For much of my life, I thought purpose was something people discovered on their own. I believed success came from independence, determination, and learning how to survive without needing anyone else too much. As I have gotten older, however, I have realized something completely different. Purpose is built through connection. The relationships we form with family, friends, coworkers, communities, and even strangers shape not only who we are, but also who we become. Some of the most important lessons of my life came through caring for other people. Working as both a nurse aide and a Medicare agent placed me in positions where older adults depended on me during some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives. Many were overwhelmed, isolated, or struggling to understand healthcare systems that felt impossible to navigate alone. Those experiences taught me that human connection can be just as important as professional knowledge. Sometimes people did not simply need answers. They needed patience, reassurance, honesty, and someone willing to sit beside them and help carry the weight of uncertainty. Those relationships changed my understanding of success. I stopped measuring achievement only by personal goals and started measuring it by impact. The more people trusted me during difficult moments, the more I realized my purpose was tied directly to helping others feel less alone. That realization became even more personal when I was diagnosed with a heart condition at the age of thirty-three. Hospitalization forced me to confront fear, uncertainty, and vulnerability in ways I never had before. During that time, I noticed something that deeply affected me. Even while I was struggling physically and emotionally, the people around me still looked to me for stability. Family members leaned on me for reassurance. Friends came to me for calmness and direction. In many ways, I had become the island in the storm for the people I loved. That experience permanently changed how I viewed relationships. I began to understand that connection is not just emotional support during good times. Real connection means standing beside people during fear, hardship, and uncertainty. It means creating safety for others even when life feels unstable. Those relationships gave me strength during one of the hardest periods of my life, and they also clarified the kind of person I want to become moving forward. As a first-generation college student approaching forty years old, relationships continue to play a major role in my long-term goals. I am pursuing a degree in history with a minor in political science because I want to advocate for underserved people in my rural community. Growing up in poverty and feeling overlooked by both society and parts of the education system helped me recognize how many people quietly fall through the cracks. I want to use my education to help create opportunities for those individuals and remind them that their circumstances do not determine their value. The relationships within my own family are also a major source of motivation. None of the children in my family previously pursued higher education, and I realized that if nobody stepped forward to change that pattern, it might continue indefinitely. I want younger members of my family to grow up believing college, opportunity, and success are attainable for them too. In that way, relationships shape not only my personal goals, but also the legacy I hope to leave behind. I have learned that purpose is rarely found in isolation. It grows through the people we care for, the people who support us, and the people whose lives become connected to our own. Relationships have taught me resilience, empathy, leadership, and responsibility. Most importantly, they have shown me that a meaningful life is not built solely around personal achievement, but around the ways we help others navigate their own storms alongside us.

I believe what makes someone a leader is not how loudly they speak or how much authority they hold. True leadership is the ability to remain calm when others are overwhelmed, to step forward when people need guidance, and to carry responsibility even when nobody asks you to. Those are the qualities that have shaped me throughout my life. I first learned leadership through working with older adults as a nurse aide and then a Medicare advocate. In both positions, I worked with people who were often confused, stressed, or struggling to navigate complicated healthcare systems. Many of them felt unheard or overlooked. I quickly realized that leadership in those moments did not mean giving orders. It meant listening patiently, explaining things clearly, and helping people feel safe and respected. I took personal responsibility for every person I worked with because I understood how important those decisions were to their lives. Sometimes people simply needed someone calm enough to help them think clearly during difficult situations. That same mindset carries into my personal life as well. Last year, my family and I were traveling across the country when our vehicle broke down a hundred miles from civilization. It would have been easy to panic. Instead, I focused on staying calm and solving the problem one step at a time. With determination, patience, and a little help from YouTube videos, I was able to repair the issue and safely get my family home. That experience reminded me that leadership often appears in unexpected moments. It is not always planned. Sometimes leadership simply means being the person others can depend on when things go wrong. One of the most important moments of my life came when I was diagnosed with a heart condition at the age of thirty-three. During my hospitalization, I realized how often the people around me relied on me to be steady during difficult times. Even while facing fear and uncertainty myself, I still felt driven to reassure and support the people I cared about. That experience changed me deeply. It strengthened my sense of purpose and helped me recognize the many shortcomings that exist in rural healthcare and underserved communities like my own. Today, I am majoring in history with a minor in political science because I want to become an advocate for the overlooked and undervalued members of my community. I want to help people who feel forgotten find support, resources, and opportunity. My experiences have taught me that leadership is not about recognition or control. It is about service, preparation, honesty, and the willingness to step forward when others need help. I do not always seek leadership roles, but when responsibility calls for someone to act, I do not hesitate. I believe the best leaders lead from a place of calmness, respect, and quiet confidence. Whether helping patients navigate healthcare, supporting my family during a crisis, or working toward a better future for my community, I strive to be the kind of person others can trust when life becomes uncertain.

Because I Never Gave Up I’m not chasing dreams built on fantasy. I’m pursuing goals rooted in experience, hard-earned, deeply personal, and shaped by years of showing up even when it would have been easier to walk away. That’s why I believe I’m worth the dreams I aspire to achieve. Not because I think I’m exceptional, but because I’ve lived the kind of life that teaches you to keep going, no matter how long the road is. One of the biggest turning points in my life came when I decided to return to college. I had spent years working, caregiving, and dealing with my own chronic health condition. I had every reason to say it was too late. But instead, I chose to go back. I enrolled in a history program and committed myself fully. Today, I carry a 4.0 GPA. That number means more than academic success; it represents focus, discipline, and the refusal to let go of what I know I’m capable of. My dream is to work in public service, helping shape policy that protects workers, caregivers, and underserved communities. That dream doesn’t come from textbooks. It comes from my own life. I’ve worked in healthcare. I’ve fought for my own care, and I’ve helped others navigate the same complicated systems. I’ve supported friends and neighbors through forms, denials, and dead ends. I’ve seen what happens when people fall through the cracks, and I’ve chosen to be the one who reaches in and pulls them out. Beyond that, I serve my community in as many ways as I can. I volunteer at a women’s shelter. I help organize food and clothing drives. I participate in a community garden that provides fresh produce to families in need. I spend my time at the food kitchen, the Christmas toy drive, and neighborhood cleanups, not because I’m trying to build a résumé, but because it’s who I am. These aren’t things I do on the side. They are central to how I live and why I’m working toward this degree. I’ve also learned how to stay steady through hardship. When I was injured helping a patient years ago, I kept working through the pain. I didn’t ask for help, and I’ve lived with the consequences of that choice ever since. But I also gained something, clarity. I realized that silence helps no one. I learned to speak up, to stand firm, and to take care of myself so I could continue taking care of others. I am worth my dreams because I’ve already proven that I will not quit on them. I’ve built my goals from lived experience and layered them with compassion, persistence, and a commitment to justice. I’m not asking for anything I haven’t worked for. I’m asking for a chance to continue doing what I already do, just on a larger scale. I’m not dreaming just for myself. I’m dreaming for every person I’ve helped, every neighbor I’ve served, and every life I hope to touch through public service. I’m worth my dreams because I’m already walking in them, step by step, with purpose and heart.

