Children draw; pictures are filled with bright colors, mythical creatures, and oddly-shaped people, pinned proudly by their parents on the fridge. Children also grow up, maturing, finding their paths, cliques, and achieving academic greatness. Many often stop drawing. I did not. I grew up in a broken home, raised solely by my struggling yet hardworking mother with no support from my father. I was seen as ‘emotionally disturbed’, existing as a problem in school. “You could have talked to us,” they’d say. But, I had no words for how I felt; there were no words for how I felt. So, I did what I knew best. I drew. Hollowed eyes and melancholic expressions showed what words could not. Each brush stroke was a word I could hardly mutter. I shared how I felt, uploading my work online as a way to say, “this is how I feel. This is what life is like for me.” I’d finally begun to feel recognized, and others unexpectedly began to relate. My art no longer only communicated what I saw and felt; it communicated what others did, too. Art has since evolved into my passion and lifeline, more than just communication fit for myself; it has developed into a way of connecting and representing those who feel just as I once did. This coming May, I will be graduating from the University of North Carolina Wilmington with a Bachelor of Arts in Studio Arts, an achievement I hold dearly, especially for my mother, who has supported me through emotional and financial hardship, something the Hunter Dean Temple Scholarship would ease and allow us to continue forward. Though words come more easily now, my art remains how I communicate best. It’s a window into my world and, for many others, a window into their own.