I was born on a military base in Bad Tölz, Germany. The military wasn’t just something my family did; it was the very environment I was born into. My dad was larger than life when I was little. I used to tell people he was “GI John.” His name was close enough, and to me, it made perfect sense. He was a Green Beret, and everything about him felt big — his presence, his stories, the way people looked at him with both admiration and brotherhood. As a little kid, I didn’t separate the man from the uniform. To me, they were the same. Some of my earliest memories feel almost unreal now. Living on base felt like its own world. I remember sledding in deep Massachusetts snow and watching jump practices in the summer, especially at night when the sky would fill with parachutes, the grass was filled with fireflies, and my sister and I got to run around with giant glow sticks. It felt exciting and important, like we were part of something bigger...like we were guiding them back to Earth. And then, he left. I didn’t understand where he was going, only that he was gone. My dad deployed to the Balkans during the conflict in Bosnia and Kosovo, and everything shifted in ways I couldn’t begin to explain. We moved, routines changed, and things stopped feeling steady. When he came home, something in him had changed. As a child, I couldn’t find the language for it. He could still be fun, present, and full of life, just as he'd always been, but there were also moments where it felt like he wasn’t really there. Like part of him was still somewhere else. I learned quickly how to read the room, to feel when things were calm and when they weren’t. There were times that I felt safer when he was away for training than when he was home, and that’s a complicated thing to realize about someone you love and admire as your hero. Now, as an adult, I understand more of what I was seeing. He carried things home with him that no one had prepared him to carry, and the support that should have been there didn’t always reach him in the way he needed. What felt confusing as a child makes more sense now, but it doesn’t make it easier. The sacrifice wasn’t just in his leaving; it was in what the experience took from him, and what our family had to learn to live with after he came home. For a long time, I wished for the version of him from before he left; the one who felt untouched by everything he had seen. But that isn’t how it works. Experiences shape people, sometimes in ways that are impossible to come back from. I learned early how much a person can change, and how much they can carry without anyone really seeing it. I also learned what happens when that weight goes unsupported. That understanding has lived within me throughout my entire life. It’s part of why I’m pursuing a degree in social work, to support individuals and families navigating trauma and its lasting effects. I’ve seen what happens when that support is missing, and I want to be part of building something better. My perception of my dad has changed over time. But what has stayed with me is the impact of what he carried, and how deeply that can shape a life.

There isn’t really a clean line between being a parent and being a student in my life. It all overlaps. My assignments are completed in various rooms of the house, sometimes while helping with homework, sometimes while my youngest is enthralled with Bluey, and more often than not, after everyone is finally asleep and the house is quiet for the first time all day. There are days when I’m constantly switching between roles: parent, student, problem-solver, comforter...and there is rarely a pause in between them. It’s not perfectly balanced, but it's intentional for our home. I am raising a five-year-old, a preteen, and a teenager, all in very different stages of life, all needing different things from me at once. There are moments when they don’t fully understand why school takes up so much of my time, or why maintaining a high GPA matters as much as it does to me. But after putting my education on hold for so long following cancer remission, both my children and my education have become the most meaningful areas of growth in my life. Being a single parent means everything rests on me. There isn’t someone else to pick up the pieces if I fall behind or need a break, so I’ve learned to build systems that work for us. I plan ahead, I stay organized, and I adjust when something inevitably doesn’t go as planned. For me, it matters more how we adapt, and more than anything, I’ve learned how to keep moving forward. My children are not separate from my education; they are the central part of the reason I keep going. I want to make them proud. I want them to see what it looks like to commit to something, to follow through, and to build a life with intention. I want them to understand that they can do anything they set their hearts to, and that their dreams are achievable, even when the path isn’t easy. At the same time, I am very aware that pursuing a degree as a single parent comes with real financial pressure. Staying on track to graduate in May 2028 means taking summer courses that are not covered by financial aid. Those courses aren’t optional; they are what keep my momentum going and prevent delays in earning the credits required for my professional program, which begins in Fall 2026. This scholarship would directly support that. It would allow me to continue my education without having to choose between financial stability and academic progress. It would give me the ability to stay on track, move forward into my professional program, and continue building toward a career that provides long-term stability for my family. I am currently pursuing my Bachelor’s degree in Social Work, with plans to continue into a Master’s program and become a licensed therapist. My goal is to work with individuals and families navigating trauma and systemic barriers to care. That goal is rooted in lived experience and a deep understanding of how important support systems are, especially for families. There are a lot of moving parts in my life, and not all of them are easy. But I’ve learned how to carry them. I’ve learned how to keep showing up- for my children, for my education, and for the future I am working toward. This scholarship would help me continue doing exactly that.