Choosing Health, Choosing Myself For me, prioritizing mental and physical health is not just part of my routine; it is an act of survival, resistance, and self-respect. As a queer student returning to college later in life, I carry with me the lessons of experience, the scars of hardship, and the determination to build something better, not just for myself, but for others who have felt invisible, unheard, or unsafe. Living with a heart condition has forced me to slow down and reevaluate what it means to take care of myself. I deal with blocked and narrowed arteries that require medication, lifestyle changes, and constant attention. When I first received the diagnosis, I thought only about the physical implications. What I didn’t expect was how much it would affect my mental health, how vulnerable and powerless I would feel in a system that doesn’t always listen to people like me. Over time, I realized that advocating for my own well-being had to become a conscious choice, one I made daily, even when it felt easier to ignore the signs or downplay the stress. For LGBTQ+ people, and especially those with chronic health conditions, wellness becomes deeply intertwined with identity. I’ve faced situations where I was dismissed or talked over in medical settings, where assumptions were made before I ever had a chance to speak. I’ve encountered professionals who didn’t know how to ask respectful questions, or who brushed off my concerns. These moments left a mark, and for a while, I didn’t speak up. But that silence took a toll. Eventually, I began to see that choosing to care for myself was not selfish. It was necessary. I developed habits that support both my physical and mental health: morning yoga to manage chronic pain and anxiety, better nutrition, and open conversations with my support system when things feel overwhelming. These aren’t perfect routines, and I still have setbacks, but I’ve learned that health isn’t about doing everything right. It’s about continuing to show up for yourself, even when the world feels heavy. My personal experiences have led me to advocate for inclusive healthcare. I’ve helped friends navigate insurance claims, supported loved ones through medical appointments, and even guided others in understanding how to speak up when their needs are being ignored. I plan to use my education in history and public service to help create a system that doesn’t just serve the privileged few but listens to everyone, especially the voices that have been left out for too long. Health is about more than just staying alive. It’s about choosing to live fully and authentically. For LGBTQ+ students, that choice can be complicated by stigma, discrimination, and isolation. But it can also be incredibly powerful. When we take care of ourselves, we model something radical: that we are worth protecting, worth healing, and worth hearing. This scholarship would allow me to continue prioritizing wellness while pursuing my degree. It would support not just my journey, but the work I hope to do for others. Because when we care for ourselves, we also open the door to caring for our communities, and that is how real change begins.

A Heart for Change Returning to college at this stage in my life is not a decision I made lightly. It comes after years of life experience, personal growth, and a deeper understanding of the kind of impact I want to make in the world. My journey has been shaped by both personal health challenges and professional experience across the healthcare system, and those challenges have given me a clear sense of purpose. I am not just pursuing a degree; I am pursuing a mission. Several years ago, I was diagnosed with a heart condition involving blocked and narrowed arteries. It was a wake-up call. I had spent much of my career supporting patients, understanding healthcare from every angle, including claims, coverage, provider support, and direct care. But when I became the patient, everything changed. Managing this condition has meant ongoing medication, lifestyle changes, and deep reflection. I started to see firsthand how fragmented and overwhelming the system can be, even for someone like me who knows how it works. I realized how many others were likely facing even bigger obstacles with less support. That awareness reshaped my personal values. I have always cared about justice and fairness, but now I care about them in a more focused way. I care about how systems treat people when they are vulnerable. I care about whether patients are heard, whether communities are informed, and whether policies are designed to serve people or just manage them. Living with a chronic condition has taught me patience, persistence, and the importance of advocating not just for myself, but for others who are often left behind. These values are guiding my career aspirations. I am studying history because I believe that understanding the past is the key to shaping a better future. I want to work in public service, helping to write policies that improve healthcare access, labor protections, and community resilience. Too many decisions are made without listening to the people most affected. I want to be the kind of leader who listens, who brings lived experience into the room, and who works toward real change. Community service has always been a part of my life. Whether it’s helping a neighbor understand their medical bill, assisting a friend with navigating disability services, or volunteering my time to support local needs, I’ve always believed in giving back. My experiences have only deepened that commitment. I see education as a tool to do even more, more organizing, more advocating, more lifting others up. This scholarship would help me stay on track and fully commit to my goals. As someone managing a health condition while working, writing, and supporting a household, financial support would ease the burden and allow me to focus on what really matters: learning everything I can and using that knowledge to serve others. I’m not just earning a degree for myself. I’m doing it to build something bigger, something that lasts, something that helps others feel seen, safe, and supported. That is the future I’m working toward, and I am ready to give it everything I have.

Breaking New Ground Being the first in my family to obtain a college degree is more than just a personal achievement; it’s a transformation of generational opportunity. It means I am stepping into a world my parents and grandparents only dreamed of, carving out a path that has never been walked in our family before. I am not just earning a diploma; I am rewriting the script for what’s possible. My journey hasn’t been without hardship. Years ago, while working as a nurse aide, I suffered a serious hip injury helping a patient who had fallen. At the time, we were short-staffed and overwhelmed. Instead of seeking proper medical attention, I pushed through the pain. The long-term damage has followed me ever since, but it taught me something invaluable: silence in the face of injustice carries a cost. If I had known my rights or had the confidence to advocate for myself, my life might have turned out differently. That experience shaped my desire to help others avoid the same fate. Going to college is not just about pursuing knowledge for me; it’s about gaining the tools I need to change things. I plan to study history with the intention of entering public service after graduation. I believe understanding our past is key to shaping a more just future. I want to create laws that protect workers, improve healthcare systems, and ensure that no one else has to choose between their health and their job. History has always been a source of clarity and inspiration for me, and I see it as the perfect foundation for the kind of change I want to be a part of. This isn’t just a dream, it’s a promise I’ve made to myself and the people who never had this chance. My grandparents were raised in an era where just finishing high school was a luxury. My parents worked hard every day, often sacrificing their own comfort to make sure I had what I needed. They always told me I was smart enough to go to college, even when we couldn’t afford the idea of it. Now that I’m here, I feel the weight and honor of their hopes on my shoulders. Long-term, I want to dedicate my life to service. My goal is to work in public policy, with a focus on labor rights, healthcare reform, and education. I want to use what I’ve learned through experience and through my studies to fight for real solutions to the problems families like mine have faced for generations. Whether it’s improving patient protections in healthcare settings, advocating for better working conditions, or ensuring access to quality education, I want to be part of the change. I don’t want anyone to feel powerless in the face of a system that’s supposed to protect them. Earning this degree will be a milestone, but it won’t be the end of the journey. It will be the beginning of a life dedicated to helping others find their voice. For me, being the first in my family to go to college means opening a door and leaving it wide open for those who come after.

