Among Taylor Swift’s many performances, the one I find most moving is her folklore era performance of “my tears ricochet” at The Long Pond Studio Sessions. It is not her most theatrical moment, nor her most vocally demanding, yet it lingers with a quiet gravity that feels inseparable from the story of her career in the spotlight. What makes this performance so affecting is its restraint. There are no elaborate costumes, no roaring crowd, no choreography designed to dazzle. Instead, Taylor sits in stillness, surrounded by collaborators rather than spectators, letting the song breathe on its own terms. In a career often defined by spectacle, this performance feels like a deliberate refusal of it. That choice speaks volumes. It suggests an artist confident enough to let silence, space, and vulnerability carry the weight. “My tears ricochet” is a song about ownership, loss, and the echo of betrayal, themes that mirror Taylor’s long and public struggle to reclaim control over her work and narrative. Watching her perform it live, knowing the context behind the lyrics, transforms the song into something more than metaphor. Each line feels measured, as if she is both revisiting pain and demonstrating that it no longer controls her. The performance becomes an act of quiet reclamation rather than confrontation. What moves me most is her composure. She does not dramatize the hurt or lean into spectacle to amplify emotion. Instead, she trusts the audience to meet her where she is. Her voice is steady, almost conversational, yet weighted with intention. That balance between emotional exposure and professional control reflects a deeper truth about life in the spotlight. Survival often requires learning how to feel deeply without falling apart publicly. As someone who values leadership, communication, and authenticity, this performance resonates with me on a personal level. It models a kind of strength that is rarely celebrated: the ability to remain grounded while being observed, to tell your story without oversharing, and to assert your truth without demanding validation. Taylor does not ask the audience to take sides. She simply presents the experience and allows it to stand. In the context of The Life of A Showgirl, a project that reflects on endurance, reinvention, and visibility, this performance feels especially significant. It captures the paradox of a career spent under constant observation: the need to be seen, and the simultaneous desire to protect what is private. Taylor Swift has mastered the art of navigating that tension, and “my tears ricochet” at Long Pond is one of the clearest expressions of that mastery. Ultimately, the performance moves me because it reframes what power looks like. It is not loud. It does not demand applause. It exists in control, clarity, and quiet confidence. In a career defined by constant reinvention, this moment reminds me that sometimes the most profound performances are not about becoming something new, but about standing firmly in what you have survived and choosing to speak anyway.

The pursuit of higher education, for me, has been less a straight road than a series of thresholds, each demanding proof not only of ability, but of endurance. The most persistent obstacle has been financial uncertainty. College was never assumed or guaranteed. It was something I had to justify, plan for, and defend against practical realities that often whispered restraint rather than ambition. Application fees, testing costs, and the looming price of tuition transformed what should have been a hopeful process into one marked by calculation and restraint. I learned early that desire alone does not fund an education, and that resilience must often substitute for resources. Layered onto these challenges is my experience as a minority navigating systems not built with people like me in mind. In academic and professional spaces, particularly within agriculture and leadership, I have often been one of the few, or the only one, who looks like me. That reality carries an unspoken pressure: to represent well, to work twice as hard, and to prove that my presence is earned rather than granted. At conferences, classrooms, and leadership events, I have felt the quiet distance of exclusion, the sense of being visible yet unseen. These moments were isolating, but they also sharpened my awareness of inequity and strengthened my resolve to persist. There were moments when financial strain and underrepresentation converged, when exhaustion and doubt made retreat seem reasonable. Yet each obstacle clarified my purpose. I sought mentors intentionally, leaned into programs like FFA, 4-H, and community leadership initiatives, and committed myself to service not as an extracurricular activity, but as a guiding principle. Where access was limited, I learned to build pathways. Where support was scarce, I learned to ask for help, and eventually, to offer it to others. These experiences taught me that higher education is not simply a personal milestone, but a communal responsibility. I plan to use my education to give back by expanding access to agricultural education and leadership opportunities for students from underrepresented communities. Through teaching, advocacy, and program development, I aim to create learning environments where diversity is not an afterthought, but a foundation. My goal is to help ensure that future students do not have to choose between ambition and belonging. By strengthening educational pipelines, fostering inclusive practices, and partnering with community organizations, I hope to make agriculture and education spaces of welcome rather than gatekeeping. What I gain through my studies, I will return with intention, working to widen the path for those who follow and to ensure they do not have to walk it alone.