I didn’t start drinking because I thought it was fun. I started drinking because it made everything quieter. By the time I was eleven, I was already living with PTSD, depression, and anxiety rooted in childhood trauma that I didn’t have the tools to process. By fifteen, alcohol gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time...numbness. Later, that numbness turned into dependence. What started as an escape became a pattern that followed me into adulthood, especially once drinking became legal and easier to justify. For a long time, I didn’t recognize it as a problem. I told myself I was in control because I had seen what addiction looked like in my family, and I was determined not to become that. But addiction doesn’t always look the way you expect it to. Mine showed up in cycles: alcohol, then control, then something else to fill the same space. At one point, that “something else” became my body. At 22, I lost 100 pounds, locked in my nutrition, and convinced myself I finally had everything under control. REAL control. But underneath it, I was still chasing something to quiet the noise. When I became pregnant at 23, everything shifted. I stopped drinking completely, and for the first time, I felt a sense of pride in my ability to take control of my life. But motherhood brought challenges I wasn’t prepared for. After my first child, I experienced postpartum depression and psychosis. It was overwhelming in ways I still don't understand or know how to explain. I told myself I would never let alcohol take me where it had taken others in my family, and for a while, I held that line. Then my marriage became abusive, and everything I thought I had rebuilt started to unravel. My PTSD intensified, and I felt more lost than ever. When I left that relationship and found out I was pregnant again, I remember thinking, “This is impossible.” I was 25, overwhelmed, and physically unwell. Eighteen months later, I was diagnosed with cancer. That diagnosis broke something in me. At 26 years old, facing a life-threatening illness, I didn’t see a future. For a short time, I went back to what I knew...alcohol, numbness, escape. But something shifted. I had two children, and I made a decision: if I was going to fight cancer, I was going to fight to live. Treatment nearly took everything from me. I went through aggressive chemotherapy, lost my hair, lost the ability to walk, lost the ability to breathe, and spent eight weeks in the hospital. Part of my right lung was removed as a final key to finding the culprit that stole my breath. When I was discharged, I was on 23 medications, including a morphine pump. A week later, I was sent home with a limited supply of pain medication and no immediate follow-up care. I knew what was coming. I tried to taper myself off, but my body was still healing from surgery and chemotherapy. What followed was severe withdrawal layered on top of physical trauma. The pain was unlike anything I had experienced. In desperation, I turned to NyQuil and alcohol just to get through it, not fully understanding how dangerous the entire situation was. But I survived. After cancer, I entered a different kind of fight...survivorship and recovery. I got off nearly all of my medications, including pain medication. I stopped drinking. I began the long process of rebuilding not just my body, but my identity. Healing was not linear. There were setbacks, moments of doubt, and times I had to give myself grace, but I kept moving forward. Today, I have been off the path of active addiction for six years and am fully sober. I am raising my children, pursuing my Bachelor’s degree in Social Work, and preparing to enter my professional program. I’ve maintained a 3.8 GPA, which will move to a 3.9 once I complete this semester. I have earned both Dean’s and President’s List recognition, and for the first time in my life, I am not imagining a different version of my life- I am living it. My experiences with mental health and substance abuse are not something I hide. They are the reason I am here. They are the reason I am pursuing a career as a social worker and future therapist. I want to work with individuals navigating trauma, addiction, and recovery because I understand what it means to fight your way out of it. Recovery, for me, is not a finish line. It is a daily choice. It is choosing to stay present, to stay accountable, and to continue building a life that my younger self could not have imagined. I survived...and now I am building something wonderful with that survival.

