My grandmother has always been the center of my family. My parents were teenagers, so she was the one who raised us, kept us safe, fed us, and carried our family through everything. She has always been the person I go to for comfort, advice, and strength. Even with sickle cell, I had never really seen her as fragile. She was the matriarch, the unstoppable force in our family, and in many ways, the person who made home feel like home. Last May, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. For the first time in my life, I had to seriously confront the possibility of losing her. Her tumor was growing and spreading at an alarming rate, and she needed surgery that summer. Suddenly, everything in our family changed. The woman who had always taken care of everyone else was the one who needed care, and all of us began living with a kind of fear we had never known before. It felt like the world had come to a halt. We were grieving someone who was still here because the possibility of losing her was so real. Her diagnosis affected us emotionally, spiritually, and financially. We put nearly everything we had into her surgery, treatment, and medication, including money that would have gone toward my education. Watching that happen made the financial burden of cancer painfully real to me. Cancer not only attacks a person’s body. It reaches into an entire family’s sense of safety, stability, and future. There is the fear of losing someone you love, but there is also the reality that life does not pause while medical bills pile up. After her surgery, I was there every night helping take care of her, feeding her, bathing her, and doing for her what she had always done for me. That role changed me. It made me realize how much love can exist alongside fear, and how caregiving can become one of the deepest expressions of gratitude. At the same time, this experience tested my faith. My grandmother never cried, never let her faith falter, and never seemed afraid of death. She trusted completely that God had a plan for her life. I struggled with that in a way I had never struggled before. I could not understand how the possibility of losing her could be part of any plan. But watching her move through that season with so much strength taught me something I will carry forever: faith does not always mean understanding everything. Sometimes it means choosing hope in the middle of uncertainty. As of last month, my grandmother is in remission, and I am beyond grateful. But this experience changed my family permanently. It taught me how fragile life can be, how quickly everything can change, and how much strength people are capable of when they love someone deeply. It also taught me that resilience is not abstract. It is what people build in real time when they have no choice but to keep going. Because so much of our money went toward her treatment, I am now struggling to afford my education. This scholarship would help ease that burden and allow me to continue pursuing my future while carrying forward the lessons my grandmother taught me about faith, sacrifice, and endurance.

I grew up in a Dominican household where mental health was often felt long before it was ever spoken about. In my community, emotional struggles were frequently minimized, misunderstood, or treated as something people simply had to push through. I saw how easy it was for signs of stress, anxiety, or emotional exhaustion to be ignored because those conversations felt uncomfortable or unfamiliar. Growing up around that silence made me more aware of how deeply stigma shapes who gets help and who is expected to suffer quietly. As I got older and learned more about mental health, I began to notice just how common those struggles really are. That realization was disheartening because it also made clear how many people go untreated, not because they do not need support, but because of ignorance, stigma, or a lack of resources. My mother used to say she did not have time for therapy because she had too much to do. That stayed with me. It showed me that prioritizing your mental health is often treated like a luxury when, for many families, it is shaped by time, money, and survival. That experience influenced my beliefs deeply. It made me see that mental health care is not just about personal choice. It is also about access, privilege, and whether people have the space to invest in themselves at all. When I moved to the United States, those realities became even more visible to me. As the only English speaker around, I attended doctors’ appointments, translated documents, handled phone calls, and advocated for family members in spaces that often felt confusing and intimidating. That role taught me that care is not only about whether services exist. It is also about whether people can access them, understand them, and trust them. I began to see how immigrant families and other marginalized communities are often failed by systems that do not take language, culture, and lived experience seriously enough. Those experiences shaped the way I understand activism. For me, activism is not only protest or policy. It is also the everyday work of making people feel supported, informed, and less alone. I have carried that belief into my service through food drives, clothing drives, beach cleanups, and volunteer work with older adults. As a member of the executive board of GlamourGals, I visit nursing homes, paint residents’ nails, talk with them, and help create moments of connection to reduce senior isolation. Those experiences have strengthened my understanding that mental health is tied to dignity, belonging, and human connection. These experiences are what led me to social work. My goal is to become a clinical social worker and provide compassionate, culturally responsive, and accessible mental health services to marginalized communities. I want to work with individuals and families who have been taught to view mental health as weakness, shame, or something they cannot afford to prioritize. I especially want to support BIPOC and immigrant communities facing barriers related to stigma, language, and limited access to care. I want to help create spaces where people feel understood without having to explain away who they are, and where mental health support feels like a right rather than a privilege.

