My work centers on how violence, specifically the kind that hides inside systems and institutions, gets passed down to children and becomes part of how they see the world. A lot of it deals with religious spaces and the way doctrines around death, sacrifice, and shame shape a person from a really young age without them ever consenting to it. I work across a lot of different mediums, ceramics, sculpture, assemblage, mixed media, and I try to bring them all together into pieces that feel as layered and complicated as the ideas themselves. The work is personal but it also reaches outward, pulling in theoretical frameworks and art historical references to situate what I'm making in a bigger conversation about power, belief, and the body. Mostly my own life and the things I'm still trying to work through. I went to religious and church centric schools until I was fifteen and that experience left a lot of residue that I'm still sorting out. Making work is one of the ways I actually process it, not just intellectually but physically, in my hands. I'm also inspired by the materials themselves and what they already carry. Gauze, candle wax, wire, scrap fabric, these things come with cultural and emotional memory built in, and figuring out how to use that intentionally is a constant source of curiosity for me. Scholars like Johan Galtung and artists like Ana Mendieta also push my thinking in ways that end up shaping what I make. My current favorite is "Hovering Just Shy of a Prayer," which is part of my larger series on violence and religion. It combines ceramics, wire, paper maché, gauze, red and white candles, scrap fabric, plastic, and hardware all into one sculptural piece. I wanted it to feel like an altar and a wound at the same time. Every material was chosen deliberately, the candles reference ritual, the gauze references the body, the wire suggests something imposed and structural underneath a soft exterior. It is the piece where I feel like everything I have learned technically and conceptually finally came together in one place. It still feels unresolved in the way the subject matter itself is unresolved, and I think that is what makes it feel the most honest. I realized that creating work about difficult personal experiences actually does something to them. It does not fix anything or tie it up neatly, but it changes your relationship to it. Working through memories and emotions by building them into physical objects gives you a kind of distance and closeness at the same time that is hard to get any other way. I have also found that the work tends to open up conversations with people who have had similar experiences with religion or institutions, people who recognize something in it without me having to explain everything. Those moments feel meaningful. Art school itself has been its own experience, learning to push materials further than I thought I could and being in a space where the ideas are taken as seriously as the craft. Within the next 10 years, my dream is to become a poet laureate, working my way up from city-level to the national position. I want to contribute to building relationships and environments where people feel safe and supported. I just want to be the safe space I didn't have (as a queer person) growing up. The goal is just to keep going and see how far my work and passion can take me!

Growing up with a single mother didn't feel like growing up with less, it felt like growing up with everything that mattered. My mother is, without question, the strongest person I have ever known, and every value I hold, every ounce of resilience I carry, traces directly back to her. We lived in a deeply religious community where the label "broken family" was applied to us freely and without apology. People assumed that because my father wasn't in the picture, something in our home was fractured, incomplete, lesser. What they didn't see was a woman who woke up every single day and chose her children without hesitation. Watching my mother stand quietly in the face of that judgment, never bowing to it, never letting it diminish our home, taught me that dignity isn't dependent on anyone else's approval. My mother sacrificed her career, hobbies, and freedom she loved to put motherhood first. That was never a decision she made dramatically or with complaint; it was simply what she did, because that's who she is. For years, her identity was largely built around being present for my younger sister and I. As a child, I didn't fully understand the weight of that. As an adult, I understand it completely, and I am humbled by it every day. What those years also taught me is that family is not a structure; it is a choice. Family is who stays when it's hard, who loves you when it costs them something, who makes you better simply by being in your life. My mother redefined that word for me in real time. She was mother, provider, protector, and friend. Our unit of two was never broken. It was, in fact, one of the most whole things I have ever been a part of. Growing up in that environment made me more empathetic, more determined, and far less willing to accept limitations that others try to place on people. I learned to question narratives that shame people for circumstances outside their control. I learned that unconventional paths are not inferior paths. And I learned that the people who judge from the outside rarely have any idea what is being built on the inside. Now, watching my mother at 53 returning to her passions, reclaiming the parts of herself she set aside for so many years, brings me a joy I can barely articulate. She gave me my foundation, and now she is finally building the next floor of her own life. I could not be more proud of her. If growing up with a single mother shaped me in any single, defining way, it is this: I do not measure people by their circumstances. I measure them by their character, their consistency, and their love. My mother had all three in extraordinary measure, and because of her, I will spend the rest of my life trying to reflect that back into the world.