Facing the Divide: A Personal Mission for Civic Equity Growing up in rural Tennessee, I learned early on that being different, whether by color, identity, ability, or belief, often meant being excluded. As someone who has witnessed firsthand the harm that silence and exclusion can bring, I have made it my mission to address one of the most pressing social issues in our region: civic disenfranchisement. I believe that access to civic participation, especially the right to vote and be heard, is essential to healing the divides in our communities. This belief became personal to me in more ways than one. I come from a working-class background where attending college was not a given. My mother raised us alone and put her own dreams aside to keep our household running. Watching her sacrifice gave me a strong sense of justice and a deep understanding of how systems can both support and fail those most in need. Later, I began working in healthcare, where I saw the struggles of elderly and disabled citizens, many of whom felt disconnected from the very institutions meant to serve them. In that setting, I realized just how many people feel unseen and unheard, not just in medicine but in the political decisions that shape their lives. Since then, I have started building a personal initiative focused on civic education. It began informally. I would help my neighbors understand when and where to vote. I translated ballot information into plain language. I encouraged young people in my area to register to vote for the first time. These small actions may not seem revolutionary, but in a place where civic participation is low and trust in institutions is even lower, they carry weight. The goal is not just to increase turnout; it is to help people feel that their voice matters, especially those who have been marginalized for generations. Returning to college as a non-traditional student, I chose to study history. Many advised me to choose law or political science instead, but I knew that history would give me the broad perspective I needed. I want to understand the long arc of policy, power, and exclusion. I want to learn how others before me created change. My aim is to work in local and state government, where I can help draft laws that include everyone, not just those with influence. I also plan to launch a nonprofit that offers civic education programs tailored for rural and underserved communities. Our work will include voter outreach, leadership development, and policy workshops designed for people who may never have felt welcomed at a town hall meeting. I am just beginning this journey, but the need is real and urgent. Civic equity is more than a political issue; it is a human one. I believe that every person deserves the knowledge and access to shape the policies that affect their lives. Through education, compassion, and relentless advocacy, I intend to be part of the generation that makes that vision a reality.

Chapter Two of Real Insights emphasizes something I have witnessed and experienced firsthand: the immense value of genuine human connection in leadership. In my pursuit of a public service career, especially one focused on advocating for underserved communities in rural Tennessee, the lessons in this chapter ring true. When I first began working as a nurse aide, I didn’t expect it to shape my long-term goals. But the job gave me a window into how the smallest acts of service can make the biggest difference. Many of the patients I worked with had no family nearby. I became not just a caregiver, but a companion and advocate. I learned to listen, really listen, to the unspoken needs behind their words. Chapter Two’s discussion on authenticity in leadership reminded me of those moments, the quiet, human ones, where compassion meant more than any title ever could. The chapter also explores the idea that the best leaders are not always the loudest in the room. They are the ones who build trust, show up, and lead by example. That stuck with me because much of my work, both in healthcare and now as a college student studying history, has been grounded in service. I may not have the traditional background of someone in politics or law, but I bring a lived perspective and a sense of responsibility to others that can’t be taught in a textbook. As someone who has lived with chronic pain stemming from a workplace injury, I’ve also come to understand the importance of advocating not just for others, but for myself. My injury wasn’t handled properly, and I never reported it because we were short-staffed and caring for our local elderly population. That choice, made out of dedication, cost me my health. It taught me the importance of creating systems that protect workers and reward honesty, lessons I carry into my current education and future plans. Chapter Two reminds me that real leadership is about integrity and heart. Whether I’m organizing relief efforts after a local disaster, helping a classmate navigate a bureaucratic maze, or sitting with someone in pain, I try to bring that same sincerity. It’s what I hope to bring into public service. Studying history helps me understand how systems are built and how they can be reimagined. But it’s the human side of leadership—the empathy, the listening, the courage to act, that I believe makes all the difference. That is what Real Insights reinforces, and what I intend to carry forward.

Living with a physical disability is not something I ever asked for, but it has become a part of who I am in ways I never could have predicted. My heart condition changed everything. It altered not only how I move through the world physically, but also how I see myself and my purpose. It has taught me the value of patience, the importance of perspective, and the power of resilience. What once felt like a limitation has become one of the strongest foundations for my academic and career goals. Before my diagnosis, I lived in constant motion. I took on multiple responsibilities, working, caregiving, and trying to hold everything together. Slowing down was not an option. But after my health declined, I had to learn a different rhythm. Suddenly, I was faced with new challenges: daily fatigue, physical limitations, and a long list of things I used to take for granted. At first, it felt like a door had closed. But over time, I realized it was actually opening another one. Returning to school after decades away was already a daunting idea. Doing it with a heart condition added another layer. But I saw it as a second chance, one I did not want to waste. Online learning made it possible for me to attend class even on days when my body was not cooperating. The flexibility gave me the dignity of continuing my education while also honoring my physical needs. I no longer had to choose between my health and my future. My disability has sharpened my sense of purpose. I do not just want to earn a degree; I want to use what I learn to create lasting, meaningful change. Studying history allows me to understand how systems of inequality take shape and, more importantly, how they can be challenged. I want to take that knowledge into the public sphere and help reshape how local government supports people like me, those with chronic illnesses, disabilities, or invisible struggles who are so often overlooked. My long-term goal is to work in public service, creating policies and programs that center real people, not just statistics. Whether that is improving rural healthcare access, building more inclusive community spaces, or ensuring every citizen’s voice is counted, I want my work to reflect a deep understanding of lived experience. Living with a disability has given me that understanding. It has made me more compassionate, more determined, and more attuned to the needs of others. Most of all, my disability has taught me not to wait for the perfect time. I spent years putting my goals on hold, thinking I would get to them eventually. But life has shown me that there is no such thing as the right time; there is only now. And I intend to use every bit of the time I have to learn, to lead, and to make an impact. I may not have chosen this path, but I am proud of where it is taking me.