My understanding of community began with my grandmother. When she was a young single mother of three in the Dominican Republic, she was facing poverty, possible homelessness, and the exhausting reality of trying to keep her children fed while working herself to the bone. In one of the hardest seasons of her life, the church stepped in. They gave her food, school supplies for her children, financial support, and even helped care for her kids so she could work and get back on her feet. That kind of compassion changed her life. It also shaped the way I was raised. My grandmother never forgot what it meant to be supported when she needed it most. Today, she is the one constantly giving back through her church and community, always ready to help however she can. I grew up under that same doctrine of showing up for people, helping your neighbor, and treating others with dignity. Because of her, I learned that service is not about recognition or convenience. It is about responsibility. It is about understanding that people cannot always carry everything alone, and that the smallest acts of care can have a lasting impact. When I moved to the United States, I struggled at first to find a sense of belonging. Over time, I found community through service. As the only English speaker around, I attended doctors’ appointments with family members, translated documents, handled phone calls, and advocated for them in spaces that felt confusing or intimidating. That experience taught me that serving your community is not always loud or visible. Sometimes it is sitting beside someone so they do not feel alone. Sometimes it helps them understand paperwork, ask questions, or feel like their voice matters. Those moments showed me how much dignity can come from simply helping someone feel supported. As I got older, service became a bigger part of my life. I volunteered at beach cleanups, food drives, clothing drives, and projects that supported elderly people in nursing homes. I now serve on the executive board of GlamourGals, where we visit senior homes, paint residents’ nails, talk with them, and build genuine relationships to reduce senior isolation. In high school, I also worked with a teacher to help design a community garden in a low-income neighborhood in my city, complete with ADA-compliant benches and a passive park where residents could gather. Across all of these experiences, the common thread has been the same: I care deeply about making people feel seen, respected, and connected to others. Serving my community is important to me because I have seen what happens when people step in for one another. My grandmother’s life was changed by a community that refused to let her struggle alone, and I have carried that lesson with me ever since. Service is how I put my values into action. It is how I honor where I come from, how I give back to the people around me, and how I continue becoming the kind of woman and future social worker I hope to be.

Growing up in a Dominican household, I learned early that children’s emotional needs are not always taken as seriously as they should be. Too often, if a child is bright, sensitive, intense, or deeply curious, those traits are brushed off instead of understood. That has always stood out to me, especially because I have two little sisters, ages eight and four, who mean the world to me. They are both incredibly smart, not just academically, but emotionally. They notice everything. They ask thoughtful questions. They feel things deeply. Watching them grow has made me even more aware of how important it is for children, especially gifted children, to be truly seen and supported for who they are. In many Caribbean households, children are expected to adjust quickly, toughen up, and keep moving. Emotional sensitivity is not always prioritized, and intellectual giftedness can be misunderstood as attitude, overthinking, or being “too much.” I have seen how easy it is for adults to dismiss what a child is trying to communicate simply because it does not fit their expectations. That is part of why I want to pursue social work. I want to become the kind of professional who helps children feel understood instead of minimized, and who helps families recognize that a child’s emotional world is not separate from their development. It is central to it. My career goal is to become a social worker who supports children in ways that are both compassionate and concrete. When I think about gifted children, I do not just think about high grades or academic performance. I think about children whose minds move quickly, whose emotions can be intense, and whose needs are often overlooked because people assume that being smart means they are automatically fine. In reality, gifted children can struggle socially, feel isolated from their peers, become frustrated when they are not challenged, or internalize pressure to always perform. Their abilities do not cancel out their need for care. If anything, their sensitivity and awareness can make that need even greater. As a future social worker, I want to help create environments where gifted children are supported both emotionally and intellectually. Socially and emotionally, that means helping them build confidence, self-understanding, and healthy ways to express what they are feeling. It means making sure they have adults around them who listen carefully instead of reducing them to labels. It also means helping families better understand how giftedness can show up, especially in communities where emotional needs may be minimized or misunderstood. I want to be someone who can bridge that gap with patience, cultural awareness, and respect. At the same time, I want to advocate for their intellectual needs. Gifted children deserve to be challenged, engaged, and taken seriously. When those needs are ignored, children can become bored, disconnected, or misunderstood as unmotivated. In social work, I hope to collaborate with families, schools, and other professionals so that children are not only emotionally supported but also placed in environments that nurture their curiosity and growth. I want to advocate for children whose abilities may be obvious to everyone but whose deeper needs are not. What draws me to this work most is the belief that children deserve dignity, understanding, and room to become themselves fully. My sisters remind me of that all the time. They have made me more intentional about the kind of adult I want to be and the kind of social worker I hope to become. I want gifted children to feel safe being thoughtful, emotional, complex, and bright without being made to feel difficult for it. That, to me, is how real support begins.