I sometimes joke that my brain came equipped as “neurospicy,” specifically in the AuDHD flavor. Humor is required because living in my body frequently feels like juggling too many things at once: autism, ADHD, trauma, chronic illness, and a medical chart I end up apologizing for every time I see a new specialist. The book that is my life hits the table more like an encyclopedia. I remember the first time I told a surgeon my pain was in my retroperitoneal area, and he asked, “How do you know that word?” Add severe neuropathy into the mix, and there are days when I drop something or trip up the stairs and simply call it another day of my body refusing to participate. At this point, adapting has become second nature. I’ve navigated a constellation of mental health challenges, including CPTSD, depression, and anxiety, woven through many chapters of my life. From childhood trauma and surviving cancer twice to assisting with tornado recovery efforts, my life has been shaped by constant adaptation. More recently, I’ve been navigating chronic pain, fatigue, and the slow process of finding answers for what appears to be a rare autoimmune disease. Living with these conditions sometimes feels like fitting an entire extended family into a one-bedroom apartment. Living with disability has meant learning how mental health, physical health, and the systems we rely on are deeply connected, and how often those systems fall short for people who live outside what society considers “normal.” I didn’t have the words for it growing up- I just knew things felt harder for me than they seemed to be for everyone else. School, doctors’ offices, and everyday social spaces all seemed built with one kind of person in mind, and I wasn’t quite it. Over time, I started realizing that a lot of what disabled people struggle with is more than the disability itself, but the way the world is set up around us. That realization shaped the way I see advocacy and community. My own healing over the past decade has involved therapy, education, and learning to advocate for myself in systems that can be complicated and exhausting to navigate. Along the way, I developed a deep appreciation for professionals who approach their work through empathy and understanding rather than assumptions. My professional experience in the nonprofit sector strengthened that perspective. For years, I worked on programs increasing representation and access for underserved communities. Through that work, I saw how easily people can be shut out of opportunities when resources, support, or funding are nonexistent. Disability, poverty, trauma, and systemic inequality are deeply intertwined. Those experiences led me to pursue my Bachelor’s degree in Social Work. My goal is to continue into a Master’s program and become a licensed therapist specializing in trauma-informed care. I want to work with individuals navigating trauma, disability, chronic illness, and systemic barriers to care, especially those in communities where support is limited or difficult to access. Because I have lived this juggling act myself, I understand how important it is for mental health professionals to approach care through both trauma-informed and disability-informed perspectives. My goal is to create spaces where neurodivergent and disabled people feel understood. I also hope to incorporate creative and nature-based approaches into therapy, understanding that healing can take many forms. Living with disability has shaped my life in ways I never expected. It taught me persistence, empathy, and adaptability. More importantly, it has given me a clear sense of purpose: helping build systems and spaces where people who have been overlooked, unsupported, or marginalized are finally seen.

The first time I sat in a counselor’s office, I was ten years old. My parents were divorcing, and I couldn’t fully conceptualize what was happening around me. My school counselor handed me a book called Dinosaurs Divorce. I remember flipping through it, thinking it was silly, until I realized that this was the very "thing" that was coming for me. I knew that life had suddenly become gloomy in ways I didn’t have the words for. Over the next few years, counseling became a place where I slowly began to make sense of things happening in my life and in my family…until it didn’t. Mental health struggles were part of the environment I grew up in. Members of my family lived with anxiety, bipolar disorder, addiction, and the long-term effects of trauma. As a child, I didn’t understand what those things meant, but I felt their impact every day. Instability, fear, and unpredictability shaped a large part of my life. By the time I was a teenager, it was clear that I was struggling as well. I was eventually diagnosed with major depressive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, and PTSD related to childhood trauma. When people grow up without healthy coping tools, they often find their own ways to survive. For a long time, I did the same. Like many trauma survivors, I relied on unhealthy coping mechanisms because I simply didn’t know another way forward. It took years (and a lot of hard work) to begin learning healthier ways to process what I had been through. Over the past decade, I have committed myself to healing. Through therapy, education, and intentional self-reflection, I began building a healthier foundation for my life. I learned new coping strategies, confronted painful experiences, and slowly developed the emotional tools that had been missing earlier in my life. Healing is certainly not easy, but it has changed the way I see both myself and the world around me. Along the way, I also experienced major life challenges that reinforced how deeply mental health and physical health are connected. As a two-time cancer survivor who navigated illness while also rebuilding my life after an abusive marriage, I gained an intimate understanding of how essential compassionate mental health support can be during moments of crisis. The therapists and social workers who helped guide me through those periods showed me what trauma-informed care truly is. Those experiences, alongside the support I was already providing for people around me, ultimately led me to pursue a career in social work. I am currently halfway through my Bachelor’s degree in Social Work and entering my professional program, with plans to continue into a Master’s program and become a licensed therapist. I want to work with people who have experienced trauma, serious illness, or systemic barriers to care, especially those in communities where mental health services are limited or inaccessible. My goal as a therapist is to provide trauma-informed care and offer multiple pathways to healing. Not everyone heals in the same way, and I hope to incorporate approaches that include creativity, connection to nature, and community support alongside traditional therapy. I also hope to create pathways that make mental health care more accessible by offering free or low-cost resources whenever possible for underserved populations. The healing I have worked through over the last decade has not only led to personal growth but also a deep sense of purpose. I want to be the kind of therapist I needed when I was younger- someone who listens without judgment, understands the complexity of trauma, and helps people believe that healing is possible.