When I think about what it means to graduate from college, I do not picture a stage or a diploma in hand. I picture a door opening, one I’ve been slowly pushing against for years, waiting for the moment when I could finally step through. That door leads to a life of public service, advocacy, and real, hands-on change for people like me, those who have spent most of their lives navigating systems that were not built for us. Earning my college degree is not the end goal. It is the beginning of the work I was meant to do. As a first-generation student, my path to higher education was not paved with certainty. It was shaped by survival, resilience, and the quiet strength of a mother who gave everything she had to keep our small family going. I watched her sacrifice every opportunity for herself so that my brother and I could have a chance. She did not get to chase her dreams, but she made sure we still could. I carry her with me in every paper I write and every class I attend. My degree in history may not be a traditional choice for someone pursuing a career in public service, but I believe it is one of the most powerful tools I could have chosen. Where others study policy or criminal justice, I study the roots. History reveals how systems are created, how inequalities are perpetuated, and how resistance, reform, and progress are born. I am not in school just to learn facts. I am studying how to dismantle harmful legacies and rebuild communities with empathy, justice, and equity. After graduation, I plan to work within local and state government to advocate for underserved communities, particularly in rural Tennessee. My goal is to address disparities in access to healthcare, education, and public resources, starting with the very issues I have faced myself. I want to help create nonprofit programs that uplift voices that are often ignored, people with disabilities, those living in poverty, and anyone pushed to the margins, and I want to make sure those programs are designed by people who understand their experiences firsthand. One of the most formative experiences in my life was volunteering during the relief efforts following Hurricane Helene. My hometown was hit hard, but what struck me most was not the destruction; it was the way people showed up. Neighbors helped each other. Strangers became family. I coordinated donations and even convinced a local storage facility to donate extra space for overflow supplies. It was one of the first times I realized what leadership really looks like. It is not about power. It is about action. That experience clarified my purpose. I do not just want to help when disaster strikes. I want to help prevent harm in the first place by building stronger, more resilient communities. But getting to that future has not been easy. I live with a heart condition that affects my daily life and influences every decision I make. I also manage the unique challenges of returning to school as a nontraditional student. I am older than most of my peers, and while I bring life experience, I also bring a deep sense of vulnerability. It can be isolating to walk into a space where you do not quite fit the mold. But I have found strength in that difference. I know what it is like to start over, to rebuild, and to climb your way back toward a dream that once felt out of reach. That perspective is something I carry into every room I enter. Receiving this scholarship would mean more than financial relief. It would be a vote of confidence in a story that often goes unseen. It would validate the path I have taken and allow me to focus on what matters most, my education and the people I hope to serve. Like many older students, I face limited financial aid options, especially in my first year. This scholarship would lift a weight I have been carrying alone and give me the freedom to continue pursuing my goals with full energy and dedication. My dreams are not grand in the way people often think of success. I do not need fame or fortune. What I want is to make systems work better for the people who rely on them. I want to help the child who feels unseen at school, the disabled adult navigating a broken healthcare system, and the single parent holding everything together. I want to use my knowledge, my story, and my voice to make policy more human. I also want to be a visible example that it is never too late to begin. That you can survive hardship, illness, even self-doubt, and still come out stronger. I want to inspire others who are on the margins of society to take that first step back toward themselves. Whether I am drafting local legislation or creating a resource center for struggling families in rural areas, I plan to bring that message with me: you belong here, and you deserve a future that reflects your worth. The road to this point has been long, and at times, I wondered if it would ever lead to anything more than survival. But higher education has changed that. It has shown me that my voice matters. That my experiences are not burdens but blueprints. And that everything I have lived through has prepared me to do this work. When I look at what lies ahead, I do not see a straight line. I see community meetings, policy drafts, nonprofit collaborations, and long conversations with people who have never been asked what they need. I see a life of service. A life rooted in compassion and driven by the kind of knowledge that can only come from living through the struggle. This scholarship would bring that vision closer to reality. It would be more than a gift. It would be a shared investment in the better world I am determined to help build. Thank you for considering me. I am ready to do the work.

I have always believed that the most powerful tool a person can carry is the ability to listen deeply and respond with empathy. Growing up in rural Tennessee as a low-income, first-generation student, I’ve seen firsthand how misunderstanding and judgment can isolate people. Whether it stems from race, class, disability, or identity, exclusion often begins with someone being unwilling to try and understand another person’s story. That is why I have made it my mission to help build a more empathetic and understanding global community, one connection at a time. My unique talent lies in my ability to make people feel heard. It may sound simple, but in a world that moves fast and speaks loudly, offering someone your quiet attention is an act of grace. I have used this skill in moments big and small. I’ve used it to help my best friend through a mental health crisis, to connect with non-traditional students like myself who feel out of place in college, and to comfort families displaced by natural disasters like Hurricane Helene. During the relief effort after that storm, I worked with families who had lost everything. In one moment I will never forget, I was able to return a water-damaged photo to a grieving family. Their tears were not only about the photo. They were about being seen and remembered. That is what empathy does, it restores dignity. As a history major, I am often asked why I didn’t choose political science or law. My answer is always the same: history teaches us the roots of empathy. It teaches us what happens when societies fail to listen to each other, when communities ignore suffering, or when power goes unchecked. History also reveals how people have built bridges through movements, revolutions, and quiet acts of resistance. By studying these patterns, I am learning not only how to understand systems of inequality but how to challenge them with compassion and clarity. My future goal is to work in public service, developing inclusive policies and programs that reflect the full diversity of the people they serve. I want to create space for rural voices, LGBTQ+ voices, disabled voices, and all the others too often left out of decision-making. I also hope to launch community-based nonprofits focused on improving access to healthcare and education, starting in Tennessee, but expanding where the need is greatest. To build a more empathetic global community, we must begin at home. That is where I am starting. Whether I am helping someone register to vote, comforting a patient with limited access to care, or mentoring a fellow student who feels overwhelmed, I approach every interaction as a chance to connect, not just to fix. We do not have to speak the same language or share the same beliefs to recognize each other’s humanity. I do not think change comes from shouting over one another. I believe it comes from sitting down and listening. With every story I hear and every hand I hold, I become more committed to building the kind of world I know is possible, one rooted in empathy, understanding, and shared hope.