Among the artists who have most deeply shaped my creative vision, Remedios Varo stands apart. Her work occupies a space where the mystical and the meticulous coexist — intricate, dreamlike narratives rendered with almost scientific precision. What draws me to Varo is not just the surreal imagery, but the sense that her paintings are asking questions: about autonomy, about transformation, about the quiet interior life of a person moving through a strange world. She showed me that art can be simultaneously intellectual and deeply personal, rigorous and lyrical. That balance is something I carry into my own practice every day. Varo's influence has pushed me toward work that layers meaning, where a surface image opens into something more complex the longer you sit with it. I find myself drawn to narratives that don't resolve easily, to forms that suggest process and transformation rather than fixed conclusions. In this way, she has quietly shaped the direction I'm heading: toward work that asks its audience to slow down and look closely. Her spirit also connects to two other figures who have guided my thinking: Guillermo Del Toro and Louise Bourgeois. Del Toro's work taught me that darkness and wonder are not opposites but partners, that the uncanny can be a vehicle for deep emotional truth. Bourgeois showed me that art can be an act of excavation, pulling the most personal and even painful material into forms that resonate universally. Together, these three artists have helped me understand that the work I want to make lives at the intersection of the strange, the intimate, and the carefully constructed. As for my most formative experience in the arts, it has been the collaborative environment of the studio and Rawhead Literary Journal (where I currently intern). There is something irreplaceable about working alongside other artists and writers, people who are wrestling seriously with their own creative visions. Sitting in that space, I have learned that creativity is not a solitary act but a conversation. I have been challenged to think across disciplines, to see how visual language and written language can inform and push against each other. Watching writers approach narrative and watching visual artists approach space and form has expanded my understanding of what storytelling can be. That cross-pollination has changed the way I work. I bring more attention to pacing and structure than I did before, thinking about how a viewer or reader moves through something, where tension builds and where it releases. I think more carefully about what is left unsaid or unseen, about the productive tension between absence and presence. These are lessons I absorbed not from a classroom but from being in community with people who care deeply about making things well. Together, the influence of Varo, Del Toro, and Bourgeois, and the living creative community around me, are pointing me toward work that is both deeply crafted and genuinely in dialogue with the world. I want to make things that reward close attention, that hold complexity without collapsing it, and that treat the audience as a full participant in the experience. The path forward feels shaped by all of it equally: the artists who came before me and the collaborators beside me right now.

I work across ceramics, makeup, sculpture, and creative writing, often blending material and text to ask hard questions about identity, power, bodily autonomy, queer survival, and religion. My practice lives at the intersection of the beautiful and the urgent, where a glazed vessel and a carefully chosen word can carry equal weight. At the center of it all is one guiding question: how can art protect and preserve the lives that systems try to silence? I first turned to art and writing as ways to process personal trauma. That experience sent me deeper into the study of propaganda, art history, materials, and conceptual storytelling, and showed me how creative work can build community, resist erasure, and uplift voices that are too often pushed to the margins. It also showed me that making art is never just a private act. Every piece I create is in conversation with someone, with a history, with a body of people who needed something to exist that didn't yet. Education is a natural extension of that belief. I want to be the kind of teacher I needed, someone who shows students, especially those from marginalized backgrounds, that their stories are not just valid but necessary. Art saved me, and I want to create spaces where it can do the same for others. Whether in a classroom, a workshop, or a community center, I hope to teach not just technique but permission: the permission to make work that is honest, political, tender, and unapologetically alive. I believe that when people feel seen in a creative space, they make braver, truer work, and that ripples outward in ways that are hard to measure but impossible to ignore. Becoming a poet laureate is rooted in that same impulse toward community. Poetry has always functioned as public language, a way of speaking to and for a place and its people. I want to use that platform to bring poetry into spaces that don't always see themselves reflected in literary culture, to make it feel less like a gatekept institution and more like a living, breathing conversation. I want to sit with people in their neighborhoods, their grief, their celebrations, and help them find language for what they're already carrying. Art thrives when it belongs to everyone. Looking ahead, I also hope to become a published author and continue collaborating with local businesses to bring my ceramic work into the world. Each of these goals is a different doorway into the same house. In every role, the goal is the same: to make art that holds people, honors their stories, and proves that beauty and survival are not opposites.

