everything, where I began writing songs after losing my mom, and where I first saw how music could bring people together in moments of joy and in moments of pain. My education will give me the tools to grow and reach farther, but my foundation will always come from here. My vision for the future is simple. I want to use music to make sure people feel seen, heard, and less alone. Whether it is through a platform like GriefSucks.com, a custom song from A Song For You, or a track released to the world, I want my work to combine skill with compassion and to reflect the lessons I first learned in New Jersey.

The current music landscape is more open than ever before. Technology has made it possible for young artists to create, record, and share their work without needing the approval of traditional gatekeepers. At the same time, the industry is crowded and competitive. Every day, thousands of new songs are uploaded to streaming platforms, and artists need more than just talent to stand out. They need a voice, a mission, and a way to connect with listeners on a deeper level. I see myself as someone who is already working inside this landscape and finding ways to make an impact. Songwriting has been my way of processing life, loss, and hope since I was a child. Losing my mom at a young age shaped who I am and why I create. For me, music has always been about more than performance. It is about healing, connection, and giving people a place to feel less alone. That belief led me to release an album called For the Kids, where every dollar of revenue is donated to Experience Camps for Grieving Children. I know what it feels like to grow up with grief, and I wanted to use my platform to help other kids who are on that same journey. This project was not just about making music, it was about turning art into action. It showed me how music can directly fuel impact in the community. Beyond that, I have already published 25 songs across platforms, including projects tied to A Song for You, a nonprofit that connects songwriters with families who have lost loved ones. Writing music that gives voice to someone else’s grief has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. It taught me that songs can live far beyond the artist, serving as legacies, comfort, and stories that might never have been told otherwise. In a world where so much music is made to go viral for a few seconds, I want my music to last. I want it to be the kind of work people return to when they need strength, or when they want to feel understood. That is how I see myself working in today’s music industry, by making songs that carry emotional weight and purpose rather than just chasing the next trend. Looking forward, I plan to continue building on this foundation. I want to grow as a performer and collaborate with artists who share my belief in music as a tool for change. I want to keep finding ways to tie my projects to causes that matter, whether that is grief support, mental health, or other areas where music can provide real healing. The current music landscape may feel overwhelming at times, but it is also full of opportunity. There is space for voices like mine that are willing to blend artistry with impact. I do not just hope to make a change, I am already making one through the songs I have written, the album I have released, and the causes I support. My goal is to keep building on that work, creating music that matters and leaves the world a little brighter than I found it.

I am pursuing a career as a songwriter and performing artist. I first turned to music after my mom died when I was eleven. Writing songs became my way of working through grief and putting feelings into words I could not say out loud. It gave me a safe place to process what I was going through, and it slowly became more than a coping tool. Music helped me heal, and I realized it could do the same for other people. Over time, I began using my music to help others navigate their own losses. I have already lived this mission in my work. As a founding member of GriefSucks.com, I have created resources and shared my story to help other young people feel less alone in grief. Through the nonprofit A Song For You, I have written personalized songs for people going through hard times, including one for children who had just lost their dad. Seeing the impact those songs had reminded me why I chose this path. Music has the power to put emotions into words, to let someone know they are seen, and to create connection in moments of pain. Some of my biggest role models are artists who blend honesty with artistry. Taylor Swift inspires me for her storytelling and ability to connect with her fans on such a deep level. Phoebe Bridgers is another influence because she is unapologetically authentic, and her music creates space for emotions people sometimes avoid talking about. I also admire H.E.R. for her musicianship and the way she uses her platform to speak about important issues. Each of them reminds me that talent is important, but staying true to your voice is what leaves a real mark. I hope to make an impact on the music industry by creating work that is both personal and universal. I want to write songs that help people through their own struggles, songs they can return to in both good and bad times. I also want to advocate for other young women in music, making sure they have the support and resources they need to grow in their craft. This industry can be intimidating, especially for women starting out, and I want to be someone who helps break down those barriers. When people look back on my career, I want them to remember me as someone who was genuine and fearless in her art. I want to be known for writing music that mattered, that gave people a voice when they didn’t have the words themselves. If my songs can help someone feel less alone or inspire them to tell their own story, then I will have done what I set out to do.

If I could create a brand new Love Island challenge, it would be called Song and Seek. It combines two of my favorite things: music and meaningful moments. This challenge would give the Islanders a chance to show how well they really know each other while adding a creative and emotional twist. Here’s how it works. Each couple is split up. One partner is given a simple instrument like a ukulele or a keyboard and a prompt that connects to their relationship. It might be a quote, a memory, or something emotional their partner once shared. That person then has 20 minutes to write a short song based on the prompt. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be honest, creative, and from the heart. If they need a little help, they can ask for advice from a guest songwriter. While that’s happening, the other partner goes on a scavenger hunt across the villa. They search for envelopes that contain lyric lines connected to big moments in their time together. These could include the first time they kissed, a funny fight, or something sweet that was said during a private conversation. When they collect all the lyric clues, the final envelope leads them to a surprise stage. When they arrive, their partner is waiting to perform the original song they just wrote. The performance becomes the final part of the challenge. If the person watching can correctly explain the meaning behind at least three of the lines, the couple wins a special reward. That could be a private night away from the others, a romantic dinner, or even a concert under the stars. This challenge would let the couples go deeper. It gives them a chance to reflect on their connection and show what they’ve noticed and remembered. Instead of just playing games, they are creating something together that feels personal and real. It also allows people to be vulnerable in a way that doesn’t always happen on Love Island. Music has always been how I express myself. I believe that when someone writes a song for you, even a silly one, it means they were paying attention. That they saw something special in you. That they care enough to turn memories into music. In a show filled with drama and distractions, I think Song and Seek would help bring out the real feelings hiding underneath the surface. And in my opinion, there is nothing more romantic than a song written just for you.

I used to think my life was perfect. I had a mom who was loving and funny and full of light. I didn’t know there was another side. I didn’t know about the pain she carried or how deeply it was affecting her. When I was eleven, everything changed. My mom told us she was leaving. I didn’t understand it. One minute I was a kid in a happy home, and the next I was being told my mother had bipolar disorder, and that she had been struggling for a long time. Her decision to walk away from our family didn’t make sense to me. I was too young to grasp what mental illness could do to a person, especially when it went untreated. That moment cracked something open in me. I had my first sparks of anxiety, and they quickly turned into full-blown panic attacks. I’ll never forget the first one. The shortness of breath, the tunnel vision, the overwhelming fear that something terrible was happening and I couldn’t stop it. No one around me really understood. And to be honest, neither did I. Just one year after she left, my mom died. It felt like losing her all over again. Except this time, there was no possibility of repair. No closure. Just silence. That’s when I first truly understood grief. And as if that wasn’t enough, soon after, the world shut down. The pandemic made my anxiety worse. I was stuck inside, alone with my thoughts, having panic attacks almost every day. I felt disconnected from everything, including myself. My mom’s mental illness had consumed the end of her life, and now my own was unraveling. What helped me begin to heal was therapy and music. My therapist helped me understand my triggers, taught me how to ground myself with breathing techniques and affirmations, and gave me space to speak the truth. She also encouraged me to find an outlet. That’s when I picked up a ukulele I’d been given as a gift and never touched. At first, I played just to distract myself. Then, out of nowhere, I started writing. I wrote songs like “Glass Half Full” and “Box Breathing,” where the lyrics sounded like a voice I needed to hear. Sometimes it felt like my mom’s voice. Sometimes it was mine. Those songs reminded me that I had the power to calm myself. That I could create something meaningful from something painful. That was the beginning of everything. I kept writing. I kept healing. Eventually, I shared my songs with others. And when people told me my lyrics made them feel understood, I knew this was more than just a coping tool. This was my purpose. I started performing. One of my first shows was at a gala for Experience Camps, the nonprofit that changed my life. I met other grieving kids who felt like I did. Through them, I got involved with GriefSucks.com, a platform for teens to share their stories about loss. I became a founding content creator and poured my heart into that space. It helped me feel seen, and it helped others feel less alone. Later, I joined A Song For You, where I wrote music for hospice patients and their families. My first project was for two eight-year-old twins who had just lost their dad. Writing that song meant more to me than anything I’ve done. It felt like a full-circle moment. Now I’m studying songwriting and performance at Berklee. My dream is to keep writing songs that speak to people who are hurting. To create music that makes someone feel understood when they need it most. Mental health shaped my entire life. My mom’s struggle with bipolar disorder pulled her away from me. My own battle with anxiety nearly took me under. But I found a way through. And now I want to offer that same light to someone else. This scholarship would help me keep doing that. It would support my journey to write music that turns pain into something people can hold onto. Something that says, “You’re not alone.”