The sky was full of parachutes when my sister ran toward the wrong soldier. My sister and I were only three and five years old, at the edge of the airfield, watching soldiers drift slowly down from the sky during jump practice. My father was a jumpmaster, and for us, the parachutes floating overhead looked magical. When the soldiers landed and began gathering their gear, my sister ran forward and threw her arms around our dad. Only, it wasn’t. The poor soldier froze for a moment before everyone burst out laughing. My sister realized her mistake and ran back toward us, embarrassed. It became one of those family stories that is told over and over because it perfectly captures how innocent childhood can be, even when surrounded by the work of soldiers. Some of the jumps happened in the evening - those nights always felt enchanting to me. The drop zone would be marked with glow sticks for the soldiers to see where to land in the dark. My sister and I would run around the field with the giant glowing sticks in our hands, laughing and playing while we waited for them to land. To us, it felt like something out of a story. Moments like that were part of my upbringing. I was born at Bayern-Kaserne in Bad Tölz, Bavaria, into a family where military service spans generations. My father and my maternal grandfather were both Special Forces Green Berets, and service was woven into the fabric of our family. My paternal grandmother served as an Army nurse, where she met my grandfather, a Squid. Even further back, my father told stories of ancestors who served long before them. My father loved telling stories about military life. Some were about faraway places I could barely imagine, while others were about the humor and humanity soldiers share. One story I remember vividly was about a deployment where my mother mailed care packages that included Shout stain-remover sticks, a common laundry product in the United States. The Turkish soldiers they were working with had never seen anything like them and responded as if they were sorcery. Something as simple as a laundry stick became a running joke and a source of hilarity shared between soldiers from different cultures. Some of my favorite memories come from watching old video compilations my Dad made from life on base. They showed the tomfoolery soldiers get into when they’re together, moments of laughter mixed in with serious training. I remember watching my father parachute out of planes, and even the strange details from my earliest years in Germany (like the pipes in our building that would “sing” loudly whenever someone upstairs flushed the toilet). As I grew older, I began to understand the deeper meaning behind those stories. I learned how combat can change a man and mold him into a version of himself he never imagined. I learned about the sacrifices service members and their families carry. That understanding deepened when I learned more about my grand-uncle Jarrell Bryant, who was killed in Belgium during World War II and is still honored there today for his bravery. From my family’s legacy of service, I learned that honor is not something you simply talk about. rather something you embody. It means standing for something larger than yourself, protecting others, and acting with integrity even when no one is watching. Those lessons shaped the way I move through the world. The stories I grew up hearing were about courage, sacrifice, humor, and humanity, and the belief that people can still find ways to stand together.