Lent is a cross cast entirely in wax, designed to be lit and allowed to destroy itself. As the flame consumes the form, the object performs a sacrifice, offering the body up in exchange for promised love and salvation. The slow collapse mirrors the rituals of Lent and the broader economy of the church, where devotion is measured by what can be surrendered. The object does not resist its ending. Instead, it fulfills its purpose through disappearance, its meaning unfolding only through loss. Wax carries a particular intimacy with transformation. It holds shape temporarily, but heat returns it to formlessness. In this work, the cross appears stable and solid at first, recognizable as a symbol of faith and suffering. Yet the material undermines that sense of permanence. The cross is not carved from stone or metal. It is soft, fragile, and destined to collapse. When lit, the surface begins to bend and drip. Edges soften, lines blur, and the structure gradually caves inward. What once appeared firm becomes unstable, then unrecognizable. This slow destruction echoes the structure of the Lenten season itself. Lent is traditionally framed as a period of discipline and restraint, a time when believers give something up in order to demonstrate devotion. Sacrifice becomes proof of love. The act of surrender is not only symbolic but performative. It must be enacted, witnessed, and repeated. In the same way, the burning cross turns devotion into a visible process. The sacrifice is not instantaneous. It unfolds slowly, asking viewers to sit with the duration of loss. At the same time, the work raises questions about what is demanded in exchange for belonging. The church has long tied ideas of love and salvation to obedience and denial. Desire, identity, comfort, and autonomy are often positioned as things that must be relinquished. Within that framework, sacrifice becomes currency. One proves faith through what one is willing to lose. The melting cross reflects this logic. Its body disappears as the flame persists, suggesting a system that requires continual offering. As the wax pools beneath the cross, the form begins to resemble a kind of aftermath. What remains is residue rather than monument. The symbol that once stood upright becomes a spreading mass of softened material, no longer able to hold its original meaning. In this transformation, the work shifts from representation to evidence. The viewer does not simply look at a cross. They witness what happens when a symbol is pushed to its limit, when devotion demands total consumption. By allowing the object to destroy itself, Lent turns sacrifice into both spectacle and critique. The burning cross asks whether love that requires self erasure can truly be called love, and whether salvation that depends on continual loss can ever be freely given.

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I am drawn to art because it allows me to inhabit multiple worlds at once, to shape and reshape experiences that are both intimate and expansive. Writing and ceramics are not separate practices for me; they exist in conversation. The rhythm of language and the rhythm of clay share a pulse. One informs the other. When I write, I think about texture, weight, and form, the way a word can hold a shape in a line just as a hand can hold a curve in clay. When I work with ceramics, I consider narrative, tension, and release, the way a surface can tell a story without a single word. Both practices give me a language for expressing truths that are otherwise difficult to name, and both allow me to connect with others through shared feeling and material experience. My art is deeply personal, rooted in the histories that precede me and the communities that surround me. As the child of a single mother, with parents who served in the military, I have witnessed both resilience and vulnerability, the ways people carry weight and pass it down silently. On my mother’s side, as the descendant of Asian immigrants, I inherited traditions of craft and endurance, and a sense of history woven into everyday life. My art becomes a space where these influences coexist. Through ceramics, I honor labor and ritual, the care in shaping something from nothing. Through writing, I hold memory and imagination side by side, testing the edges of experience. Both practices allow me to reclaim and reinterpret the inheritance of my family, and in doing so, to create work that others can enter and recognize themselves within. Art has shaped the way I move through the world, demanding attentiveness and patience, and rewarding care and presence. It has offered me a practice of reflection, a way to process grief, joy, and the complicated contradictions of identity. I have witnessed my writing and my ceramics open doors for others as well. Poems shared in journals and anthologies have sparked conversations, offered comfort, and invited readers to linger in moments they might otherwise overlook. A ceramic piece, even something small and functional, can be held, touched, and carried into someone’s daily life, offering a quiet reminder of human care and intention. What I love most is the way art expands connection. It allows me to navigate the complexities of queerness, family, and heritage while making space for others to see themselves reflected in my work. Writing teaches me to listen, to notice, to translate feeling into form. Clay teaches me to slow down, to honor the body and the material world. Together, they are a way of living attentively, a way of offering presence and witness in a world that often moves too quickly. My passion for these mediums comes from their ability to make the invisible tangible, to turn emotion into something that can be held, read, shared, and carried forward. Through art, I have discovered not only who I am, but how I can touch the lives of those around me, gently, insistently, and with care.