For much of my life, I learned how to belong quietly. As an LGBTQ+ individual, I became skilled at reading rooms before entering them and measuring safety through tone, language, and who was allowed to be visible. In many spaces, especially those tied to tradition and identity, authenticity felt conditional. I showed up, participated, and led, but often with pieces of myself carefully folded away. One experience remains especially clear. I attended an agricultural leadership event where community and connection were emphasized, yet I felt profoundly alone. Conversations assumed shared identities that did not include mine. Casual remarks, not intentionally cruel but carelessly narrow, reminded me that inclusion is not the same as presence. I remember standing in a crowded room, surrounded by people, feeling unseen. I questioned whether agriculture, an industry I deeply cared about, had space for someone like me to lead openly and honestly. That moment could have pushed me away. Instead, it clarified my purpose. The challenges I have faced as an LGBTQ+ individual are not always loud or dramatic. They are often subtle and exhausting. They appear in moments of silence, in deciding when to correct assumptions, and in balancing authenticity with self protection. I learned that resilience is not about hardening oneself, but about choosing visibility with intention. I began to lead more openly, not because it was easy, but because representation matters, especially in spaces where it has been limited. Higher education represents more than academic advancement for me. It is preparation for systemic change. I aspire to pursue studies that intersect education, leadership, and agriculture, with the goal of expanding access and belonging within institutions that shape our food systems and communities. Agriculture is not only about production. It is about people. Yet too often, LGBTQ+ individuals, especially those from underrepresented backgrounds, feel excluded from agricultural education, leadership pipelines, and professional networks. My commitment is to change that reality. Through my personal and professional experiences, I have already begun advocating for more inclusive environments. I prioritize language that affirms identity, leadership practices that center belonging, and programs that recognize diversity as a strength rather than a deviation from tradition. In the agricultural industry, I intend to work toward inclusive leadership development, equitable youth programming, and organizational cultures where LGBTQ+ individuals do not have to choose between passion and authenticity. I envision creating and supporting initiatives that train educators and leaders to foster inclusive spaces, advocate for policy changes that protect+ individuals in educational and professional settings, and mentor young people who may feel isolated in industries where representation remains limited. My goal is not simply visibility, but structural inclusion, where diversity is reflected in leadership, decision making, and opportunity. Receiving this scholarship would directly alleviate the financial burdens that accompany pursuing higher education. Like many students from marginalized communities, financial constraints add an additional layer of stress to an already demanding journey. This would allow me to focus more fully on my studies, leadership development, and advocacy work rather than navigating constant financial uncertainty. It would grant me the time and stability needed to invest deeply in the academic and community efforts that align with my long term goals. Most importantly, this scholarship would affirm that my story, and the stories of LGBTQ+ individuals like me, belong in every industry, including agriculture. I carry forward the lessons of that moment when I felt alone at an event, that inclusion does not happen by accident and leadership requires intention. Through education, advocacy, and service, I am committed to building spaces where no one has to shrink themselves to belong.

There was a time when I was outwardly involved but inwardly uncertain. I occupied classrooms, leadership meetings, and community spaces where opportunity was present, yet belonging felt conditional. As an underrepresented student navigating institutions not designed with my lived experience in mind, I learned how easily doubt can disguise itself as humility. I questioned whether my voice mattered or whether I was simply present, hoping not to disrupt spaces that were never fully built for me. It was during this season of quiet uncertainty that I relied most deeply on my faith, not as a retreat from challenge, but as a steady anchor within it. Faith became the lens through which I learned to endure, to act, and to serve even when clarity was incomplete. Through learning about Nabi Nicole’s life and legacy, I recognized a familiar truth: faith is most powerful when it is lived, not spoken. Nabi’s commitment to service, through counseling others, mentoring youth, and sharing her faith reflects a belief that purpose is fulfilled through people. Her life reminds me that leadership is not measured by visibility, but by consistency and care. One defining moment in my own journey came when I was preparing to step into a leadership role that placed me in front of peers and adults I believed were far more qualified than I was. I considered stepping aside, telling myself that waiting would be wiser. In prayer and reflection, however, I was reminded that faith does not wait for comfort. It calls for obedience before certainty. I accepted the role not because I felt ready, but because I trusted that growth follows faithfulness. That decision did not eliminate fear, but it prevented fear from becoming the decision-maker. I learned that leadership rooted in faith does not require perfection, it requires presence. Much like Nabi’s approach to guiding others, I learned to lead by listening, encouraging, and showing up consistently. Over time, confidence grew not from praise, but from service. Faith has also sustained me through financial strain and academic pressure. When resources felt limited and expectations felt heavy, faith reframed my perspective. Rather than measuring success by outcomes alone, I learned to measure it by integrity and effort. This mindset echoes the way Nabi used her professional excellence as a customer service representative not for recognition, but as another avenue for service. Her example affirms that faith can be practiced in every space, not only from a pulpit. Most importantly, faith has shaped how I engage with my community. It has taught me to create spaces where others feel seen, supported, and encouraged, especially young people who may feel unsure of their place. Like Nabi Nicole, I believe faith is most meaningful when it is shared through mentorship, compassion, and unwavering presence. Nabi’s life stands as a reminder that faith is not passive optimism, but disciplined resilience. It is choosing to serve even when the path is unclear, to uplift others while still growing yourself, and to trust purpose beyond circumstance. This scholarship honors that legacy, and I am committed to carrying it forward by leading with humility, conviction, and faith in action.