At home, I am essentially one of the heads of my household, and I have been in that role since the third grade. I help care for my grandmother who has dementia, support my younger siblings, and handle the behind-the-scenes work that keeps our home stable. I cook, clean, manage important documents, keep up with appointments, and do whatever else needs to be done so my family can function. This responsibility taught me that caregiving is not just love. It is patience, consistency, and staying calm under pressure. It also taught me how quickly families can become overwhelmed when support systems are limited, and how much it matters when someone steps in and does not look away. Outside my home, I give back through volunteering and service projects that support people’s well-being and dignity. I volunteer with older adults through GlamourGals, spending time with residents in senior homes through conversation and activities. That experience has shown me how serious loneliness can be, and how much it matters when someone is treated with respect and attention instead of being ignored. I have also volunteered in food drives, where I have seen how quickly families can fall into crisis and how important it is to offer help in a way that feels human and not shameful. In addition, I have participated in beach cleanups and the restoration of low-income city parks, because community care includes the spaces people live in. Clean, safe public spaces affect health, safety, and pride, and low-income neighborhoods deserve that investment too. In the future, I plan to help the world further by turning service into my career through social work. I am pursuing clinical social work because I want to support individuals and families who are navigating stress, trauma, and systems that are difficult to access. I am especially interested in geriatric-focused work, because older adults are often overlooked even though they carry complex needs, grief, and isolation. I want to support seniors and caregivers through life transitions, chronic illness, and loss, while also helping families access resources like healthcare support, benefits, and community programs. My goal is to provide culturally responsive, practical support that helps people feel steady, informed, and respected. I also want to help on a larger level by being part of outreach and prevention. That means partnering with community organizations and senior centers to reduce isolation, reduce stigma around mental health, and connect people to support earlier, before situations become emergencies. It also means advocating for systems that communicate clearly and treat people with dignity, especially families who face language barriers or are carrying responsibilities alone. Priscilla Shireen Luke’s legacy reflects a kind of service that is consistent and selfless. That is the kind of impact I hope to make, not only through volunteering now, but through a lifelong commitment to care, advocacy, and building stronger communities.

I will build a more empathetic and understanding global community by doing what I have already learned to do in high-stress, real-life moments: translate, advocate, and humanize people who are being overlooked. One of my strongest skills is communication across language and culture. Spanish is my mother’s first language, and I have seen how quickly someone can become vulnerable when they cannot understand what is happening around them. During a medical emergency, I was called in as a teenager to translate for my mom when the hospital struggled to provide an effective translator. That experience changed the way I understand empathy. It is not only being kind. It is making sure people have access to information, dignity, and the ability to participate in decisions about their own lives. In a global community where migration, displacement, and language barriers are common, clear communication is a form of protection. I plan to use my bilingual skills to help families feel heard, understood, and safe, especially in healthcare and social service settings where misunderstandings can have serious consequences. Another talent I bring is the ability to listen without judgment and still respond with action. In many Hispanic families, mental health is not always taken seriously, and asking for help can be seen as weakness. I have watched pride turn into silence, and silence turn into years of avoidable suffering. Because of that, I am committed to normalizing help-seeking and creating spaces where people are not shamed for needing support. Empathy requires cultural humility. It means understanding why stigma exists and meeting people where they are while still offering a path forward. As I pursue clinical social work, I want to provide care that respects cultural identity while also challenging harmful narratives that keep people isolated. I also have skills in community-building through service and leadership. I have volunteered in food drives, beach cleanups, and the restoration of low-income city parks. I have seen how poverty, neglected neighborhoods, and unstable access to basic resources affect mental health and hope. I have also volunteered with older adults and learned how loneliness can shrink someone’s world. These experiences taught me that empathy is not only a feeling. It is a practice that shows up as consistency. It is showing up again and again, even when it is easier to look away. Finally, I have learned how to use storytelling responsibly. Through my leadership work, I have seen how communication can either build understanding or reduce people to stereotypes. A more empathetic global community requires language that tells the truth about people’s lives without exploiting them. I want to use my voice to help others see marginalized communities as complex, resilient, and worthy of care. That includes immigrants, first-generation students, seniors, and families navigating systems that were not built with them in mind. My unique talents are not extraordinary on their own. They are powerful because I plan to use them with purpose. I will translate when language is a barrier. I will advocate when systems are confusing or unfair. I will listen when people feel invisible. And I will build connections that turn “those people” into neighbors, community members, and human beings we feel responsible to. That is how empathy becomes real, and that is how global understanding grows.