I am a queer interdisciplinary artist raised by a single mother in a family shaped by military service, migration, and survival. My parents are veterans, and that legacy instilled in me an early awareness of discipline, sacrifice, and the quiet costs of service. At the same time, my mother’s side of the family are Asian immigrants whose lives were defined by adaptation, language barriers, and the constant pressure to prove their belonging. Growing up within these intersecting identities meant I learned very early that stability is not guaranteed, and that safety, voice, and visibility are often negotiated rather than freely given. As a queer person, I have faced environments where my identity was treated as something to debate rather than something to respect. This was especially difficult during my formative years, when restrictive cultural and political climates made self expression feel risky. There were moments when I felt split between worlds, navigating traditional family expectations, honoring my parents’ military values of resilience and endurance, and trying to claim space for my own gender and sexual identity. These tensions often produced isolation, but they also sharpened my ability to observe systems of power, silence, and survival. Economic challenges also shaped my path. Being raised by a single mother meant resources were often limited, and pursuing the arts sometimes felt impractical or misunderstood. I learned to work persistently, to build opportunities where none existed, and to advocate for myself in spaces that were not designed with people like me in mind. As an interdisciplinary artist, I have sometimes struggled against narrow expectations about what my work should look like, particularly when engaging with political themes, identity, and social justice. Writing became essential because it offered me a way to make sense of these layered experiences. It is both a method of documentation and a form of resistance. Through writing, I can record the realities that often go unspoken, including the complexities of queer survival, the emotional inheritance of military families, the weight of immigration histories, and the contradictions of belonging in America. Writing allows me to transform personal struggle into shared language, creating connections between my story and those of others who feel unseen. I am passionate about pursuing writing because I believe it has the power to preserve lived truths and challenge dominant narratives. For me, writing is not only creative expression but also a social act. It builds empathy, fosters dialogue, and makes space for voices that are too often marginalized. My goal is to continue developing work that reflects the complexity of identity, resilience, and community while contributing to a broader cultural record that honors the realities of people whose stories are frequently overlooked.

For much of my teenage years, I used substances as a way to manage the chaos in my mind. Living with Bipolar I and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, my thoughts and emotions often felt overwhelming, and I didn’t have the tools to cope. What started as experimentation quickly became a way to numb myself, to escape from fear, stress, and the weight of my circumstances. At the time, it felt like a solution, a way to take control, but in reality, it was slowly taking control of me. In 2020, everything came to a crisis point. I overdosed, and that moment changed everything. It was terrifying, humbling, and clarifying all at once. Surviving forced me to confront the reality of what I was doing and how quickly I could have lost my life. That night became the turning point where I realized that I could no longer rely on substances to cope. I began therapy, committed to medication management, and slowly built the structure I needed to stay sober. Recovery has been challenging, but it has also taught me resilience, accountability, and the importance of self-awareness. It showed me how to face life with honesty instead of avoidance. Since becoming sober, my life has changed in ways I never imagined. I have been able to focus on my education, pursue my creative passions, and develop a strong support system. My relationships have improved, and I have learned to advocate for myself and others. Sobriety has allowed me to reclaim my life and take ownership of my future. It has also deepened my empathy for others who struggle, not just with addiction, but with mental health and systemic barriers that make recovery even harder. Through my education, I hope to use what I’ve learned from my own experience to help others. I am pursuing a degree in writing and art, and I want to create work that sheds light on addiction and mental health in a way that is honest, humanizing, and empowering. I want to write, teach, and mentor, showing people that recovery is possible, and that it doesn’t erase who you are—it can help you grow into your fullest self. I want my education to give me the skills and platform to advocate for better resources, reduce stigma, and reach people who might feel trapped or unheard. Ultimately, my experience with addiction has shaped not only who I am, but also the work I want to do. It has given me perspective, compassion, and a drive to make a difference. I hope to use my voice and my education to guide others toward healing, to show that even in the darkest moments, there is a way forward, and that recovery can be a beginning, not just a response to an ending.