Cancer changed the course of my life long before I ever imagined pursuing my dream of going to college. I was twenty-six years old, raising two young children, when I was finally diagnosed with stage III lymphoma after eighteen months of being misdiagnosed. By the time doctors discovered what was wrong, my youngest child was only eight months old. Instead of settling into life with a new baby, I was suddenly navigating chemotherapy, medical decisions, and the terrifying uncertainty that comes with a cancer diagnosis. At the same time, my family was facing another harsh reality. During treatment, I made the decision to leave an abusive marriage. It is difficult to describe the strength it takes to walk away from abuse while fighting cancer and caring for two small children, but I knew that my children and I deserved safety and a chance at a better life. Shortly after beginning treatment, I developed severe complications from chemotherapy- bleomycin toxicity that caused pulmonary embolisms and pneumonia in both lungs. I spent more than a month in the hospital fighting to survive. My children were only three and one years old at the time, and they became the reason I refused to give up. Cancer did not only affect my health; it affected every part of our lives. The financial strain of treatment was enormous, and rebuilding a life as a single parent while recovering physically and emotionally was incredibly difficult. For years, continuing my education felt like a dream that was no longer possible. Survival came first. Stability came second. The idea of going back to school felt far out of reach. Ten years later, that dream never stopped burning in me, and giving up on it was not an option. I decided that no matter how long it took, I would continue my education and build a future that my children and I could be proud of—one where I could make a difference. Throughout my journey as a young adult cancer patient, one thing became very clear: there are fewer resources available for young adults compared to pediatric or geriatric patients. Navigating survivorship felt isolating. The people who consistently showed up to help me navigate those challenges were social workers. Whether they were in the hospital, through state programs, churches, therapy services, or community organizations, social workers were the people helping me find resources, rebuild stability, and process everything my family had been through. That support changed my life and ultimately shaped the direction of my future. Today, I am pursuing a degree in social work to become a therapist. I want to support cancer patients and their caregivers in ways that recognize the whole person, not just the illness. Healing is not only about treating the body; it also involves emotional support, community, and spaces where people can process what they are experiencing. One of my long-term goals is to offer free workshops and guided sessions for cancer patients and their caregivers, utilizing approaches such as meditation and art therapy. Caregivers often carry immense emotional weight while supporting their loved ones, and they deserve spaces to heal and recharge as well. My family may not have financial stability after cancer, but we gained something more valuable. Through this, I learned the depth of my own strength, the importance of gratitude even in the hardest moments, and the power of perseverance. Surviving cancer reshaped the way I see what is possible in my life. Those lessons continue to guide me as I work toward finishing my degree, raising my children, and giving back to the community that helped me survive.

At thirty-five, as a single mother and cancer survivor who had spent nearly a decade focused on survival, I made the decision to return to school. For years, that idea felt impossible. I was diagnosed with cancer at twenty-six while raising two young children, and later had another child after my second battle. Life became about survival—doctor’s appointments, healing, and doing whatever I needed to do to keep our family afloat. School felt like something that belonged to another version of my life. For a long time, that was enough. Survival was the goal, and anything beyond that felt out of reach. But over time, something started to shift. As life slowly became more stable, I began to realize that the dream I had buried wasn’t gone; it had just been waiting for a moment when I had the strength to consider it again. Part of that courage came from the people around me. Over the years, I had helped friends navigate some of the hardest moments in their lives, and more than once, someone said to me, “You know you could get paid to help people.” I always brushed it off. Helping people was just something I did. It never occurred to me that the kind of support I was giving people could also be work that helped provide for my family. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Throughout my journey, social workers were the people connecting me to resources, stability, and hope when life felt overwhelming. Looking back, I realized how much their work mattered in my life. They were often the ones helping me see possibilities when I couldn’t see them myself. Eventually, I began to understand that my instinct to sit with people in difficult moments was connected to that same kind of work. My younger sister played a big role in helping me see that possibility more clearly. She was the first in our family to graduate from college and went on to become a nurse. During her first year of nursing school, she helped recognize the symptoms that ultimately led to my cancer diagnosis and encouraged me to advocate for myself when doctors initially dismissed my concerns. For years, she told me, “Augusta, you need to go to school. You would be so good at this.” For a long time, I borrowed her belief in me until I was ready to believe it myself. In the last few years, my therapist (who is also a social worker) became another voice encouraging me to pursue school. When I talked about my dream of going back to school and eventually earning my master’s degree, she reminded me that it wasn’t too late. Hearing that from someone who understood my experiences and the field I hoped to enter helped me feel like returning to school was not only possible, but meaningful. Like Susie Green, returning to school later in life meant choosing courage over comfort and believing it was not too late to change the direction of my life. I applied to one of the top social work programs in the country and was accepted. Now at thirty-seven, continuing my education while raising my children, I understand that the courage to return to school came from many places: the battles I’ve survived, the people who believed in me when I struggled to believe in myself, and the desire to turn my experiences into something that can help others. Going back to school was about recognizing that the years I spent surviving shaped the kind of person I want to be for others.