I’m Tina LaRosa, a singer-songwriter and freshman at Berklee College of Music. I grew up in New Jersey, raised by my dad after my mom died suddenly when I was eleven. She was my best friend. Losing her cracked my world open. I didn’t know how to talk about it, so I started writing music. At first, it was just a way to let out everything I was holding in. But over time, I realized that my songs were helping other people too. Music gave me a voice. Grief gave me something to say. And together, they gave me a purpose. I released my first album at fourteen. In 2023, I put out an EP called For The Kids, a project written specifically for grieving children and teens. I donate all the proceeds to Experience Camps, a nonprofit that supports kids who’ve lost a parent or sibling. I also volunteer there, working directly with campers and helping them feel seen, safe, and less alone. The work I do with Experience Camps and other grief-related orgs is just as important to me as the music itself. It’s all part of the same mission of turning pain into something useful. I also helped launch GriefSucks.com, a space where teens can talk about loss in a way that feels honest and real. I’ve spoken at grief conferences and high schools, led workshops on songwriting through grief, and mentored younger artists trying to find their voice after tragedy. In 2024, I became part of A Song For You, a national project where families who’ve lost someone share their stories, and we turn those stories into custom songs. I’ve written and recorded pieces for people I’ve never met, using music to honor their loved ones and offer something healing. It’s hard, emotional work, but I love it. It’s the most meaningful thing I’ve ever done. I’ve also performed at benefit concerts for mental health, pediatric cancer, and suicide prevention. I’ve sung at venues like 54 Below and The Bitter End in New York City, but I’ve also performed in classrooms, community centers, and backyards...where the audience isn’t huge, but the connection is. That’s what drives me. That’s what stays with me. Kalia’s story really touched me. She sounds like the kind of person who showed up for others, who worked hard, made people laugh, and left a mark. I didn’t know her, but I feel connected to her through this scholarship. We shared a belief in giving your best, not just for yourself but for the people around you. We also both knew what it meant to carry responsibility early in life and still keep showing up with kindness and drive. This scholarship would help me continue my education at Berklee and take some of the pressure off my dad, who’s raising me on his own and doing everything he can. Every dollar I earn through scholarships makes it possible for me to keep saying yes... to service projects, to grief work, to helping others heal through art. That’s the legacy I’m trying to build. One that lives on in the people I reach. Thank you for reading my story, and thank you for honoring Kalia’s life in such a meaningful way. Tina LaRosa Berklee College of Music, Class of 2029

When someone in your life is living with a chronic condition, things change. Not all at once, but in quiet ways that start to shape your days. You learn to expect the unexpected. You learn to read the room before you speak. You figure out how to be strong for someone else, even when you don’t feel strong yourself. In my case, it didn’t just affect one person, it affected all of us. There were hard days. There were scary moments. There was a constant feeling that we were living on uneven ground. It forced me to grow up faster. It taught me to sit with discomfort. And it made me realize that music was more than just background noise. For me, it became survival. I picked up a ukulele when I was twelve. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I started writing songs. At first, it was just a way to let out what I didn’t know how to say out loud. Then it became something deeper. Writing music helped me process the things I couldn’t control. It gave me something that was mine when everything else felt like it was falling apart. As I kept writing and sharing my songs, I started to hear from other people who said my music helped them feel less alone. That changed everything for me. I realized that what I had been through wasn’t just something to get over. It was something I could use to connect with others and make something meaningful. What inspires me now is that possibility. That a song I write might give someone else the words they didn’t have. That showing up and being honest about pain can actually be a kind of strength. I don’t want to hide the hard stuff. I want to use it to help people feel seen. That’s why I started getting involved with projects like GriefSucks, a teen-led platform that helps people talk about loss and mental health. I’ve performed at events that support kids who are grieving, and I’ve donated all the proceeds from my recent EP to Experience Camps. I want to create spaces where people can be open about what they’re going through, and where creativity becomes a way to heal. I know I can’t fix everything. But I also know that art has the power to reach people in ways nothing else can. My hope is to keep writing music that matters, to keep listening to people who feel like no one understands them, and to keep turning my experiences into something that makes someone else’s day a little lighter. We all carry things. Some of us just sing about them.

My name is Tina LaRosa, and I’m heading to Berklee College of Music this fall as a songwriting major. I’ve been writing original music since I was 12, mostly to process grief after my mom passed away. Music helped me find my voice again. Now, I want to use it to help others do the same especially young people who feel isolated, misunderstood, or like their emotions are “too much.” I’m paying for college through a mix of student loans, outside scholarships, and working part-time while in school. My dad is a single parent and, while incredibly supportive, we simply don’t have the money. Any scholarship support means less pressure on both of us and more time for me to focus on my work. TXT found me at a moment when I didn’t even realize how much I needed them. A friend sent me a performance video of “Run Away” in early 2020. I had no idea who they were at the time, but that one video pulled me in completely. It wasn’t just the choreography or visuals, though both were amazing. It was the emotion. The longing. The idea of finding one person in the universe who truly gets you. That hit hard. I started diving into everything including past performances, behind-the-scenes clips, TO DO episodes, and fan translations. I quickly realized this group wasn’t just talented. They were thoughtful, weird in the best way, vulnerable, and full of stories that made me feel less alone. I connected so strongly to songs like “Can’t You See Me?” and “Opening Sequence,” but also to playful tracks like “Blue Hour” and “Poppin’ Star.” Their music covers every emotion with honesty and style. If I had to pick a favorite song, it’s probably “Anti-Romantic.” That one felt like someone read pages out of my own diary. It captures the fear of closeness and the ache of pulling away before someone else can hurt you first. I remember playing it on loop one night, crying into my pillow, and also feeling… understood. Like maybe I wasn’t the only one who felt that kind of quiet heartbreak. It made me want to write better songs. More honest ones. My bias is Hueningkai. His energy, voice, and spirit remind me to keep joy alive in my music. Even in the sad songs. I admire how he doesn’t hide his softness. That’s leadership to me—staying open-hearted in a world that often tells you to toughen up. Being a MOA hasn’t just made me a fan. It’s shaped how I approach my music and my life. TXT’s entire discography speaks to the messy parts of growing up. Their lyrics are layered, poetic, and personal—exactly the kind of writing I aim for as a songwriter. They don’t pretend to have it all figured out. They let you sit in the questions. And that’s what I want to do, too. I plan to use my degree to write songs that help people feel seen and safe, especially LGBTQ+ youth and kids dealing with grief or mental health struggles. I also work with nonprofits like Experience Camps, where I help grieving kids through music and storytelling. I co-created a platform called GriefSucks.com for grieving teens, and even helped build a Minecraft grief world called ExperienceCraft. Music and connection are the through-lines in everything I do. TXT showed me that art can be both personal and world-changing. Getting to study music at Berklee is a dream. Getting to do it while knowing that the MOA community believes in me? That would mean even more. Thank you for this opportunity and for reminding us that music, when shared with love, really can change lives.

When my mom died suddenly, I didn’t know how to grieve. I was twelve, in shock, and surrounded by people who didn’t know what to say. Everyone told me to stay strong. So I did. Or at least I pretended to. But the truth was, I was falling apart inside. I didn’t sleep well. I cried in secret. I smiled when I felt like screaming. On the outside, I looked fine. On the inside, I was lost. I pushed down my feelings because I thought that’s what strength looked like. It took me over a year to admit I needed help. Saying yes to therapy wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to talk about what hurt. I didn’t want to open up to someone I didn’t know. But I went anyway. I sat on that couch and said things I had never said out loud. Slowly, something shifted. I stopped pretending I was okay, and started learning how to actually be okay. That choice to show up for myself, even when it was hard, taught me what real strength is. It’s not about having it all together. It’s about being honest with yourself. It’s about letting people in. It’s about choosing healing, even when it feels uncomfortable or scary. Since then, I’ve found other ways to care for my emotional and mental health. Music has become a huge part of that. I write songs about grief, anxiety, hope, and healing. I’ve performed at Experience Camps for grieving kids and spoken on podcasts like "Hello, my mom is dead" about what it means to keep living when someone you love is gone. I also help create content for GriefSucks.com, giving teens a safe space to talk about loss in a way that feels real. These are not things I would have imagined myself doing years ago. But they’ve helped me grow. Not just as an artist, but as a person. I’ve learned how to be more present. I’ve learned how to listen better. I’ve learned that making your health a priority doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you strong. As I prepare for college and for a future in music, I carry those lessons with me. I want to keep writing songs that heal. I want to create spaces where people feel seen. And I want to keep showing up for myself in the ways that matter most. Not just when things are easy, but especially when they’re hard. My path hasn’t been perfect. But it’s honest. And I’ve learned that taking care of your well-being is not extra. It’s the foundation for everything else.