My family’s story begins with loss, but it’s also one of endurance and love. When my father left, he didn’t just walk away from our home; he left the country to start a new life with his new family, leaving behind legal and financial consequences that fell entirely on my mother. She had done nothing wrong, yet she was the one left to carry the weight. What followed was chaos. We lost our home, and the lawyers took anything of value to settle debts that weren’t hers, including my personal belongings. I remember the sense of panic that filled the house as we rushed to find somewhere else to live, trying to make sense of a future that had suddenly disappeared. During that time, my mother was juggling everything at once: the divorce, the lawyers, and the desperate search for stability. While she fought through that storm, I had to step into a role that felt far beyond my age. I took care of my little sister, making sure she ate, got to school, and felt safe when everything around us was falling apart. It completely changed our relationship. We went from being siblings to something closer to caretaker and child. I carried the fear and confusion quietly, determined to make things easier for her, even when I didn’t know how. Those years taught me what real strength looks like. It isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s waking up every day and doing what needs to be done, even when your world is cracked open. Watching my mom hold everything together shaped who I am. She worked tirelessly to make sure I could still chase my dreams, even after everything had been taken from us. She showed me what selflessness and resilience truly mean. That experience changed how I see my own future. I want to make something of myself not just for me, but for her. She gave up so much to keep me on track, and I want to reach a place in life where I can take care of her the way she took care of me. She’s getting older now, and my goal is to ensure she never has to worry again. I want her to see that everything she fought for wasn’t in vain, that I turned all that loss into something that lasts. Through my education, I plan to make a difference by creating work that reflects resilience and compassion, the two things that saved me. I’m currently pursuing my degree in art and writing, fields that allow me to transform personal experience into something that reaches others. I believe stories like mine, of survival, caretaking, and rebuilding, deserve to be told. My goal is to use my education to help others who have faced instability and loss see that their lives still have beauty and potential, no matter what they’ve been through. What my family endured taught me the importance of empathy and community. I know what it means to lose everything and still show up. That understanding guides everything I do. My education isn’t just about career goals; it’s about carrying forward what my mother taught me, that love and perseverance can rebuild even the most broken foundations. I want to create a life that honors her sacrifices and ensures that the cycle of struggle ends with me.

Growing up queer meant learning early on that being myself often came with a cost. I was raised in a conservative, religious environment in Florida where queerness was treated as something to be corrected. When I began expressing who I truly was and questioning the narrow values around me, I was asked to leave my high school. It wasn’t because of academics or behavior; it was because I didn’t fit the image they wanted to uphold. That moment could have ended my education, but instead it changed the direction of my life completely. Being kicked out of that school solidified my decision to move from Florida to Chicago, a place where I could finally breathe, learn, and exist without apology. It was the best decision I’ve ever made. That experience taught me more about resilience than any class could. I had to rebuild everything from the ground up: finding new teachers, new support systems, and the confidence to believe in my own potential again. As a queer and disabled person living with Bipolar I and OCD, I’ve faced moments when my identity and mental health made me feel like I was standing outside the world looking in. But every time I’ve been told I don’t belong, I’ve turned that rejection into motivation to keep going. Those experiences have shaped my determination to transform pain into purpose, both for myself and for others navigating the same struggles. My goal in higher education is to create space for stories like mine to exist unapologetically. I’m currently pursuing my undergraduate degree and plan to continue to a master’s in writing, followed by fellowships that will help me grow as both a writer and advocate. Writing has always been how I make sense of the world and reach others, especially those who feel unseen. Through my work, I want to challenge systems that marginalize LGBTQ+ people and instead amplify voices that speak to authenticity, resilience, and freedom. Advocacy, to me, isn’t just about protests or politics; it’s also about storytelling. It’s about changing minds through empathy and truth. I want to help young LGBTQ+ people who feel trapped by the same walls I once did to see that there is a life waiting beyond them, full of possibility. Receiving this scholarship would make that next chapter possible. It would relieve the financial burden that comes with balancing school, work, and the costs of living with a disability. Most importantly, it would allow me to finish my undergraduate education and move toward my master’s in writing, turning what I’ve overcome into a lifelong commitment to advocacy, art, and community.