Leadership is not always about titles or recognition. Sometimes, it looks like stepping into a chaotic moment and choosing not to wait for someone else to fix it. That is what happened during the aftermath of Hurricane Helene, a disaster that struck my rural Tennessee community with full force. Homes were destroyed, roads blocked, and families displaced. I found myself in the middle of a relief effort that needed organization, compassion, and determination. In that moment, I realized I had the ability to lead not because I had a plan, but because I was willing to listen, act, and adapt quickly. I was placed in charge of managing incoming donations. At first, it sounded simple, sort supplies, organize them, and keep track of what was needed. But the situation was far from easy. Donations poured in faster than we could handle, and our facility quickly ran out of space. Supplies were being turned away, and tensions were rising. I knew we could not afford to lose momentum or waste resources. Instead of giving in to frustration, I took a step back and started thinking outside the box. I made a list of local businesses that might be able to help and began calling. After several rejections, I spoke with a local storage facility owner and explained the situation. By the end of the call, he had agreed to donate several units free of charge. That single phone call allowed us to accept hundreds of additional boxes of food, clothing, and hygiene products. It also created a partnership that extended beyond the storm. Throughout that period, I coordinated with other volunteers, kept inventory, and ensured that donations reached families in need. One of the most powerful moments came when a volunteer handed me a box of personal belongings found during a cleanup. Inside was a water-damaged photograph of a family I had been working with. When I returned the photo, their reaction reminded me that leadership is not only about logistics. It is about seeing the humanity in others and doing what you can to restore it. This experience taught me that effective leadership combines empathy with action. It means staying calm under pressure, finding creative solutions, and keeping people connected when everything around them feels broken. These are the skills I carry into my academic journey today as a history major, and they are the same ones I plan to use in my future career in public service. My goal is to work in local and state government, advocating for underrepresented communities and building systems that work for everyone. Whether it is in disaster preparedness, healthcare access, or voter education, I want to be a leader who listens first, acts boldly, and stays grounded in service. The lessons I learned in the middle of a crisis have shaped how I lead and how I plan to serve in the future. I do not lead for praise. I lead because I care.

When I think about achievements, my mind does not go to awards or accolades. It goes to a quiet moment in my life when everything felt like it was falling apart. After years of pushing through pain, exhaustion, and uncertainty, I was diagnosed with a heart condition. Suddenly, everything stopped. My plans, my routines, and even my sense of identity unraveled in an instant. It was not a public victory or a celebrated moment. But surviving that season, choosing to keep going when it would have been easier to give up, remains my greatest achievement to date. At the time, I did not see it as a moment of triumph. I saw it as loss. I had to let go of the life I had known, one that revolved around supporting others, showing up for work no matter what, and putting my own needs last. The diagnosis forced me to slow down and confront the reality of my health and the fragility of life itself. I faced days when I could barely get out of bed, and nights filled with anxiety about the future. But in the stillness of that struggle, I began to hear something I had long ignored, my own voice, telling me I was meant for more. Choosing to return to school at forty, in the midst of a health crisis, was not an easy decision. I worried about everything: my stamina, my memory, my finances, and whether I would be able to keep up with my younger classmates. But what I discovered was a deep resilience I never knew I had. Surviving my heart condition did not just keep me alive. It woke me up. It reminded me that life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the courage it takes to start again. My decision to study history might seem unconventional for someone interested in public service, but to me, it is the most natural path. History is more than dates and facts. It is a record of voices that fought to be heard, systems that rose and fell, and the people who dared to shape something better. Through this lens, I am learning not just what happened, but why it happened, and how those lessons can guide us now. My goal is to work in public service, using what I learn to advocate for healthcare access, inclusive policy, and programs that reach those often left behind. My experience with chronic illness has also deepened my empathy. I know what it feels like to be unseen, unheard, and pushed to the margins. That understanding shapes the way I engage with my community. I no longer see service as something that happens outside of struggle. I see it as something born from it. I want to create spaces where people do not have to pretend to be fine to be worthy of help. Where being vulnerable is not a weakness, but a starting point for connection and change. In the future, I hope to build organizations that meet real needs in overlooked places. I want to focus on rural communities, especially in my home state of Tennessee, where services are often limited and stigma still surrounds issues like mental health, chronic illness, and identity. I want to empower people to vote, speak up, and recognize their own strength, even in the face of adversity. My education is the first step in building that future, and every paper I write and every lesson I learn brings me closer to it. Looking back, I know now that surviving my heart condition was more than a medical achievement. It was a personal revolution. It stripped away all the noise and left behind something unshakable: hope, purpose, and a fierce commitment to change. I may not have chosen this path, but I am grateful for where it has led. And I am just getting started.

I believe lasting impact begins in the spaces where you live, work, and serve. For me, that space is rural Tennessee, a place rich in history, community, and resilience, but also burdened by neglect, inequality, and outdated systems. My goal is not to change the world in a broad, abstract way. Instead, I want to work directly with the people around me, shaping policy, increasing access to resources, and building programs that uplift those who are too often overlooked. I plan to make a positive impact by becoming a voice for the underserved and the unheard, starting with my own community. My decision to pursue a degree in history was not random. I chose this path because understanding the past helps us better navigate the present. The roots of injustice, poverty, and systemic bias did not appear overnight. They are the result of long-standing structures that must be challenged with both knowledge and strategy. Studying history gives me the tools to recognize these patterns and advocate for solutions that are not only informed but also sustainable. While others may enter public service through the study of law or criminal justice, I believe history offers a broader, more reflective foundation for meaningful change. I am especially passionate about supporting marginalized groups in rural areas. In places like mine, people who are different because of their color, disability, sexuality, or religion are often left without representation. Their voices get lost in systems that were not built with them in mind. One of my primary goals is to create programs that empower these groups. This could mean organizing voter education initiatives, expanding access to local healthcare, or working with state leaders to fund better community resources. I am committed to listening to the needs of my neighbors and acting with intention. Experience has taught me that true service requires both empathy and action. After Hurricane Helene, I helped organize relief donations for our area, coordinating storage and distribution when resources flooded in faster than we could handle. It was a moment that reinforced my belief in what communities can accomplish when they unite. It also made clear how much more effective we can be when systems are already in place to support that unity. That is the kind of future I want to help build, not one where we respond to crisis after crisis, but one where we are prepared, supported, and working together before the storm ever comes. Ultimately, my hope is to become a leader who helps others rise. I do not seek recognition or authority for its own sake. I want to work in public service because I believe in people’s right to be heard, supported, and protected. I believe that education can be used not just to elevate one life, but to shape a better future for many. That is what drives me. That is how I plan to make a positive impact on the world.