My name is Kaden Ambers, and I am a student leader shaped by responsibility, service, and an unwavering belief in the power of education to transform both individuals and communities. I have grown up learning that leadership is not loud or effortless—it is often quiet, demanding, and rooted in care for others. That understanding has guided my academic goals and solidified my commitment to pursuing higher education. A defining moment in my life came when I realized that many young people, especially those from marginalized communities, are rarely shown what is possible for them beyond survival. As a Black student in agricultural education spaces, I often found myself navigating environments where people like me were underrepresented or underestimated. Rather than retreat, I leaned in. I joined organizations such as FFA and 4-H, not simply to participate, but to serve—mentoring younger students, organizing community outreach, and advocating for inclusive agricultural education. Through these experiences, I learned that leadership means showing up even when you feel unsure, and continuing even when recognition is absent. One afternoon during a chapter visit, I stayed late to help a younger student prepare for a presentation. He admitted he did not think he belonged in the room. I saw myself in his uncertainty. We talked, practiced, and reframed his doubts into confidence. When he presented the following week, he succeeded—not because I gave him answers, but because someone believed he was capable. That moment affirmed my purpose: education changes lives when paired with compassion and access. I am committed to pursuing higher education because I view college not as an endpoint, but as a responsibility. I plan to study agricultural education, leadership, or communications so I can work at the intersection of education, advocacy, and community development. I want to help design programs that make agriculture and leadership education accessible to students who may never see themselves reflected in these fields. Knowledge should not be gated by background, and opportunity should not be reserved for the few. After earning my degree, I hope to return to the communities that raised me—working as an educator, program coordinator, or extension professional who empowers youth through experiential learning. I want to build pathways that affirm students’ identities while preparing them to lead with integrity. Like Nellie Delores Blount Boyce, whose life was dedicated to education, faith, and service, I aspire to live a life that uplifts others and creates lasting impact. Higher education represents preparation, discipline, and possibility. I pursue it not solely for personal advancement, but because I believe my education carries a purpose beyond myself. I want my work to echo in classrooms, community spaces, and futures not yet imagined—proof that when students are supported and believed in, they rise.

Growing up on the South Side of Chicago, agriculture wasn’t something I initially saw around me. There were more buses than barns, more corner stores than greenhouses. But that didn’t stop me from falling in love with agriculture and, more importantly, from realizing how powerful it can be when introduced to people who’ve never been exposed to it. My passion for agriculture began when I joined my local FFA chapter and started participating in urban gardening and livestock care programs. From the very first time I held a baby chick or pulled a carrot from the ground I planted, I knew agriculture was going to be more than a hobby; it was a calling. What started as curiosity turned into a responsibility. I began volunteering with school garden programs and hosting barn and greenhouse tours for students who had never even seen where food comes from. That experience helped me realize how disconnected many people are from agriculture and how much work there is to be done. Caring for plants and animals isn’t just about watering or feeding; it’s about being present, understanding cycles of growth, and building a relationship with the world around us. Whether I was practicing safety or showing elementary students how to plant tomatoes, I found myself becoming an advocate not just for agriculture, but for agricultural education. One of my most meaningful experiences was through my Supervised Agricultural Experience (SAE) project, where I served as a research intern focused on agriculture and leadership development. I led a project in partnership with the University of Georgia that explored how experiential learning impacts agricultural literacy in youth. Alongside my research, I mentored first-year students, led community garden activities, and worked with small-scale poultry and greenhouse programs. Every day, I find purpose in showing others, especially young people of color, that agriculture has a place for them. Animals, especially, have taught me some of the most valuable lessons about leadership and empathy. Whether caring for chickens or helping manage livestock education projects, I’ve learned that animals require patience, attention, and trust. I see these same qualities as necessary in humans, especially as we build stronger communities. Animals don't ask for much, just care, consistency, and respect. I’ve tried to bring those same values into every leadership position I’ve taken on, including serving as Illinois FFA Section 8 President. In that role, I visit chapters, guide officers, and inspire others to get involved in agricultural careers and advocacy. Agriculture has taught me to slow down and notice the little things to nurture, to educate, and to lead with care. It has shaped who I am, how I think, and what I want to dedicate my life to. I plan to major in agricultural education so I can teach future generations not just how to grow food or raise animals, but how to become responsible stewards of the land and leaders in their communities. Ultimately, I want to be someone who gives back, who builds bridges between urban and rural communities, and who inspires young people, especially those who didn’t grow up around fields or farms, to see themselves in agriculture. Because agriculture is for everyone, and with compassion and care, it can grow more than crops. It can grow leaders.