I’ve never served in the military, and I wouldn’t pretend to fully understand what it feels like to come home from war. But I do know what it feels like to live with trauma. When I was twelve, my mom died unexpectedly. One day, she was cheering me on from the sidelines. The next, she was gone. The world stopped making sense. I felt like I had been dropped into a different reality, one where joy didn’t come as easily, where loud noises made me flinch, and where I had to remind myself just to breathe. At the time, I didn’t know that what I was experiencing shared some symptoms with PTSD. I only knew that something inside me had broken, and I wasn’t sure how to put it back together. Through years of therapy, songwriting, and honest conversations, I’ve slowly learned to live alongside my grief. I’ve learned that trauma doesn’t look the same for everyone, but it always asks the same hard questions. “Am I safe?” “Am I alone?” “Will I ever feel normal again?” That’s where I’ve found a connection to veterans. Not in the source of the pain, but in the aftershocks. In the way trauma can follow you home and show up in everyday life. In the way it isolates you unless someone reaches out and says, “Me too.” That’s why I’ve chosen to be vocal about mental health and grief. I’ve performed original songs about loss at Experience Camps for grieving children, where I’ve seen how music opens up conversations that words alone can’t reach. I’ve been a guest on podcasts where I talk about anxiety, healing, and what it means to keep going. I’ve also created content for GriefSucks.com, a platform that gives teens space to process grief honestly, without being told to move on. What I’ve learned from all of this is simple. People don’t need perfect advice. They need permission to feel what they feel, and a reminder that healing is possible. That’s something I hope to offer to veterans living with PTSD, not as someone who’s been in their boots, but as someone who understands what it means to carry invisible wounds. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that we don’t have to be experts to make a difference. We just have to be willing to listen, share, and show up. Trauma isolates. Connection heals. I’ve lived it, and I want to help others believe in it too.

Mental health isn’t just important to me, it’s the reason I’m still here and creating music. When I was twelve, my mom died unexpectedly. I didn’t know how to process that kind of loss. I stopped talking to friends. I cried in secret. I had no idea how to explain what I was feeling, so I turned to something that didn’t require explanation: music. I picked up a ukulele my dad had given me and started writing songs. That’s how I began to grieve. Over time, songwriting became more than a coping mechanism. It became a way to explore my emotions and connect with others. That process taught me something powerful. Mental health is not just about surviving. It’s about finding ways to stay human through pain. That’s why mental health matters to me as a student. It’s not separate from learning. It’s part of it. I can’t focus in class or show up fully in life when I’m emotionally shut down. I’ve experienced both, and the difference is everything. Because of what I’ve been through, I’ve made it my mission to be honest about mental health and help others feel less alone. I’ve performed my songs about grief at Experience Camps where i volunteer to help all kids who have lost a parent, and seen how music opens doors for conversations kids aren’t usually given space to have. I’ve shared my story on podcasts like "Hello, my Mom is Dead" where I talk about anxiety, therapy, and what it’s like to lose a parent at a young age. And I contribute content to a platform called GriefSucks.com by creating content that gives teens a place to process loss without sugarcoating it. Even in my day-to-day life, I try to be the person who asks real questions like “How’s your heart?” instead of just “How are you?” I’ve learned that you don’t have to be a therapist to be an advocate. You just have to be someone who shows up. Mental health isn’t just a passion for me. It’s personal. It’s what saved me and continues to shape how I live, learn, and create. I want to keep writing music that heals, performing for organizations that care about emotional well-being, and building spaces where nobody feels like they have to hide what they’re going through. We don’t need to have perfect answers. But we do need to keep asking better questions. That’s how change begins.

My favorite song on Brat is “I Might Be In Love With You.” It’s not the most dramatic track, but it’s the one that stuck with me. It feels like someone thinking out loud, trying to figure out what they’re feeling without dressing it up or hiding behind metaphors. The line “You looked at me and I got scared” hit hard. It says so much without trying to be deep. Sometimes just being seen by someone can feel like too much, especially when you’re not sure what they see or what they’re looking for. That kind of vulnerability is real, and it’s rare to hear it so plainly in a song. The whole thing lives in this uncertain space where you’re kind of in love but not totally ready to admit it. Most love songs either go all in or fall apart, but this one just sits in the middle. I like that. I like that it’s messy and unresolved. Musically, it’s soft and stripped back. No overproduction. The beat stays out of the way and lets the lyrics do the work. That’s something I’ve started to notice more as a songwriter. Sometimes the strongest songs are the quiet ones, the ones that don’t try to hit every note or make a big point. This track reminded me that it’s okay to write from the middle of a feeling instead of after you’ve figured everything out. It made me think about some of the songs I’ve written where I wasn’t totally sure what I was trying to say, but I knew how it felt. That’s what makes this song stand out to me. It’s honest. It’s a little uncomfortable. But it’s real. That’s why it’s my favorite. Not because it tries the hardest, but because it doesn’t try to be anything other than what it is.

I’ve always known that music was powerful. But I didn’t fully understand just how much it could mean to someone until I wrote a song for two young twins who had lost their dad. It was part of a project with A Song For You, an organization that writes custom songs for people in hospice. These twins had lost their father suddenly, and I was asked to help them tell their story through a song. I spent time getting to know them, learning what they missed most about him, what made him special, and how his loss had changed them. I took everything they shared and turned it into lyrics and melody. The song became a way for them to hold on to his memory and express things they didn’t know how to say. Seeing their reaction when they heard it for the first time was one of the most emotional and meaningful moments I’ve ever had. That experience reminded me that music is more than just sound. It’s connection. It’s healing. When I was twelve, I lost my own mom. It flipped my whole world upside down. At the time, I didn’t know how to talk about it, but music gave me a way to process it. I wrote songs when I couldn’t sleep. I played guitar when the sadness felt too heavy. Slowly, song by song, I started to feel more like myself again. Writing music helped me get through something I didn’t think I could survive. Now, I want to give that same kind of healing to others. Whether it’s through writing for someone grieving, playing live shows, or releasing songs that speak to the hard stuff, I want my music to help people feel less alone. I want to keep doing projects like A Song For You, and I want to grow as a writer and performer so I can reach even more people. In the future, I hope to write songs not just for myself, but for artists, nonprofits, and anyone who needs their story turned into music. I also want to advocate for mental health and grief awareness. I’ve been part of the founding content team for GriefSucks.com, a project from Experience Camps that helps grieving kids. That, along with my own loss, has made me passionate about using my voice to bring comfort, truth, and light to dark places. I don’t want to be known just for performing. I want to be known for making music that matters. Songs that someone listens to at 2 a.m. because they’re heartbroken. Songs that play at a memorial or a celebration of life. Songs that bring peace. Music helped save me, and now I want to use it to help others. That’s how I plan to make a difference. The performance I have attached is of me performing my original song "Get Me" at a songwriters roundtable at Berklee last summer. This song is about what its like to be in grief and to find someone who, like you, has experienced loss and just understands you without words. This song is my story. There is also a recording of the song for thw twins on my website www.tinalarosa.com