"Of things some are in our power, and others are not. In our power are opinion, movement toward a thing, desire, aversion; and in a word, whatever are our own acts. Not in our power are the body, property, reputation, office, and in a word, whatever are not our own acts. And the things that are in our power are by nature free, not subject to restraint or hindrance; but those not in our power are weak, slavish, subject to hindrance, dependent on others." — Epictetus, Discourses, Book I, Chapter I The central thesis of Epictetus’s passage is that peace and purpose are only possible when one understands and accepts the boundary between what is within our control and what is not. This philosophical division is not merely academic, it is a moral and practical foundation for living a resilient life. The line drawn by Epictetus carves human experience into two realms: the internal, which we can govern, and the external, which we must face with grace. This division challenges modern perspectives that equate empowerment with control over outcomes, urging instead that true strength lies in mastery of the self. At the heart of this Stoic concept is an invitation to reframe our understanding of power. Many are conditioned to think of power as the ability to change the world around us. But Epictetus argues that the world, by its nature, resists control. Illness strikes regardless of our schedules. Loved ones disappoint us despite our best intentions. Recognition may never come, and loss is all but guaranteed. If peace is dependent on bending reality to our will, then we are doomed to frustration and bitterness. But if we root our peace in our response, our judgment, and our will, then we gain a kind of invincibility. To understand Epictetus’s intention more deeply, we must look at the context in which he taught. A former slave who rose to become a respected Stoic philosopher, Epictetus understood powerlessness in the most literal terms. He could not control his social status, his body (he was reportedly lame), or even his basic freedoms. And yet, within those limitations, he built a life of profound insight and ethical clarity. His words are not the musings of someone removed from hardship, but the lived truth of someone who had no choice but to master his internal world when the external was cruel and unforgiving. This divide between the internal and external is not about apathy or withdrawal from the world. On the contrary, it is a call to engage with the world from a place of principle rather than panic. When Epictetus says reputation, property, and office are not within our power, he is not condemning ambition, but detaching self-worth from the fickleness of external recognition. We may pursue a public role or work toward a goal, but the outcome does not define us. What defines us is whether we acted with wisdom, courage, justice, and discipline, the four cardinal virtues of Stoicism. These are always within reach, even when success is not. One of the more subtle implications of this passage is its relevance to social and civic life. While Epictetus emphasizes the internal, he does not reject public duty. Instead, he teaches that effective participation in the world must begin with the self. Only those who are not ruled by ego, fear, or the desire for validation can lead and serve with integrity. In this way, the passage is not just a roadmap for personal peace, but a blueprint for ethical public leadership. A person who understands that office and reputation are not true possessions will be less likely to be corrupted by them. They will govern themselves first, and by doing so, be more capable of contributing to a just society. This idea resonates deeply in today’s climate, where chaos often masquerades as control. Social media offers the illusion of influence. Political platforms promise sweeping change. But both can become traps when we seek identity through external impact alone. Epictetus’s advice cuts through this noise. If we focus first on shaping our character and anchoring our peace in values rather than outcomes, then even in the storm of modern life, we remain steady. And in being steady, we can be effective agents of change, not driven by pride or despair, but by service. This ancient Stoic insight is not a relic. It is a challenge, particularly for those navigating systems that seem rigged or unjust. How can we focus on internal control when external systems deny fairness? Epictetus does not ignore this tension. Instead, he argues that by holding firm to our own judgments and values, even in the face of injustice, we reclaim a kind of moral autonomy. It is not a passive stance. It is an act of rebellion, to remain ethical in a world that rewards compromise. To stay grounded when the ground shifts. This is not resignation. It is resistance. The clarity of this teaching is precisely what makes it powerful. It does not ask us to become detached from the world’s problems. It urges us to enter into them without being consumed by them. It tells us that while we cannot prevent hardship, we can prevent it from destroying our sense of self. While we cannot guarantee success, we can guarantee effort guided by principle. There is also a liberating humility in recognizing what is not in our control. It frees us from the illusion that we are responsible for every outcome. We learn to strive without clinging. We learn to accept failure without being defined by it. And perhaps most importantly, we learn to be kind, to others and to ourselves, knowing that much of life is uncertain, but that dignity is always within reach. In conclusion, the paragraph from Discourses is more than a philosophical statement. It is a survival strategy. It teaches us how to endure, how to act with courage, and how to anchor ourselves in values when everything else is uncertain. Epictetus calls us to a life of quiet strength, one not measured by titles or applause, but by integrity. His words are a reminder that what truly matters, the soul of who we are, is always ours to shape. In mastering the self, we begin to shape the world.

My passion for public service began long before I had a name for it. I was raised in rural Tennessee, where I saw firsthand how inequality, lack of access, and generational hardship shaped people’s lives. I was also raised by a single mother who carried the weight of our family with grace and strength. She taught me the value of perseverance and compassion, and her example laid the foundation for everything I hope to build through public service. For much of my life, I have worn many hats: healthcare worker, caretaker, advocate, and problem-solver. My heart has always leaned toward service, and over time, that instinct has become my calling. I want to work in public service not only because I believe in change, but because I want to be part of creating it. My focus is on helping the overlooked, the underserved, and the unheard. These include people in rural areas like mine, people with disabilities, people facing systemic discrimination, and those navigating life with limited resources and support. Returning to school as a non-traditional student has not been easy. I am managing a heart condition and adjusting to a life that looks very different than I once imagined. But these experiences have not discouraged me. They have deepened my resolve. I am currently pursuing a degree in history because I believe understanding where we have been is essential to knowing how to move forward. History offers more than stories of the past. It reveals the patterns, power structures, and cultural shifts that shape our laws and lives today. While others may choose to study criminal justice or political science, I believe history offers a broader, richer lens that allows for more informed and empathetic leadership. My goal is to work at both local and state levels of government, where I can influence real policy decisions and create programs that support vulnerable communities. I want to help expand healthcare access, increase rural education opportunities, and create nonprofit initiatives that focus on civic engagement and voter empowerment. I am especially passionate about increasing political representation for marginalized groups and addressing the barriers that prevent many from participating fully in public life. Education is giving me the tools to bring this vision to life. Through my coursework, I am learning how systems were built, and more importantly, how they can be rebuilt. I am developing my ability to research, communicate, and organize effectively. I plan to use these skills to write policy that reflects the realities of everyday people, not just the privileged few. I want to bridge the gap between the government and the communities it serves. Public service, to me, is not about a title or a position. It is about impact. It is about standing up when others are silent, reaching out when others turn away, and building solutions where others only see problems. I am not pursuing this path for personal gain. I am pursuing it because I want to give back to the places and people who shaped me. I want to be a force for change in a world that so often forgets those without a platform. This is more than a goal, it is a promise I intend to keep.