Growing up on the South Side of Chicago, I learned early that service is not always flashy — it’s often quiet, consistent, and rooted in community. Whether I was organizing youth gardening days, mentoring younger students, or leading workshops on food equity and wellness, my purpose has always been to leave a place better than I found it. My service work hasn’t just shaped my path; it’s become the foundation for my dream of becoming a teacher, not just to deliver curriculum, but to build confidence, spark curiosity, and model compassion. One of the most meaningful experiences I’ve had is serving as a mentor and facilitator for our school’s Day of Action. I hosted a workshop on food nutrition for freshmen, where we created grow kits to help students learn about healthy eating and sustainable practices. Watching students become excited about something as simple as planting lettuce reminded me that learning is most powerful when it feels personal and hands-on. As someone who didn’t always see themselves represented in agriculture or education, I know what it means to feel like an outsider. That’s why I’m committed to being the kind of educator who creates a welcoming, inclusive space where all students feel seen and valued. My role as Section 8 President in Illinois FFA has also deepened my leadership and teaching skills. In this position, I’ve led regional meetings, mentored younger members, and helped plan large-scale events that bring chapters across the district together. These moments have taught me how to communicate across different personalities, adapt when things don’t go as planned, and teach through example. I’ve also interned with the University of Georgia’s Department of Agricultural Leadership, Education, and Communication, where I worked on curriculum development and community-based education projects. That experience helped me understand the importance of research-based strategies in education and how to make learning both effective and engaging. Throughout high school, I’ve served as a 4-H Food Advocacy Youth Leader, helping plan events that fight food insecurity and educate youth on health and nutrition. I was also selected to represent Illinois at national leadership conferences, where I facilitated conversations around agriculture, leadership, and diversity. My supervised agricultural experience (SAE) has focused on community leadership and agricultural education, blending my passions into projects that serve others. I’ve created lesson plans, led school tours, and presented to younger students on career development events and the importance of agricultural literacy. Beyond academics, I hope my future students gain a sense of purpose, belonging, and resilience. I want them to walk into my classroom and feel like their voice matters. I want to be the kind of teacher who listens and helps students see potential they didn’t know they had. Education changed my life, not just because of what I learned, but because of the mentors who believed in me before I fully believed in myself. One teacher in particular, my junior Finance teacher, made a lasting impact. He saw something in me: a writer, a thinker, a leader, and encouraged me to speak up and trust my words. That small push changed the way I saw myself. If I can offer that same push to a student that one moment of belief, then I’ll have done my job well. Teaching is more than a career for me; it’s a calling. I hope to bring empathy, energy, and creativity into my future classroom. Because when students feel connected, they don’t just succeed academically, they grow into strong, thoughtful citizens ready to lead and uplift others. That’s the kind of impact I hope to leave behind.