’m Tina LaRosa. I’m a singer-songwriter from New Jersey, and I’ve been performing and writing music since I was a kid. Music has always been my way of making sense of the world. It helped me get through losing my mom. It helped me process anxiety. It helped me connect with people when I didn’t have the words. Over time, it became more than a passion. It became my path. I’ve spent the past few years doing everything I can to grow as a songwriter and performer. I’ve played shows at iconic New York venues like 54 Below and The Bitter End, I’ve performed at benefit concerts and school events, and I’ve busked on the streets of Long Beach Island all summer long. I started that just to get more comfortable playing in front of strangers, but it became one of the best things I’ve ever done. It taught me to stay present, to take risks, and to never stop improving. I also spent a summer at Berklee’s 5-week program and studied in Valencia, Spain through Berklee’s 2-week songwriting program. Both experiences made it clear that this is what I want to do with my life. So where do I see myself in five years? In five years, I want to be living in a city where music is alive and everywhere. Maybe it’s New York. Maybe it’s Nashville. I want to be collaborating with other artists, co-writing songs in studio sessions, and pitching my music to artists, labels, and sync agents. I don’t just want to write songs for myself. I want to write for others too. I want to create the kind of music that helps people through their own hardest days, or gives them the soundtrack for their best ones. I also want to keep performing. Not just at coffee shops and school auditoriums, but on bigger stages, opening for artists I admire, and maybe even touring. But more than anything, I want to keep creating music that matters. I want to build a body of work that reflects what I care about: grief, healing, hope, love, anxiety, all of it. I want my music to be real and vulnerable and something people can hold on to. Alongside that, I want to keep advocating for mental health and grief awareness. I was part of the founding content team for GriefSucks.com, a project of Experience Camps, and I’ve seen firsthand how creativity can help people heal. In five years, I’d love to be in a position where I can support causes like that on a bigger scale, whether it’s through benefit concerts, partnerships, or just showing up with honesty and care. My five-year plan is not about chasing fame. It’s about making an impact through music, building a career I’m proud of, and staying true to the things that shaped me. I know it won’t be easy. But I’ve been putting in the work, and I’m ready for what comes next.

I’ve lived in New Jersey my whole life, and it has shaped everything about who I am. This state is full of contrast. We have busy cities and quiet suburbs, diners on every corner, and beaches that stretch for miles. But for me, New Jersey isn’t just where I grew up. It’s where I became who I am. It’s where I found music, learned how to connect with people, and discovered what kind of life I want to build. Some of my strongest memories are from Long Beach Island. I spent every summer there with my family, and it was my mom’s favorite place. After she passed away unexpectedly, LBI became even more meaningful. It was the place where I felt closest to her, and also where I started to find my voice. That’s where I began busking.. setting up in coffee shops with my ukulele and guitar and playing for anyone who would listen. At first it was terrifying. But as the weeks went on, I started growing. I learned how to read a crowd, how to keep going even when no one stopped, and how to hold someone’s attention with nothing but a song and a few chords. I didn’t just become a better performer. I became more confident, more open, and more sure of my path. Music has always been personal for me. I started writing songs in middle school, mostly as a way to cope with grief and anxiety. I didn’t know how to talk about what I was feeling, but I could sing about it. Songwriting became my therapy. I would sit with my guitar for hours, writing and rewriting lines until they finally said what I needed to say. The more I wrote, the more I realized I wanted to make music not just for myself, but for anyone who needed to feel understood. New Jersey also taught me about community. After my mom’s death, people showed up for me in quiet but powerful ways. Neighbors brought food, teachers checked in, and friends stayed close. I never forgot that. It showed me that grief isn’t something you go through alone, and that a strong community can make even the worst days a little more bearable. That experience led me to projects like GriefSucks.com, where I was part of the founding content team. We built honest, creative tools to help other grieving kids feel less isolated. That work mattered to me. It still does. Growing up here also gave me grit. People in New Jersey are tough. They speak their minds and work hard. That energy rubbed off on me. I’ve performed in all kinds of settings—from school concerts to 54 Below and The Bitter End in New York City. I’ve learned how to hustle, how to promote my music, and how to stay committed even when it’s hard. My dream is to be a professional songwriter and artist. I want to write songs that make people feel something real. Songs that say what someone else might not be able to. New Jersey gave me the stories, the strength, and the spark to chase that dream. And I’m ready to keep going.

I’ve never been to an EDM festival, but I already know which one I want to attend: Electric Forest. I’ve watched the recap videos, read stories from fans, and listened to the sets that artists have performed there. What draws me in isn’t just the music or the lights, though those are incredible. It’s the atmosphere. People describe Electric Forest as a place where you can be completely yourself and still feel entirely accepted, where strangers become friends in minutes, and where you leave with more than a good time—you leave with a sense of connection. A close friend of mine is an EDM producer and a regular at festivals like Electric Forest. She introduced me to the EDM world. Through her, I started exploring the music, learning about artists, and hearing what the community is really about. It didn’t take long before I realized this was more than just a genre. It’s a culture built around values I already believe in. The artist I would be most excited to see live is Illenium. His songs blend intense drops with real emotional storytelling, which is something I try to do in my own music too. His work is proof that EDM can be more than just hype—it can be healing. “Good Things Fall Apart” and “Takeaway” are both songs I go back to when I need to process something personal. Seeing him perform live in that kind of setting would be a full-circle moment. The phrase “Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect” might sound simple, but to me, it’s a blueprint for how to treat people, especially in spaces where everyone is coming from different places. Peace means creating space for calm in a chaotic world. Love means showing up for people with compassion, not judgment. Unity is about finding common ground with people who might seem totally different from you. And Respect means listening and being open, even when you don’t agree. These values are what I try to bring into my own community. I’m a singer-songwriter, and many of my songs are about grief, anxiety, and healing. I lost my mom suddenly when I was young, and that shaped how I see the world. It’s why I care so much about mental health and why I use my music to reach people who are hurting. I’ve performed at benefit concerts, grief support events, and school functions where the goal was to open conversations and help people feel less alone. What I admire most about the EDM community is how it turns those same values into action. At festivals, people trade kandi bracelets with messages like “you are loved” or “stay strong.” They help each other out, even if they’ve never met. That sense of collective care is something I want to experience in person and bring into my own music and performances. Electric Forest isn’t just a dream destination. It represents a culture I already feel connected to and a community I want to keep learning from. I hope to attend soon—not just to hear Illenium or dance with thousands of people—but to live out Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect in a way that shapes how I show up in the world.

In music, collaboration is everything. It’s not just about blending sounds, it’s about blending hearts. It’s about trusting someone else with your story, listening deeply to theirs, and creating something that neither of you could have made alone. For me, collaboration is where the real magic of music happens. Some of the most meaningful experiences I’ve had as a musician have been collaborations with other artists and songwriters. One of those moments was at 54 Below in New York City, where I performed for a benefit concert for Experience Camps, a nonprofit for grieving kids. I got to share the stage with professional musicians, many of whom have been on Broadway. Standing beside people with that kind of talent could’ve been intimidating, but instead, it felt like we were all there for the same reason. We weren’t just performing, we were telling a story together. Every harmony, every chord, every shared glance between verses made me feel like I was part of something bigger. It wasn’t about showing off. It was about showing up, and lifting each other up along the way. Another powerful experience happened at The Bitter End, where I performed with A Song For You, a nonprofit that writes songs for families in hospice. The song we shared was written for a family who had recently lost someone they loved. I co-wrote it with another musician, and we performed it together onstage. It wasn’t just about musical chemistry. It was about emotional trust. We had to be completely in sync...not just musically, but emotionally too. That kind of collaboration takes vulnerability. You have to listen closely, not just with your ears, but with your whole self. That night reminded me that music can be a form of service, and that the strongest performances often come from the deepest connections between people. The Berklee summer programs took that even further. I’ve attended both the two-week program in Valencia and the five-week program in Boston, and both were filled with nonstop collaboration. I worked with students from all over the world, writing songs together, arranging harmonies, performing in bands, and giving each other feedback late into the night. We came from different places, played different styles, and had different influences, but somehow, we found common ground through the music. I learned how to compromise, how to speak up, and how to make room for other voices. I learned that sometimes the best part of a song comes from someone else’s idea. And I learned how to let go of control and trust the process. Collaboration has taught me that music is not a solo journey. Even when I write songs alone, I carry the voices of everyone I’ve worked with. Every person I’ve shared a stage or a writing session with has helped me grow into the artist I am becoming. My dream is to keep creating music that connects people, and to keep building songs with others that are honest, real, and full of heart. To me, collaboration means being brave enough to create together...and kind enough to celebrate each other when the music finally comes to life.