I want to build bridges, not the kind made from steel or stone, but the kind that connect people across differences, needs, and experiences. Growing up in rural Tennessee as a first-generation, low-income student taught me a lot about what it means to feel unseen. I saw how easily people could be forgotten simply because they lived in the wrong zip code, had the wrong insurance, or didn’t fit neatly into a social mold. It made me realize that real change begins with connection, and connection begins with understanding. That’s why I’m pursuing a degree in history. I want to understand how our systems came to be, how injustice was written into policy, and how ordinary people challenged that injustice through courage and compassion. I want to take that knowledge and use it to build a future rooted in equity, service, and community. My goal is to work in public service where I can build community programs that reflect the real needs of the people I live among, programs that offer practical support like rural healthcare access, education on civic engagement, and resources for underserved populations. But building the future I envision doesn’t stop at the policy level. I also want to build trust. I want to show others that leadership can come from someone who has lived through struggle and used it as fuel for change. I want to be the kind of person who holds the door open behind them, who uses their education not just to advance themselves but to lift others. Recently, I helped organize a food and clothing drive after Hurricane Helene devastated our area. I was in charge of tracking donations and securing storage when our supplies outgrew the space we had. That experience taught me that leadership isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about showing up, asking the right questions, and doing what you can with what you have. It also reminded me that when people come together, we can build something bigger than ourselves. The future I want to build is one where no one feels left out of the conversation. Where your voice matters, even if no one has listened before. I am building that future one class, one conversation, and one step at a time. And when I look ahead, I don’t just see a degree. I see the lives that can be changed when someone finally says, “You belong here too.”

Becoming a first-generation, low-income student has changed how I see the world and my place in it. I grew up in rural Tennessee, raised by a single mother who worked tirelessly to provide for our family. She did not have the opportunity to pursue college because she was focused on keeping food on the table and a roof over our heads. Watching her sacrifice so much to give my brother and me a chance taught me the meaning of perseverance. But it also opened my eyes to the kind of systemic challenges that keep families like mine from accessing opportunities that others take for granted. That realization is one of the biggest reasons I chose to return to school. Higher education is more than a personal achievement for me. It is a step toward creating real, lasting change for people in communities like mine. My decision to pursue college was not immediate. After high school, I took on responsibilities at home, held multiple jobs, and tried to help hold my family together. I had dreams of continuing my education, but there were always more urgent needs. For years, college felt like something I could only hope for, not something I could actually do. It took time, self-reflection, and a major health scare for me to realize that if I wanted to build a better future, for myself and for others, I had to take the first step, no matter how late it felt. Returning to school at forty has not been easy, but I have prepared myself by leaning on the same qualities that helped me get through life’s most difficult seasons: determination, resourcefulness, and the ability to adapt. I have researched programs that meet the needs of non-traditional students like me, found online platforms that allow for flexibility given my health condition, and connected with academic advisors who support my journey. I have also sought out scholarships and funding opportunities to help ease the financial burden, knowing that this investment in myself is one that will pay off in the long run. Choosing to study history is a reflection of my deeper goal to work in public service. I want to understand how policies have shaped the lives of people over time, especially those who have been underserved or forgotten. My education is not just for me, it is a tool I will use to lift others. I want to work in local and state government to create programs that address real needs, from healthcare access to civic education. My experiences have given me a clear perspective, and my education is giving me the language and structure to turn that perspective into action. I am not just going to college to earn a degree. I am doing it to become a stronger voice for those who feel like they do not have one. I believe that education can be a catalyst for change, and I am ready to use mine to build a better, more inclusive future.

My name is Wiyanna Vannoy, and I am a first-generation college student beginning my journey at forty years old. I was raised in rural Tennessee by a single mother who gave everything she had to keep our family together. We lived with very little, but she taught me what it meant to stand for something. That example, and the challenges I faced growing up in an underserved and often overlooked community, shaped my belief that real change begins at the local level. I am now returning to school not just to build a better life for myself, but to build a better future for the people around me. I am studying history because I believe understanding the past is essential to correcting the injustices of the present. My background has shown me the cracks in the system, how easily vulnerable people can be ignored, especially in rural areas like mine. In my community, people are too often denied access to healthcare, reliable resources, or even a voice in decisions that directly impact their lives. As someone who has experienced these gaps personally, I feel a responsibility to step forward and help fill them. Public service is not a title to me. It is a mission. I plan to begin in local government, where I can engage directly with my neighbors and bring attention to the real issues they face. From there, I will work toward a role in state government, using that platform to create nonprofit initiatives, expand access to healthcare, and promote civic education. I want to show people that their vote matters, that their voice has power, and that change is possible when communities stand together. My goal is to become a leader who does more than speak on behalf of others. I want to listen, act, and make lasting change that reflects the diversity and strength of our state. I want to protect the rights of those who feel forgotten and create opportunities for people who have been left behind. Whether someone is living with a disability, practicing a minority faith, navigating poverty, or identifying as part of the LGBTQ+ community, I want them to know they are seen and that their needs matter. I believe one of the most powerful tools we have is education, both formal and civic. That is why I advocate for election reform that gives more value to each individual vote, and why I support efforts to increase direct democracy. People should have a say in the laws that affect them, and that process should be clear, fair, and accessible. I want to work toward a world where leaders are chosen by the people, not by outdated systems or self-serving political structures. What sets me apart is my lived experience, my determination, and the path I have taken to get here. I am not in this for status. I am in this because I have seen what happens when no one speaks up, and I have decided I will not stay silent. I want to be remembered as someone who helped make the world a better, safer, freer place. I want my story to inspire others to stand up, even when the odds are against them. This scholarship will allow me to continue my education and build the foundation I need to serve effectively. It will help me turn compassion into action and ideas into policies that uplift entire communities. With your support, I will keep moving forward, not just for myself, but for everyone whose voice deserves to be heard.

