My mema turns 81 next month. She’s my everything. She’s the reason we all come together, the one person in the family everyone still shows up for, even if we don’t get along. When we heard she had stage 4 bone and lung cancer, it felt like the ground cracked beneath us. Nobody knew what to say. We were scared, quiet, unsure of how to even begin to process it. I know she probably brought it on herself, smoking a pack a day for most of her life. But I don’t blame her. How could I? She’s been through so much. She grew up with 12 siblings and never made it past middle school, but she still built this family, held it all together, gave all of us a place to belong. That kind of strength deserves respect, not blame. I don’t even remember how old I was when I first met her, but I remember the moment. She had on a white T-shirt with a little sauce stain on the chest and light grey sweatpants. Her smile was so warm. That smile never changed. I’ve always been Mema’s girl. She spoils me with perfumes, hair products, real jewelry, and home-cooked food that always leaves me too full to move. Her love never runs out. I’m not ready to imagine life without her. I know she’s not going to live forever, and I know this cancer is serious. But I can’t bring myself to accept it. The thought of losing her crushes me. She’s been the one constant in my life. I’ve gone to her when everything else fell apart. Even now, with her diagnosis, she’s still fighting. She still cooks, still cleans, still puts on her earrings and heads out to run errands when she can. Some days, she can’t move from the pain. Some days she just rests. But she always gets back up. She still does chemo every other week. She beat lung cancer once already, but it came back after the bone cancer showed up. Still, she refuses to give in. She is the strongest woman I’ve ever known. If I don’t turn out like her, I swear I’ll sue her from beyond the grave. I want to go into microbiology and study cancer. I want to research ways to make life better for people and animals fighting this disease. I want to understand the enemy so we can stop losing people we love to it. I may not be able to help my mema in time, but I will help others like her. I want to make life easier for families who are scared like we were. For granddaughters who feel helpless watching the strongest woman they know suffer. My mema taught me love, resilience, and how to take care of people. I plan to carry those lessons into my future. She’s the reason I fight. She’s the reason I believe I can make a difference.

Michael was annoying. He always found new ways to pester me and never seemed to understand the concept of personal space. We were 14 years apart and he wasn’t even my biological brother, but that never mattered. To me, he was just my brother. I lived with him most of my life. Every day, I helped take care of him. I made his meals, gave him his medication, propped pillows under his head after seizures, scratched his back when he couldn’t sleep, and did everything I could to make sure he was okay. I didn’t know exactly what I was doing most of the time, but I did it anyway, because that’s what love looks like. Michael had a mass in the left side of his brain. Mentally, he never really grew past being 14. He was stuck somewhere between a teenager and a grown man, with all the frustrations and confusion that came with it. But he still had a huge personality. He loved teasing me. He’d sing that one Jason Derulo song every time I blew my nose. He’d save me from bugs just to chase me with their bodies afterward. He threw me so high into the neighbor’s pool once I swear I saw the sky blink. He annoyed me to no end. And I miss him more than I ever thought I could. He passed away on February 11, 2025. I wasn’t ready. I kept thinking he was going to get better. That he’d recover. But the decline was slow and painful to watch. I didn’t understand everything that was happening to him and it hurt more because of that. I felt helpless. And now that he’s gone, I think the hardest part is that I never thought I’d miss the things that used to frustrate me. I used to dream about growing up and moving out so I wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. But now I’d give anything just to hear his annoying little voice again. Grieving him has changed me. It’s made me want to understand the body, the brain, and the things that go wrong inside them. It’s made me want to ask questions and actually find the answers. His loss didn’t push me away from science. It pulled me closer. Now more than ever, I want to study biology. I want to go into the medical or research field. I want to help families like mine, siblings like me. I want to give people more time with the ones they love. Michael wasn’t perfect. He could be a real handful. But he was my brother, and he made my life brighter. Now that he’s gone, I carry him with me into everything I do. And I’ve decided to use this grief, this love, and this curiosity to build a future that means something.

If I’m being honest, I don’t have a long list of accomplishments. There’s no shiny trophy, no certificates framed on the wall, no big moment where I was called on stage and handed something that said, “You did it.” Growing up low income meant there wasn’t time for those things. There wasn’t space for hobbies or money to sign up for activities I was interested in. I couldn’t explore what I loved because surviving came first. I did ballet for a short time, and I loved it, but even that didn’t last. I couldn’t keep going when everyone around me was focused on just getting by. There were no weekend art classes, no science fairs, and no traveling for competitions. In my world, you finish high school, find a job, stay at home until you’re 30, and just try to make it. That’s the rhythm that plays on repeat in families like mine. And for some, it leads down a darker road. Selling things you shouldn’t, getting locked up, cycling in and out of prison, waiting for change that never comes. That was the path laid out in front of me. And maybe the biggest achievement I’ve had so far is choosing not to take it. It may not sound like much on paper, but deciding that I want more, and deserve more, is the boldest step I’ve taken. Even though I didn’t have the chance to earn traditional accomplishments, I’ve been pushing forward with everything I’ve got. No one in my family goes to college. No one ever talked about it because we didn’t think it was meant for us. College felt like something rich kids did, not people like me. It felt like a waste of money we didn’t have. But now I see that education is my way out. It’s my way forward. It’s not just a dream, it’s my plan. I may not have awards, but I have resilience. I have a voice. I have a refusal to let poverty, circumstance, or fear decide who I become. That’s what this experience has taught me. I can break patterns. I can want better for myself and actually go after it. In the future, I want to make a real impact. I want to work in science and contribute to research that helps people. I want to live a life where I wake up and feel proud of what I do. I want to prove, not just to the world but to myself, that where you come from doesn’t have to limit where you’re going. I don’t know how I’m going to afford all of this. But I do know I’m not giving up. I’m going to do great things, even if I have to fight for every single one of them.