I was twelve when my mom died. I don’t even remember the days right after. People kept telling me to be strong, but I didn’t know what that actually meant. I just knew everything was different. One day she was here. The next, she wasn’t. I didn’t talk about it much. I didn’t want to make other people uncomfortable. I didn’t want to cry in front of anyone. So I started writing songs. I wrote late at night when I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t trying to be a songwriter. I was just trying to get the feelings out. That’s what helped me get through that first year. Writing. Playing the piano. Just getting through the days. Some songs were messy. Some were sad. Some were just questions. But they were mine. Eventually, I sang one of those songs at an open mic. A woman came up to me after and said, “That’s exactly how I feel.” That stuck with me. I realized maybe I wasn’t the only one trying to make sense of something painful. Maybe the songs weren’t just for me anymore. Since then, I’ve been using my music to connect with others. I’ve played at 54 Below and The Bitter End, and at little beach restaurants and coffee shops. I’ve written original songs for families in hospice through A Song For You. I’ve performed at grief fundraisers and mental health events. I want people to feel something when they hear my music. I want them to know they aren’t alone. At school, I started a songwriting club. I wanted others to have a safe place to share what they were working on. I also helped lead mental health awareness campaigns. I’ve raised money for suicide prevention and performed for community events. I listen to my friends when they’re going through something. I show up. Even when I don’t have the right words, I try to be there. There are still hard days. But I’ve learned how to carry both sadness and joy. I’ve learned that just because something is heavy doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone. And I’ve learned that turning pain into something meaningful is one of the most powerful things you can do. I’ve also worked hard in school. I’ve kept up my grades while helping out at home and performing. I’ve attended Berklee’s summer programs in Boston and Valencia, Spain. I’m going to Berklee full time this fall, and it feels like everything I’ve been through is leading me there. I’m proud of what I’ve done. Not just the shows or the awards. I’m proud that I kept going. I kept writing. I kept caring. People think resilience looks like a big dramatic moment. But for me, it looks like showing up when you don’t feel like it. It looks like singing a song you wrote in your bedroom and watching it make someone cry because they feel seen. That’s the kind of success that matters to me.

If I had to describe myself in one word, it would be creative. From a young age, music was always in my life, thanks to my mom. Our house was filled with the sounds of classic rock and folk songs. I learned to play guitar and started writing songs to express how I felt about the world around me. When I lost my mom unexpectedly, music became much more than a hobby. It became a lifeline that helped me process grief and connect with others who felt alone in their struggles. My dream is to turn my love of music into a career as a songwriter and performer. I want to write honest songs that speak to real experiences, especially the tough ones. My goal is not just to entertain but to help people feel understood and supported. I have already seen the impact music can have, both on myself and the people I have written for through projects like A Song For You and Experience Camps. When someone tells me that my song made them feel less alone or helped them open up about their own story, I know I am on the right path. What excites me most about this career is the power music has to start conversations and bring people together. Songwriting lets me talk about mental health, grief, love, and hope in a way that reaches people on a deep level. I have met kids at camp and school who struggle to talk about their feelings, but when we play music together, it becomes easier. I want to use my career to create more spaces like that—places where people can express themselves, heal, and build supportive communities. Supporting women’s empowerment is also a big part of my journey. The music industry has not always been easy for women, and I want to be part of changing that. I started my high school’s songwriting club to give all students, especially girls, a safe space to write, perform, and lead. In the club, I encourage everyone to share their ideas and support one another. I hope I am helping other young women find the courage to use their voices and tell their stories. I look up to artists who have used their platforms to speak out for equality and challenge stereotypes. As I move forward, I want to collaborate with and mentor young women in music, so that together we can lift each other up. In college and beyond, I plan to get involved in organizations that promote women in the arts, and I hope to lead workshops or retreats that focus on women’s creativity and confidence. I chose this path because I believe music can change lives. It changed mine, and now I want to give that gift to others. My dream is to be a songwriter and performer who inspires honesty, strength, and community. I hope to break barriers for women in music and help create a world where everyone feels free to share their story. That is the impact I want to have, and I am ready to work for it every step of the way.

If there is one thing that has shaped who I am, it is my love for music. I grew up in a house filled with my mom’s favorite songs, from classic rock to folk and everything in between. Music was always playing, whether it was coming from the speakers or from my own guitar. I did not realize until I was older how much those moments would mean to me, or how music would eventually become both my therapy and my way to give back to others. When my mom died unexpectedly, my whole world changed. I was lost in grief, and it was hard to talk about what I was feeling. Picking up my guitar and writing songs gave me a safe way to express emotions I could not put into words. What started as a way to process my own pain turned into something much bigger. As I shared my music with others, I discovered that my songs could help people feel understood, less alone, and even comforted in their own struggles. That realization is what has inspired me to make a career out of music and use it as a force for good. I have already seen the impact music can have through my work with organizations like Experience Camps, griefsucks.com, and A Song For You. At Experience Camps, I serve on the Youth Advisory Board and perform at events to support other kids who have lost a parent or sibling. With griefsucks.com, I help provide honest resources and real stories for grieving teens. As a songwriter for A Song For You, I write personalized songs for families facing illness or loss, offering them comfort during the hardest times. Each of these experiences has shown me that music is more than entertainment. It is a way to build community, break down barriers, and give people a sense of hope. I have seen it open up conversations about mental health, loss, and healing—topics that are often hard to talk about in everyday life. By sharing my own story through music, I hope to encourage others to share theirs as well. Looking to the future, I plan to continue my education at Berklee College of Music. I want to develop my skills as a songwriter and performer, but also learn how to use technology, collaboration, and leadership to reach even more people. My goal is to expand projects like griefsucks.com, create new workshops for kids and teens, and bring music-based healing into more schools and communities. I want to use what I learn to build programs that help young people talk about their feelings, support one another, and grow stronger together. I believe that a successful career is not just about personal achievements. For me, it is about making a positive impact and using my voice to help others find theirs. I want to keep writing songs that matter, building communities that support each other, and making sure no one feels alone in what they are facing. That is the mark I hope to leave on the world, and it is what motivates me every single day.

Throughout my life, giving back through music and community projects has shaped who I am and what I want to do with my future. Some of my proudest accomplishments are being a founding member of griefsucks.com and writing personalized songs for families in hospice as part of A Song For You. These experiences have taught me the power of creativity, empathy, and connection. They have also given me a clear sense of purpose as I look ahead to further education. Griefsucks.com began as an idea among a few grieving teens, myself included at Experience Camps, who wanted to create an honest, welcoming space for other young people coping with loss. We built a website where kids and teens could share stories, advice, and coping strategies. We wanted anyone who felt alone or misunderstood to know they could find community and understanding. Working on this project, I wrote articles, created content for Instagram and TikTok, and reached out to others to share their stories. Seeing the impact on young people who found comfort through griefsucks.com showed me how even small projects can make a real difference. Writing songs for A Song For You has also been a powerful experience. Families facing illness or loss share their stories with me, and I write custom songs that reflect their loved ones and memories. Sometimes, when words fail, music can say what needs to be felt. I have seen firsthand how a song can bring comfort during the most difficult moments. Every family I work with reminds me how important it is to listen, create, and care. My work does not stop there. I served on the Youth Advisory Board for Experience Camps, a national organization for grieving children. I perform my music at community events and fundraisers that help bring people together and start conversations about mental health and loss. Looking ahead, I know that further education will help me continue and expand this work. Attending Berklee College of Music will give me the training and resources to improve as a songwriter and performer. More importantly, it will give me the chance to collaborate with musicians and teachers who share my passion for using art to heal and connect. I want to learn new ways to reach people, whether that means producing albums that speak to difficult topics, or developing programs that use songwriting to support kids and teens in need. With the skills and experience I gain, I plan to keep building projects like griefsucks.com and A Song For You, reaching more young people across the country. I want to organize workshops and retreats where students can use the arts to share their feelings, find support, and discover their strengths. I hope to help schools and communities create spaces where mental health and grief are not hidden, but faced together with honesty and care. Education is more than personal growth for me. It is a way to turn my passion into action and make a lasting, positive difference. I want to use what I learn to bring hope, comfort, and creativity to as many people as possible. Every project I work on, every song I write, and every connection I make will be dedicated to building a world where nobody feels alone in their struggles. That is how I plan to use my education to make an impact, and that is what motivates me every day.