Identity has never been an abstract idea for me. It’s something I’ve had to fight to hold onto. As a queer and disabled person living with Bipolar I and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, I’ve learned that being different in a world that expects sameness can be both isolating and eye-opening. Who I am has shaped the way I move through life and how I understand persistence, empathy, and the importance of creating space where others are pushed out. I grew up in a place that saw queerness as something to be fixed instead of accepted. The high school I attended was religious and conservative, built on values that didn’t leave much room for questioning or individuality. When I started to speak up about those beliefs and began to live more openly as myself, the school made it clear I didn’t belong there. Being asked to leave wasn’t about grades or behavior; it was about not fitting into their idea of what was right. That moment changed everything for me. I realized that education, which should encourage curiosity and growth, can also be used to exclude people who don’t conform. Leaving that school threw my plans into chaos. My education was interrupted, and college suddenly felt out of reach. But I found new ways forward. I transferred to a different school, met teachers who saw my potential, and learned to advocate for myself. It wasn’t easy, but it showed me how to adapt and see institutions with a critical eye, especially the ones that claim to be fair while quietly pushing out those who don’t fit their mold. Living with Bipolar I and OCD has also shaped how I move through the world. It means dealing with unpredictable highs and lows, and sometimes needing to rebuild balance from scratch. It’s made me more aware of how mental health affects every part of life. I’ve had to learn how to manage my time carefully, how to stay grounded, and how to be patient with myself. Those experiences have made me more understanding toward others who face invisible struggles. Looking ahead, I want to use what I’ve learned to make real change. I want to help build communities and spaces where people like me are supported instead of shut out. I plan to use my education, art, and advocacy to raise awareness and challenge the systems that leave people behind. My story started with exclusion, but I’m determined to turn it into one of inclusion—one that opens doors for others who’ve been told they don’t belong.

I am the founder of The Free Form Network, a nonprofit organization currently in development, dedicated to charitable, educational, and social justice work. Our mission is to advocate for equality and provide essential support to marginalized communities, including women, LGBTQ+ individuals, and youth. We aim to empower individuals through education, financial assistance, and access to vital resources such as reproductive healthcare and gender-affirming care. Our planned initiatives include distributing free contraception and period products, providing gender-affirming essentials, and creating safe spaces for community support. Through advocacy, outreach, and education, we hope to combat discrimination and foster a more just and inclusive society. Growing up in Florida, I saw firsthand how the actions of politicians and policymakers could restrict access to healthcare and disproportionately affect marginalized communities. Watching the ways systemic barriers limited options for women and queer individuals made a deep impression on me. These experiences taught me early on that no one should be able to dictate what another person does with their body, and that access to healthcare, education, and resources is a fundamental right. This understanding shaped my commitment to creating organizations and initiatives that protect autonomy, expand opportunity, and offer tangible support to those who are often excluded from essential systems of care. While The Free Form Network has not yet begun distributing services, the process of developing the organization has already been a transformative experience. I have spent significant time researching community needs, conceptualizing programs, and strategizing ways to make our work impactful and inclusive. In addition, I have engaged in related advocacy efforts, including organizing educational workshops and informal support spaces for peers on reproductive health and LGBTQ+ issues. These experiences taught me the importance of listening to community members, collaborating with others, and building structures that are responsive, sustainable, and equitable. They also reinforced the understanding that meaningful change requires both vision and persistence. Through these efforts, I have come to see that community service is not only about immediate action but also about laying the groundwork for long-term impact. I am motivated to ensure that when The Free Form Network officially launches, it will provide a space where individuals feel supported, empowered, and validated. I want our work to offer not only access to resources but also a sense of agency, safety, and belonging. My experiences growing up, particularly witnessing the consequences of systemic inequities in Florida, continue to guide my approach to service. They inspire me to dedicate my energy, creativity, and vision toward building programs that affirm human dignity, uphold bodily autonomy, and strengthen communities that too often face marginalization and erasure.