I come from a family where college wasn't a thing. It was seen as something expensive and unnecessary, something people like us couldn’t afford. It wasn’t talked about in my house because we didn’t have the money for it. To us, college wasn’t a goal. It was just another bill we couldn’t pay. My family has always had limited means, and from a young age, I stepped into the role of a caregiver. By the time I was 12, I was cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, managing medications, and doing laundry for my grandma and uncle. I did what I had to do, not because I wanted to, but because someone had to. Now that I’m older, I’ve realized I can’t ignore the passion I’ve always had. Being one of the first in my family to attend college means more to me than words can express. I’ve grown up having to put others first, and now I finally want to build a future for myself. I've watched my family crumble due to illnesses of varying kinds. People around me dying left and right while I'm sat motionless, unable to do anything about it. Learning about cells, anatomy, and diseases makes me feel like I’m uncovering answers to questions I’ve had my whole life. I want to work in a lab one day, maybe studying cancer or other illnesses that impact families like mine. I don’t want to be on the outside wondering anymore. I want to be the one asking questions, doing the research, and finding the answers that could help people. I don’t have a safety net or family savings to fall back on. But I do have drive, and I’m determined to build a future for myself through education.

Growing up, I was a caregiver before I even realized what that meant. By the time I was 12, I was cooking meals, doing laundry, cleaning the house, running grocery errands, keeping track of medications, and making sure my grandma and uncle were taken care of. It wasn’t something I signed up for. It was just what needed to be done, and I did it. While other kids were outside playing or focused on school events, I was making sure my family was okay. That was my normal. Caregiving has shaped me in a way that’s not typical. It didn’t push me toward a career in nursing or inspire me to go into a caregiving field. If anything, it made me want the opposite. I’ve spent so much of my life taking care of others that I just want a chance to take care of myself now. I know I’d be good at it if I went into that kind of work, but I honestly don’t think I have it in me anymore. I’ve been doing it my whole life and I’m ready to start living for me. My uncle passed away recently, and it’s been really hard. Grieving him has taken a lot out of me. No one ever tells you how much it hurts when someone you’ve spent so much time caring for just isn’t there anymore. When the person who needed you suddenly doesn’t. It’s something I still don’t fully know how to handle. My grandma is still here, and after her knee surgery she’s been able to do more on her own, which is a huge relief. For the first time in a long time, it feels like maybe I can finally start moving forward and focus on my own life. This scholarship means so much to me because it actually relates to what my life has been like. It’s not just some “what’s your passion” essay where I have to pretend or stretch the truth. This is something I’ve truly lived. I’ve been a caregiver, I’ve made sacrifices, I’ve held things together even when I was falling apart myself. And now I want to take that strength and build something better for myself. I can’t afford to pay for college on my own. Every bit of help makes a difference, and this scholarship would take off a huge weight I’ve been carrying. I’ve spent so much of my life surviving. I want to finally be able to breathe, to grow, and to chase the future I’ve always dreamed about.

No, I was not in the foster care system, but I have been moving from home to home for much of my life. Right now, I live with my aunt after being kicked out by my mom, and I’m trying to stay here until I can start college. Stability has never been something I could count on, but I’ve worked hard to create a future where I can build a life for myself, one where I won’t have to depend on anyone else for security. My childhood was complicated. For years, I was raised by my grandmother, but not in a typical way. She kidnapped me as a baby and had me calling her "mom" until I was ten, and for most of my childhood, I didn’t know the truth. When I finally left her home at fifteen, I moved in with my mom, thinking things would get better. But two years later, she put me out. I had nowhere to go, so I stayed with a neighbor until my aunt took me in. Now, I’m trying my best not to blow it. I know this is my last stop before college, and I want to make it work. Even though I’ve faced a lot of instability, I’ve never let it stop me from pursuing my education. School has been my anchor, the one thing in my life I’ve had control over. No matter what was going on around me, I could focus on my classes, my curiosity, and my dreams. That’s why I want to earn a degree in biology. I want to turn my curiosity into something that can help people and animals suffering from diseases we don’t fully understand. Illness has taken so much from my family. I’ve watched people I love suffer from conditions we can’t fix, and it’s made me question why our bodies seem to betray us. Why do people have to suffer just for existing? I don’t want to just accept that some diseases are “incurable.” I want to be part of the research that finds better treatments or even solutions. Whether it’s cancer, genetic disorders, or illnesses that affect animals, I believe we can learn more and do better. Beyond research, I want to give back in ways that extend beyond the lab. I know what it’s like to feel alone, to have no one fighting for you. That’s why I want to support others, whether that means offering guidance, mentorship, or even financial help one day. No one should have to struggle just to survive. I want to use my knowledge, resources, and voice to make a difference, both in science and in my community. This degree isn’t just about my future, it’s about creating a future where fewer people have to suffer, where more questions have answers, and where I can stand on my own, knowing I built something meaningful despite everything I’ve been through.