Arts education has shaped my life in ways I never could have predicted. From the very beginning, music was always in our home. My mom played Fleetwood Mac, Billy Joel, and the Beatles as she cooked or cleaned. I started singing along before I really knew what music even was. Later, I learned to play guitar and discovered songwriting as a way to make sense of what I was feeling. Through each stage of growing up, arts education gave me an outlet, a purpose, and a sense of belonging. When I was younger, I was shy about performing in front of others. School music classes and after-school programs helped me step outside my comfort zone. The first time I sang in a talent show, I was terrified, but the encouragement from my teachers and classmates made me want to keep going. Every new performance built my confidence a little more. Being a part of band, choir, and songwriting club at school showed me that art is not about perfection. It is about expression, connection, and growth. Music became especially important after my mom died. Grief was overwhelming, and I did not know how to talk about it. Songwriting became my therapy. It allowed me to process sadness, anger, and confusion in a way that words alone never could. Arts education made it possible for me to take private pain and turn it into something I could share with others. My teachers supported me in writing about real-life experiences, even when the subjects were heavy. They showed me that vulnerability is a strength, not a weakness. Being part of my school’s jazz band and starting my own songwriting club also introduced me to a whole new community. I met other students who used music and art to get through tough times, just like I did. The friendships and collaborations I built through the arts helped me feel less alone. Together, we learned that art can heal, connect, and inspire. The person who inspired me most was my mom. She believed in the power of music and creativity. Even though she is no longer here, her encouragement echoes in everything I do. She always told me to keep going, to play one more song, and to use my voice even when it felt shaky. When I doubted myself, she was the one who reminded me that what I had to say mattered. Her love for music became the foundation for my own. I have also been pushed to pursue my craft by teachers who saw potential in me. They challenged me to try new styles, to step into leadership roles, and to perform at bigger venues. Their support made me want to work harder and helped me believe in my ability to grow as an artist. Through my dad's support I've published 25 songs on all streaming platforms - hoping to help people thru my music. Looking back, I know I would not be who I am today without arts education and the people who encouraged me along the way. The arts have given me a place to be myself, to process my experiences, and to help others do the same. I hope to keep paying that forward, using music to connect with and inspire the next generation, just as my mom and my teachers did for me.

Giving back has become a central part of my life, especially after losing my mom. When she died, I felt isolated and overwhelmed. Music became my outlet and, over time, also became my way to connect with others who were struggling. What started as a tool for my own healing turned into something bigger—a way to support my community and help others feel less alone. Currently, I give back through music and community service. I am the founder and president of my high school’s songwriting club. We meet every week to write, share, and perform music together. The club is more than just a group for musicians; it’s a safe space where students can express themselves and process difficult emotions. Some students come to share original songs about loss, stress, or anxiety, while others just come to listen and know they are not alone. Seeing people find comfort through creativity is one of the most rewarding things I have experienced. Outside of school, I am actively involved with Experience Camps, an organization for kids who have lost a parent or sibling. I serve on their Youth Advisory Board, help organize events, and perform my original songs at camp gatherings and benefit concerts. I also contributed to the launch of griefsucks.com, a resource created by grieving teens for grieving teens. Through this work, I help provide support and understanding to people who are dealing with loss. My hope is that sharing my story and music can make someone else’s journey a little easier. I also volunteer as a songwriter for A Song For You, a nonprofit that creates personalized songs for families in hospice care or dealing with major illness or loss. I listen to each family’s story and then write and record a song just for them. Sometimes, music can say what words alone cannot. It’s a small gesture, but families have told me it brings them comfort in a difficult time. Knowing that my music helps others heal makes every late night writing session worth it. Looking to the future, I want to keep using music to make a positive impact. I plan to attend Berklee College of Music to further develop my skills as a songwriter and performer. My dream is to write songs that shine a light on mental health, grief, and healing, and to use my platform to support causes I care about. I also want to continue leading workshops for young people, giving them tools to express themselves and build supportive communities through creativity. Long term, I hope to expand the reach of griefsucks.com and similar projects, making resources for grieving kids and teens available across the country. I want to use what I have learned from my own loss to help others find hope and strength. Whether I am performing on stage, leading a group, or writing a song for someone in need, my goal is always the same: to use my voice to make someone else’s journey a little brighter. Giving back has taught me that even small acts can make a big difference. I want to keep using my experiences, my story, and my music to help others, and to create a world where no one feels alone in their struggles

To me, “One heart, one beat” means we’re all connected by something deeper than words: by emotion, by love, by rhythm. It’s about showing up for one another, staying in sync when life feels chaotic, and choosing unity over isolation. It reminds me of what I’ve felt through music and what I’ve learned through grief. When I was 12, I lost my mom very suddenly. It was the kind of moment that divides life into before and after. Everything felt still, like time had paused. I was surrounded by people, yet I felt completely alone. I was flooded with emotions I didn’t know how to carry, and for a while, I didn’t know how to feel anything at all. But somehow, through all that stillness, music found me. One day, I picked up a ukulele that had been collecting dust in the corner of my room. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I started to play anyway. Slowly, strum by strum, I found something that felt like a heartbeat again. Not just mine, but something bigger. The heartbeat of connection: with my family, with others who understood pain, and with a version of myself who believed healing was possible. That’s the rhythm I live in now. I believe “One heart, one beat” is what happens when we truly listen to each other. Not just with our ears, but with our full selves. When we play together, cry together, lift each other up. It’s what I’ve experienced at Experience Camps, a place for kids like me who’ve lost someone close. We come from different towns, different families, different cultures, but when we’re together, there’s this unspoken understanding. We don’t have to explain our grief. We just feel it together. And when we sing around a campfire, all our different voices become one. That’s “one beat.” That’s healing. It also makes me think of people like Joseph Natale, the kind of person who builds community not just with words but with actions. Who lifts people up and leads with heart. He reminds me of the kind of legacy I hope to leave someday: one built on compassion, empathy, and showing up for others when it matters most. I think my mom would’ve loved that. And I think she’d be proud that I’m doing my best to turn my own pain into purpose. Today, whether I’m writing a song, performing onstage, volunteering with Experience Camps, or just being there for a friend who’s hurting, I try to live in that rhythm. The rhythm of listening. The rhythm of love. The rhythm of choosing to walk beside others, no matter what they’re going through. One heart. One beat. Always together.

Music has always been more than just a passion for me. It has been a way to heal, to connect, and to give something meaningful back to the world. After losing my mom suddenly when I was twelve, I struggled to process emotions I didn’t have words for. That’s when songwriting became my lifeline. It allowed me to say what I couldn’t speak, and eventually, it gave me purpose. Over time, I realized that my story isn’t unique. Too many young people carry invisible grief or anxiety. But I also learned that music has a quiet power to reach people in those places. Whether it’s writing a song that helps someone feel seen or performing something that gives someone hope, I’ve seen how art can start conversations that words alone can’t. That’s why I plan to study songwriting and music performance at Berklee College of Music. I want to grow as both a writer and a performer so I can tell more honest and impactful stories. Stories that resonate with people going through their own hard things. My long-term goal is to create music that doesn’t just entertain but supports emotional and mental well-being, especially for young people navigating grief, anxiety, or identity. I’ve already started doing this work through A Song For You, a nonprofit songwriting collective that writes custom songs for families in hospice care. Sitting with a family, learning their story, and turning it into a song they’ll carry forever is one of the most powerful things I’ve ever done. It has also shown me how music can be a form of service, not just expression. I’ve also been involved with Experience Camps and GriefSucks.com, two organizations that support grieving kids. I’ve written and performed songs about loss and healing for these communities, and each time I do, I’m reminded how much power lives in a single lyric when it’s written with truth and care. Through my degree, I plan to keep building these bridges. I want to write songs that become safe spaces for people. I want to work with nonprofits, schools, and community centers to use songwriting and music workshops as tools for connection and healing. I’ve even started a songwriting club at school so students have a creative outlet to share what they’re feeling. I hope to create more programs like this in the future. Education in the arts is often seen as a luxury, but for me and for many others, it’s survival. It’s the thing that helped me hold on when life felt like too much. Now I want to use what I’ve learned, and what I’ll continue learning, to help others do the same.