Mental health and suicide prevention are critically important topics for my age group today because many young people face pressures, expectations, and challenges that can feel overwhelming. Growing up, I struggled deeply with the idea of a future. When I was a teenager, I did not plan for one. I did not believe I would have one. Looking at statistics about careers, relationships, and quality of life for people with Bipolar 1 felt disheartening and limiting. I also had issues with substances and often felt hopeless, believing that a meaningful or fulfilling life was beyond my reach. Towards the end of high school, however, something shifted. I experienced a glimpse of light at the end of a tunnel I thought was endless. I realized I could leave Florida and start over somewhere new, and that possibility gave me hope. As a queer person, living in Florida was suffocating. The environment was restrictive, judgmental, and isolating, as it is for many minorities. Leaving and coming to college in Chicago has profoundly changed my life. I found a community where I could breathe, explore my identity, and envision a future that felt possible and worthwhile. Every deserves to believe in their life's value. My partner played a pivotal role in lifting me up when I could not lift myself. Their support, combined with the opportunities and community I found at college, helped me reclaim a sense of hope and purpose. Experiencing this transformation has shaped my beliefs about mental health, showing me that with support, resources, and opportunities for change, anyone can find a path forward. It has influenced my relationships by deepening my empathy and my ability to listen and care for others who are struggling. This personal journey has also shaped my career aspirations. I am motivated to create spaces and opportunities where people can access support, be seen, and know that their futures are not predetermined by their mental health struggles. Everyone deserves hope, guidance, and the possibility to thrive, and I want my work (whether in writing, art, advocacy, or all the above) to reflect and contribute to that vision. Mental health and suicide prevention matter because they preserve the potential for life, creativity, connection, and growth. My experiences have shown me the profound impact of care and support, and they drive me to contribute to a world where young people feel seen, understood, and encouraged to pursue a future full of possibility.

Arts education has been nothing short of transformative in my life. Growing up, it unquestionably offered me a sanctuary, a space where the intensity of my thoughts, the complexity of my identity, and the weight of my experiences could take form and find voice. Through poetry and interdisciplinary art, I found a way to process grief, trauma, and societal pressures, while simultaneously creating work that resonates with others. What began as a private refuge became a means of connection, demonstrating that the act of making art is also an act of bridge-building, linking disparate experiences and perspectives in ways that are immediate and visceral. The classroom, the studio, and the quiet moments of experimentation became spaces where I could explore difficult questions about myself, society, and the world at large, and where I could witness the power of creative expression to spark recognition and understanding in others. The mentors and teachers who inspired me most profoundly valued persistence and honesty over perfection. They encouraged me to take risks with my writing and to trust that my unique voice, exploring femininity, the demonization of my sexuality, resilience, and religious deprogramming, was worthy of attention and care. Their guidance reinforced the idea that art is not only a tool for self-understanding but a medium through which communities and conversations are formed. This insight solidified a profound truth for me: art is not a luxury, but an indispensable necessity. It is both a historical imperative and, for many, a fundamental means of survival. Seeing my mentors champion the importance of creative work, even when it confronted discomfort or resistance, gave me the courage to pursue my own artistic path with dedication and integrity. My journey as a writer has been deeply shaped by these early influences, leading to the publication of my micro chapbook soft-skinned with Bottlecap Press, and to work in journals such as Ark Review, WIA Magazine, Wildscape Literary Journal, Creation Magazine, and Arcana Poetry Press. Each step has demonstrated that poetry and art are not isolated practices. They are powerful avenues for reaching across boundaries, fostering profound empathy, and unflinchingly challenging the narratives imposed on marginalized bodies and identities. They offer a language for experiences that might otherwise remain unspoken, and they create opportunities for shared understanding that extend far beyond the page. In short, arts education has given me both the skills and the courage to articulate experiences that would otherwise remain unseen. It has taught me the value of rigorous craft paired with radical honesty, and it has shown me the power of mentorship, community, and dialogue in sustaining a creative practice. The encouragement I received growing up continues to inspire me to pursue my craft, to take risks, and to contribute to the broader literary and artistic landscape in meaningful and lasting ways. It is a foundation that continues to shape who I am as an artist, a writer, and a participant in a larger conversation about identity, expression, and human connection.