Becoming a first-generation, low-income student has changed how I see the world and my place in it. I was raised by a single mother who worked tirelessly to provide for our family. She did not have the time or opportunity to go to college herself. Her life was about making sure my brother and I had the essentials, and she did it with quiet strength. Watching her push through long days and constant challenges taught me the value of hard work, but it also showed me that dreams often get delayed when survival takes priority. My high school offered college prep classes, and I took advantage of them. But the real benefits of those programs often went to students who already had resources. The ones with tutors, private guidance counselors, and parents familiar with the system always had a head start. I did not lack ambition, but I did lack access. At the time, I was focused on helping at home, working part-time jobs, and doing what I could to keep things afloat, rather than learning how to write personal statements or apply for financial aid. The combination of financial stress and family responsibility delayed my path to college. I wanted to continue my education, but the timing was never right. There were always more pressing needs, bills, caregiving, and health issues. I told myself I would return someday, but for years, that day stayed out of reach. It took a long time for me to be in a position where I could finally choose myself and pursue something meaningful. Returning to school now, at forty, is a decision shaped by every challenge I have faced and every lesson I have learned. I am just beginning my college journey, and I bring with me a purpose that goes far beyond earning a diploma. I am pursuing a degree in history because I want to understand how our systems were built, who they serve, and how they can be changed. I have always cared deeply about helping others. My goal is to work in public service, advocating for those who are often overlooked. My own experiences give me insight into what it feels like to fall through the cracks, and how transformative it can be when someone helps you up. Education is not just a personal goal. It is a pathway to impact. With the knowledge I am gaining in college, I will be better prepared to support the very communities I come from. I want to help create programs that provide meaningful, accessible support to families like mine, families who work hard but are often left out of the conversation. Whether it is through healthcare, disaster recovery, or education access, I want to be part of building solutions. Being a first-generation student is not always easy, but it has given me strength and perspective. I carry the hopes of those who never had this chance, especially my mother, whose sacrifices made mine possible. Her story, and mine, are still being written, but now, they are being written from a classroom. That shift means everything. I believe it is never too late to begin again. And I am ready to use what I learn to help others do the same.

Anxiety has been a quiet, constant presence in my life for as long as I can remember. I didn’t have a name for it when I was younger. I just thought I was broken. I thought the tightness in my chest, the racing thoughts, and the overwhelming need to either do everything at once or completely shut down were just part of who I was. It wasn’t until later in life that I realized what I had been struggling with wasn’t just stress. It was anxiety—real, clinical, and exhausting. For years, I managed it alone. Some days I could push through and appear functional, and on others I struggled to think clearly or speak up for myself. It affected every part of my life. My health, relationships, and confidence all suffered. Eventually, the combination of unmanaged anxiety and a serious heart condition made continuing in the medical field impossible. It became harder to tell where the physical symptoms ended and the mental ones began. That’s when I realized I couldn’t keep living the same way. Something had to change. So I began to face it. I started learning what triggered my anxiety and how to respond to it. Breathing exercises, routines, and grounding techniques helped bring me back to the present when everything felt like too much. I also accepted that this would likely be a part of my life moving forward. It might never fully disappear, but I could still learn to live with it in a way that gave me control over my life again. Deciding to return to college at 40 was a turning point for me. It wasn’t something I had planned, but it became clear that the future I wanted was still within reach. I am studying history because I believe understanding the past is essential to building a better future. My goal is to go into public service and represent the people in communities like mine who are too often left behind or spoken over. I want to bring real stories and real experience into the spaces where decisions are made. Anxiety is still part of my life. I won’t pretend it’s gone. But it no longer controls what I do. It doesn’t get to decide if I am too old to go back to school. It doesn’t keep me from speaking up when it matters. It doesn’t stop me from learning, growing, and stepping into spaces that used to feel too big for me. For me, earning a degree means more than academic success. It represents healing, growth, and a refusal to be defined by the hardest parts of my life. College is my chance to take everything I have lived through and turn it into something meaningful, not just for me, but for others as well. Anxiety shaped the way I saw the world, but I am learning to see myself differently. I am more capable than I thought. I am still learning, still growing, and still moving forward. That choice is mine now, and I choose to keep going.

Living Openly, Fighting Boldly As a gay woman living in rural Tennessee, my identity is something I carry with me every day. It is not something I can set aside or hide when it becomes inconvenient. It shows in how I speak, how I love, and how I exist in a place that often tells me I do not belong. Being openly queer in a conservative part of the country comes with constant challenges, but it has also shaped me into someone resilient, outspoken, and ready to fight for change. Discrimination is part of daily life here. It is not just direct insults or exclusion, although those happen. It is the constant pressure to shrink yourself. It is the policies that are passed without input from the people they harm. It is the silence in rooms where acceptance should be loud. These experiences have influenced the direction of my life in more ways than I can count. They have played a major role in my decision to return to school and to prepare for a future in public service. I am studying history because I believe understanding the past is key to shaping a better future. Every movement, every moment of progress, came from people who refused to stay quiet. I plan to run for office and use that platform to fight for the rights of people in communities like mine, places that are often overlooked or left behind. Today, it is reproductive rights and protections for transgender individuals under threat, and tomorrow it will be someone else. The pattern is clear, and the time to act is now. When I was younger, I responded to ignorance with anger. It felt justified. It felt necessary. Over time, I have learned that not every battle is won by fighting back in the same way harm was delivered. I have found more strength in patience, in compassion, and in choosing which conversations are worth my energy. Some people are determined to hate what they do not understand. Others just need someone to speak with honesty and calmness. I focus on the moments where change is possible, and I let go of the ones that are not. Living openly in a place that often rejects people like me is not easy, but it has given me clarity. I know what I stand for. I know who I am. I believe every person deserves to live freely and with dignity, no matter their background, identity, or zip code. That belief is what guides my goals for the future. This journey has taught me that it is possible to face adversity without becoming hardened. It is possible to be proud without being loud. And it is possible to build a life of purpose, even when the world around you tries to make you small. I will never stop working for a better tomorrow, because I know what it feels like to be left out of the conversation, and I plan to make sure that others do not have to feel the same.