Growing up, finances were never just background noise in my life. They were something I understood from a young age, not because of formal education, but because I watched my family live with the realities of financial strain. After my mom passed away when I was twelve, my dad became a single parent raising three kids. From that point on, money was something we always had to think carefully about. I remember how carefully my dad planned everything, how we reused and fixed things instead of buying new ones, and how little luxuries became rare and special. I learned that saving was not just smart; it was necessary. Even when money was tight, being resourceful made a real difference. In a way, I got my first financial education just by watching how my dad stretched every dollar. In school, real financial education was limited. While I learned basics about budgeting and economics, most of what I know came from personal experience. Understanding the cost of college, applying for scholarships, and realizing how important credit and savings are did not come from textbooks. They came from real conversations at home and lessons I pieced together myself. My experience as a musician has also taught me a lot about finances. Whether it was saving up for studio time, budgeting for travel to gigs, or learning about streaming royalties, I had to think about money in a real way. I learned that being an artist also means being a businessperson. Every creative decision has financial consequences, and understanding that early has made me more careful and strategic. As I move forward, I know that gaining a stronger financial education is critical for building a stable future. I plan to take courses in financial literacy, business management, and music industry economics while attending Berklee College of Music. I want to understand how to manage income from multiple sources, budget for projects, invest wisely, and protect myself legally and financially. I also want to be able to read contracts, understand taxes, and plan for long-term goals like homeownership and retirement. Financial stability would allow me to focus fully on my music without constant anxiety about how to pay the bills. It would give me the freedom to invest in my career, whether that means funding tours, producing albums, or building my own music company one day. It would also allow me to give back to the communities that have supported me, like Experience Camps. Beyond personal success, I want to help others. I know how hard it is to grow up without a lot of financial guidance, and I want to pass on real, useful knowledge to other young artists. Whether it is mentoring a younger musician or offering advice one day, I want to help change the culture around financial literacy in creative fields. Money may not buy happiness, but financial knowledge can provide security, independence, and opportunities. My personal experiences have shown me the importance of learning everything I can. By committing to financial education, I am not just investing in my success as an artist. I am investing in my ability to build a life based on freedom, generosity, and creativity.

When I think about the people who shaped me during high school, Mrs. Lauren Vanderhoef immediately comes to mind. She was more than my English teacher. She was someone who helped me find my voice during one of the hardest and most important times of my life. I met Mrs. Vanderhoef during my freshman year when I took Honors English. I had already been through a lot by then. Losing my mom at twelve changed the way I saw the world, and even though I smiled and worked hard, there was a lot of pain underneath. Somehow, Mrs. Vanderhoef saw the full version of me. She made her classroom feel like a place where it was safe to be yourself, even when life was messy or complicated. It was the first time I realized that my thoughts, my writing, and my story had value. In class, she encouraged open discussions. She truly listened to what we had to say, even if our answers were not the ones she expected. That simple act of listening helped build my confidence not only as a student but as a person. It made me believe that my perspective mattered, and it showed me that good leaders are the ones who make others feel heard. During my junior year, I had her again for AP English Language and Composition. That year, I started the Songwriting Club, and Mrs. Vanderhoef agreed to be the advisor without hesitation. She cheered me on, helped me organize meetings, and celebrated every student who walked through the door with a guitar, a notebook, or even just a few lines of lyrics. She made all of us feel like what we were creating was important. Watching her lead with so much kindness and support taught me that success is not just about personal achievement. It is about lifting up the people around you. Mrs. Vanderhoef’s positivity stood out the most. Every morning, no matter how early it was, she would greet the class with energy and warmth. Most people had no idea what I had been through, but she seemed to understand that even when life feels heavy, you can still choose to bring light into a room. That lesson stayed with me and became a big part of how I approach my music and my life today. Starting high school after a major loss made it easy to be guarded. Mrs. Vanderhoef showed me that vulnerability is not a weakness. It is where real connection happens. Because of her, I learned to share my story more openly, whether it was in a song, a conversation, or an essay. She helped me believe that even the parts of my life that were hardest could become a source of strength and creativity. As I head to Berklee College of Music, her influence continues to guide me. I want my music to create the same sense of belonging that she created in her classroom. I want to be someone who helps others feel heard and seen. Most of all, I want to live with the same kind of kindness, patience, and belief in others that she showed me. Mrs. Vanderhoef taught me a lot about writing, but what she really taught me was how to live a meaningful life. Her lessons are with me every time I pick up my guitar, walk into a new room, or decide to believe in myself even when it feels scary. I am forever grateful that she was part of my story.

I’ve never worn a jersey or played under stadium lights, but I am absolutely an athlete. My sport is music—specifically songwriting, guitar, ukulele, and vocal performance. Just like any other sport, it takes daily discipline, strength, endurance, and the ability to keep showing up even when the odds are stacked against you. And in a world where many musical spaces—especially production, performance, and leadership—are still dominated by men, being a young woman in music requires an extra layer of resilience. Balancing my “sport” with school and life hasn’t always been easy. Music is emotional work, but it’s also technical, physical, and deeply time-consuming. While other students were practicing drills or rehearsing for games, I was memorizing chord progressions, writing lyrics between classes, and working through vocal scales after midnight. I’d spend weekends editing recordings, preparing for performances, or writing content for platforms like GriefSucks.com, where I use my music and story to support grieving teens. I’ve also been fortunate to work with A Song For You, writing and performing original music for families in hospice—an experience that requires a unique kind of emotional strength. Doing all of this while keeping up with academics taught me how to manage pressure, stay focused under stress, and believe in the long game—just like any athlete would. But being a female artist adds another layer: navigating an industry where women are often underestimated, overlooked, or boxed into stereotypes. I’ve seen firsthand how women are often expected to fit into a mold—sound a certain way, look a certain way, write “safe” songs that don’t rock the boat. Choosing to be my authentic self, to write the kind of music that reflects real emotions, and to own my space as a young woman with something to say—that takes courage. And it’s a courage I’ve earned by showing up every single day to train in my “sport.” Being a musician has helped me grow into a more confident and capable young woman. It’s helped me find my voice—literally and figuratively—and use it to speak out on issues that matter, whether that’s mental health, grief, or empowerment. It’s taught me how to lead, collaborate, and keep pushing even when things get hard or when I’m the only girl in the room. Most of all, it’s helped me realize that being “strong” doesn’t always mean loud or aggressive. Sometimes it means steady. Sometimes it means soft and unshakable. I believe that redefining what it means to be an athlete, an artist, and a female leader is how we start to change the game. My journey through music has shown me that strength comes in many forms—and that there is power in creating, in feeling, in persevering, and in helping others do the same. So no, I may not have a trophy case. But I’ve built something better: a voice, a purpose, and a platform that I intend to use—for good.

When I was twelve, my world fell apart. My mom died suddenly from a heart attack at age 47 while running a local 5K race. Losing her so unexpectedly and so abruptly left me and my siblings reeling. But through the heartbreak and confusion, one person held us all together: my dad. Overnight, my dad became a single parent to three kids, balancing grief, work, and parenting with more strength than I think even he knew he had. He supported us emotionally, made sure we never missed a day of school, and somehow kept our family afloat, financially and spiritually, through the hardest time in our lives. He showed up to every concert, every school event, every moment that mattered. He made sure we got the professional help that we needed, and most importantly, he reminded me, over and over again, that I could still chase my dreams. He’s the reason I found music. After my mom died, I felt completely lost. Then, during the pandemic, I picked up a ukulele and started writing songs. My dad was the first person to listen, to encourage me, to say, “There’s something really special here.” He helped me launch a family music project, build a website, start a label, and believe in myself when it was hard to. I told him I wanted to go to music school. Not any music school, but Berklee College of Music, one of the most prestigious and exclusive schools in the world. He got me lessons, helped me release even more music, figured out how to obtain instruments, and pushed me to be my best. Now, because of his encouragement, just four short years later, I’ve committed to studying songwriting at Berklee. I want to use my music to help others feel seen, supported, and understood…just like my dad did for me. He taught me that life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain (or in my case, write through it). That kind of strength and belief doesn’t just shape a child. It stays with us forever. I honor my dad by working hard, by leading with empathy, and by showing up for others who are going through something hard. I perform at events for grieving kids (Experience Camps), create content for GriefSucks.com, write personalized songs for hospice families (A Song For You), and lead a songwriting club at my school to give others a creative space to heal and grow. These are the ways I carry his love forward. His support has been the foundation of everything I’ve done and everything I hope to do. I wouldn’t be the student, songwriter, or human I am today without him. And every step I take toward my dreams, from the classrooms at Berklee to the stages where I perform, is a thank you to him. This scholarship would be a part of that legacy. A way to keep moving forward with the kind of resilience, work ethic, and heart that both my parents taught me…and that my dad, especially, lives out every single day.