I’ve always believed that leadership starts with serving the people around you, not from a title or a position, but by showing up for your community. Growing up on the South Side of Chicago, I’ve seen firsthand the power of mentorship, community involvement, and education. My neighborhood is full of diverse voices, hardworking families, and young people with endless potential. But like many urban communities, we also face challenges like limited access to resources, food insecurity, and underrepresentation in leadership spaces. That’s why I’ve committed myself to being active in programs that uplift and protect young people. Throughout high school, I’ve held leadership roles centered on advocacy, education, and creating safe spaces for youth. As Section President for my FFA Section, I connected students from across the Chicagoland area, helping them build confidence and leadership skills through agricultural education. I’ve also mentored students at Leadership Training School, encouraging them to find their voice and work as a team. My involvement with 4-H’s Regional Youth Leadership Advisory Team (RYLAT) gave me the chance to advocate for food security and lead projects that promoted agricultural literacy. Whether it was helping launch a school nutrition initiative or facilitating workshops, I saw how empowering young people helped them make positive change. One experience that changed me happened during a food literacy workshop I led for younger students at my school. I noticed a quiet student, Laquinn, who seemed hesitant to participate. Instead of letting him fade into the background, I paired him with me for a hands-on grow kit activity. As we planted seeds together, I asked him questions about his favorite foods and his dreams for the future. By the end of the session, Laquinn was leading his group, smiling and sharing what he learned. That moment reminded me why I’m passionate about mentorship and education. Sometimes, all it takes is a little encouragement to help someone grow into themselves. While I’m proud of the leadership roles I’ve earned, I’m also realistic about my financial needs. As I plan for college, I know scholarships will make a huge difference for me and my family. My goal is to attend a four-year land-grant university and study Agricultural Education, a path that will allow me to continue serving my community. While I’ve worked hard through leadership and academics, the cost of tuition and living expenses makes financial assistance critical. A scholarship would help me achieve my goal of returning to urban communities as an educator and advocate. Beyond leadership, I believe in protecting young people, especially from bullying and cyberbullying. Whether I’m leading a workshop or mentoring a younger member, I create spaces where students feel safe and respected. I set clear expectations for behavior and foster inclusivity. Online, I speak up for positive communication and remind others of the lasting impact of their words. As part of Bring Change 2 Mind’s Teen Advisory Board, I’ve worked to spread mental health awareness and reduce stigma, making sure youth know they have support. Everything I do is grounded in the belief that every student deserves a space to learn, lead, and be heard. Whether I’m hosting a workshop, helping a peer, or standing up against negativity, I strive to make my community stronger. As I move forward into higher education, I want to carry this mission with me — to serve, protect, and empower the next generation of leaders.

When I first stepped into my high school agriculture class, I thought I was just there to learn about farming tools and soil. I assumed agriculture meant tractors, fields, and livestock — things I thought didn’t apply to a city kid like me. But what I discovered instead was a passion for teaching, leadership, and service, a calling I didn’t expect. As I became more involved in FFA, 4-H, and agricultural education, I realized the most rewarding moments weren’t about winning awards or holding titles. They were about seeing another student light up when they learned something new or gained confidence in themselves. My sophomore year, I was elected Sophomore Class President in FFA. It was my first leadership role, and I remember feeling both excited and unsure. One of my responsibilities was to help mentor younger members, lead activities, and represent our chapter at events. I wasn’t sure I had what it took to lead or teach others, but with every workshop I facilitated and every conversation I had with a new member, I grew more confident. I learned that teaching isn’t just about passing on information — it’s about planting seeds of confidence and encouraging growth. One particular experience stands out. During an agriculture literacy day at my school, I worked alongside a group of sophomores to teach elementary students about agriculture. I watched how a simple lesson on food nutrition sparked curiosity in those young learners. That moment taught me that when students are engaged with hands-on learning and real conversations, it opens doors to bigger possibilities. That day solidified my desire to teach — to give students not just knowledge, but belief in themselves. My FFA advisor played a huge role in shaping my path. They didn’t just teach — they invested in me. When I struggled with public speaking or doubted my leadership abilities, they encouraged me to keep going. They reminded me that great teachers don’t just impart facts; they uplift, empower, and inspire. My advisor saw something in me I hadn’t yet seen in myself. Because of their belief in me, I learned to believe in others. That’s the kind of educator I want to be — one who challenges students, walks beside them, and never gives up on their potential. Beyond my school, I took my passion for agricultural education even further through experiences like interning with the University of Georgia’s Department of Agricultural Leadership, Education, and Communication. I worked on research promoting community engagement and agricultural literacy, allowing me to see firsthand the impact educators have on shaping both students and communities. Through my internship, I gained skills in leadership development, communication, and youth mentorship — all of which I plan to bring to my future classroom. Teaching isn’t just a career for me; it’s a lifelong mission. I want to empower students, especially those from underserved and underrepresented communities, to see education and agriculture as a gateway to opportunity. I want to create classrooms where students feel safe, valued, and inspired to lead. My goal is to foster environments where students discover not just academic skills, but confidence, leadership, and the power to change their communities. Every student deserves a teacher who believes in their future. I hope to be that teacher. Through education, I want to plant seeds of hope, cultivate confidence, and watch young leaders grow. My journey so far has shown me that teaching is more than a profession — it’s a purpose. That’s why I’m committed to becoming an agricultural educator who leads with heart, service, and impact.