Losing my mom when I was 12 turned my entire world upside down. Her death was sudden and completely unexpected. One moment she was with us, and then she wasn’t. I was left in shock, struggling with anxiety, grief, and the kind of sadness that’s hard to put into words. Isolated during the pandemic, I picked up a ukulele we had gotten for Christmas the year before and began teaching myself how to play. It started as a distraction, but soon became my outlet—and eventually, my healing. I wrote my first song a few months later. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. And for the first time since losing my mom, I felt like I had found a way to express what I was feeling without having to explain it. Music gave me a voice when I didn’t know how to speak. Since then, songwriting has become more than a coping mechanism—it’s become my purpose. That purpose led me to get involved with Experience Camps, a nonprofit that supports grieving children. I started as a camper, but eventually began sharing my original songs and speaking openly about my story. I’ve learned that many grieving kids get bullied—both in person and online—for showing sadness or just being “different.” That kind of judgment can be isolating and deeply harmful. So I’ve made it part of my mission to help create safer, more understanding spaces for kids like me. That’s why I helped launch GriefSucks.com and ExperienceCraft—a website and Minecraft world where grieving kids can safely connect with one another, express their emotions, and find community. These platforms are designed to fight back against bullying by giving young people the tools and space to be themselves. Whether it’s preventing cyberbullying or just giving kids a place where they feel less alone, this work is incredibly important to me—and it’s something I want to keep building as I grow. This fall, I’ll be starting at Berklee College of Music to study songwriting and performance. I want to continue using music to help others feel seen, heard, and understood. But getting to this point hasn’t been easy, especially financially. Since my mom passed away, my dad Mark has been doing everything he can to support me and my siblings—but he’s struggled to find stable, meaningful work since the pandemic. We’ve done our best to push forward as a family, but the financial strain is real. Any help I receive through scholarships or financial aid would directly support not just my education, but my larger mission—to use my music and my voice to help kids facing grief, anxiety, or bullying know that they are not alone.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

When I was twelve, my mom died suddenly from a heart attack. That loss shook my entire world. Everything changed—emotionally, financially, and in the way I viewed the future. My dad became a single parent to three kids overnight. Grief hit hard, but what hit even harder was the realization that life isn’t guaranteed, and that we all have a choice in how we respond to that truth. I found my way forward through music. A year before my mom passed, my sister and I had received ukuleles for Christmas. Mine sat in the corner untouched—until I picked it up during the isolation of the pandemic, desperate for something that would make me feel whole again. I taught myself to play through YouTube videos, and eventually, I started writing. The first song I ever wrote was a goofy little Christmas jingle. I wasn’t expecting much, but when I played it for my dad, his eyes filled with tears. I asked if I had done something wrong. He shook his head and said, “No. There’s something special here.” That moment changed everything. Songwriting became my outlet, my therapy, my voice. It gave me a way to express everything I didn’t know how to say. From there, my siblings and I created an album called Glass Half Full—a family project that helped us process our grief and reconnect through something beautiful. My brother mixed the tracks, my sister designed the artwork, and my dad helped us launch our own label: Radiate Positivity Records. But that was just the beginning. I started performing at senior homes and small venues. I shared my songs at a gala for Experience Camps, a nonprofit for grieving children like me. Through that, I joined A Song For You, writing personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project was for eight-year-old twins who had lost their dad. In that moment, I knew I had found something bigger than just a dream—I had found a calling. This fall, I’ll attend Berklee College of Music to study songwriting. I want to learn everything I can about the craft—so I can use it to tell stories that matter, create connection, and bring hope to people who feel alone. I want to keep writing for the kids who’ve lost parents, the patients facing goodbye, and the everyday people who just need someone to put their feelings into words. I’m worth the dreams I aspire to achieve because I’ve already started living them. I’ve built from loss, created from heartbreak, and led with heart. My dream isn’t about fame or recognition. It’s about purpose. And I’m ready to keep showing up—song by song, story by story—to make it real.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. All of this is a long pre-amble to the fact that Mamma Mia has become the movie that has changed my life. Not only because it was one of my mom's favorite movies, but because it inspired me to persue music. In fact, a verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

In 1895, my family arrived in America from Bagheria, Sicily, and like many Italians coming through Ellis Island, they settled in Nolita, Manhattan. My great-great-grandfather, Gioacchino, opened G. La Rosa & Son Bread Co. on Elizabeth Street, which became very successful. Though the business eventually closed, the ambition behind it was passed down through generations. Both of my parents are of Italian descent, but I lost my mother when I was only 12, and I never got to learn about her side of the family. Losing her at such a young age had a profound effect on me, leading to anxiety and a need for an outlet for my complicated feelings. That’s when music came into my life. What started as a distraction soon became my greatest outlet. Inspired by my roots and my distant cousin, Julius LaRosa, a famous Italian-American singer, I fully committed to my dream. Since the age of 12, I’ve released 25 songs, won songwriting contests, performed at iconic NYC venues like 54 Below and The Bitter End, and even got into my dream school, Berklee College of Music. My Italian heritage represents a lineage of risk-takers, and I use their courage to fuel my own ambitions every day. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music. My music is streamable everywhere with links to it here: www.tinalarosa.com/music

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Based on what I’ve read about Andrea, it seems she would appreciate the name of my label, as it speaks to what I strive to do in life and what she did in hers. I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Taking this idea further, I wrote a song about the camp experience called “Get Me” (which has become a camp theme), a song about the loss of my mom called “Mom’s Song”, and a song about anxiety called “Box Breathing” and published them on streaming platforms in an album called “For The Kids” and am donating all the streaming revenue back to the camp. Giving back has meant so much to be as it clearly did to Andrea. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment to use my talent to ease the grief for other children. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music. I am inspired by stories about women like Andrea and hope someday to have as much impact as she has on future generations.

My childhood was eventful to say the least. For the first 11 years of my life, I truly believed everything was perfect. One day everything changed. My mom told us she was leaving. I was in shock. I was suddenly bombarded with all this information of what had been going on behind the scenes. My mother had a mental illness. Bipolar Disorder. She was mostly unmedicated and her strange behaviors became clearer to me. Her decision to abandon her husband and children was a lot for an 11 year old to take in and understand. This event triggered my own battle with mental illness. I had my first sparks of anxiety which quickly devolved into constant full blown panic attacks. I’ll never forget my first panic attack. The fear behind tear filled eyes, the fight for breath and the genuine belief that the worst was true. When I finally started to wrap my head around this, only one year after she left, my mom died. As if those two traumas weren’t enough, soon after was COVID. My anxiety was at an all time high as I learned over and over how unexpected life could be. I was suddenly stuck inside, face to face with my racing mind. Panic attacks, feelings of being detached from reality, and a mass of negative thoughts were my everyday life. When anyone dies there is so much left unsaid. In my mom’s case, her own mental illness was wrapped up into this last part of her life and I never truly got, nor never will get, the chance to resolve that with her. My world was shattered and I could not see a way out. Luckily, I did find a way out through therapy and music. I found a therapist who helped me calm my anxiety and think about my grief logically. She helped me start to recognize my triggers and gave me tools to cope and calm myself such as breathing techniques and affirmations. My therapist encouraged me to use my time at home wisely to process. That’s when music found me. I picked up a ukulele that I had received as a gift. I started to teach myself how to play. Then I started to write. I wrote songs called “Glass Half Full” and “Box Breathing” where the lyrics were my inner voice (or perhaps my mom) telling me that everything was going to be okay. In this I was reminding myself that I had the power to heal myself. Putting these words down on paper, and then formulating them into a song was amazing therapy that calmed me down. Music has become my greatest emotional outlet. Through writing and publishing this music, I realized my dream: to create music that can heal. One of my first performances was at a gala for ExCamps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. I also joined "A-Song-For-You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients. A verse from my song "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected and mental health issues make everything more difficult. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health. Continuing to write is how I continue to handle my own anxiety, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. At this same time, I realized that I was gay. Trying to navigate my sexuality in a conservative town was confusing. My dad luckily never made me feel bad, but subconsciously- the world did. I didn’t like to make a big deal out of it but I would tell people if they asked. I do believe that since my dad supported me and I had spent so much time in therapy, this aspect of my life was luckily not bad unlike how it is for so many. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music. Because my father is the sole-earner in our household and has been struggling with work since my mom's death needing to take care of his three children, paying for life has been tough - say nothing of paying for college. Being able to ease his burden is everything to me.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, I received a ukulele for Christmas. It remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing ukulele brought me the first joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, publishing music on Spotify, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for ExCamps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp changed my life, helping me find courage to share my music. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A-Song-For-You," a non-profit creating songs for hospice patients. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving, and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.