My definition of the American dream is not a perfect life. It is the ability to build a stable one. It is waking up without the constant fear that one emergency will erase everything you have worked for. It is having a fair chance to learn, to work, and to serve your community without your opportunities being decided before you even begin. For families like mine, the American dream is not something you inherit. It is something you fight for, piece by piece, through sacrifice, discipline, and hope. I am a permanent resident, and I moved to the United States because my mom made a decision that still shapes everything I do. She signed off her parental rights to give me a better life. That is not the kind of sacrifice people see from the outside. It is not a glamorous story. It is a painful one, and it is also an act of love. When I think about the American dream, I think about her choosing my future over her comfort, and I think about what it means to honor that choice with the way I live. For me, the dream is education that leads somewhere real. As a first-generation college student, my degree is not just a personal achievement. It is a turning point for my family. It represents security, mobility, and the ability to give back with real tools, not just good intentions. I have learned that ambition matters, but so do resources. The rules are complicated, the costs are high, and the pressure can feel nonstop when your family does not have a blueprint for college. The American dream, to me, is not pretending those barriers do not exist. It is refusing to let them be the final answer. I am pursuing social work because I want my career to be a form of public service. I want to support people who are navigating crisis, language barriers, and systems that feel intimidating or cold. I know what it feels like when someone needs help but cannot fully access it, especially when communication breaks down or support is treated like a privilege. That is why I want to become the person who explains, advocates, and treats families with dignity. I want to do work that makes systems more humane. My community service has also shaped my definition of the dream. I have volunteered in food drives, beach cleanups, and restoring low-income city parks. I have volunteered with older adults and learned how much loneliness and neglect can affect a person’s health and hope. These experiences taught me that stability is not only about money. It is also about belonging, safety, and care. The American dream should include clean public spaces, supported families, and communities where people are not punished for needing help. So my American dream is simple, but it is not small. It is to earn my degree, build stability for myself and my family, and use my career to make sure other people are not left alone in moments that could change their lives. It is the freedom to work toward a future without fear, and the chance to turn sacrifice into impact.

In 2021, I learned that using your voice is not always a choice. Sometimes it is the only thing standing between someone you love and the worst possible outcome. My mom went in for what was supposed to be a normal birth. It was during COVID, so restrictions were tight, and at first no one was allowed in with her. Then everything shifted fast. She developed preeclampsia, and suddenly both her life and the baby’s life were in danger. The room filled with urgency, but what made it even scarier was how hard it was for her to understand what was happening. Spanish is her first language, and the hospital struggled to get a translator on the iPad. When they finally did, something was still wrong. The translator was not actually fluent and at one point clearly did not understand what was being said. My mom’s condition was worsening, and confusion was piling on top of panic. Then I got the call. I was 16 years old, being asked to come in and translate during the birth. I remember walking into that room and seeing my mom, the strongest woman I know, looking pale and powerless. She could not speak or move the way she needed to. I could see panic on the faces around her. Nurses were yelling instructions at me to tell my mother to breathe, to cooperate, to focus. I was still a child, standing between medical professionals and the person who raised me, trying to translate fast enough, clearly enough, calmly enough. My voice did not feel confident. It felt shaky. But I also knew that if I stayed silent or froze, my mother would be alone in the most terrifying moment of her life. So I spoke anyway. I translated what I could, and I found a way to reach my mom through the fear. I helped her understand what was being asked of her, and I helped her respond. The birth happened, but it did not end there. I had to keep advocating. I kept asking questions, clarifying what was happening, and making sure my mom and the baby were getting the attention and care they required. In a room full of authority, I learned that persistence is a form of communication too. That experience shaped me. It taught me that communication is not just about speaking well. It is about access, dignity, and safety. It also taught me that confidence is not always something you feel first. Sometimes confidence is what you build by acting through fear. I realized how quickly people can become vulnerable when language is treated like an inconvenience instead of a basic right. I also realized that when systems fail, families are often forced to fill in the gaps, even when they should not have to. Now, I carry that moment with me as I pursue social work, because I want my future career to be rooted in advocacy. I want to work with families who are overwhelmed by medical systems, paperwork, and power dynamics, especially families who face language barriers. I want to be the person who slows things down, explains clearly, ensures interpretation is accurate, and helps clients feel heard instead of rushed. I want to use my voice to push for more culturally responsive care and better support for patients who are too often expected to figure everything out while they are in crisis. I used my voice because my mother needed it. Now I am learning how to use it on purpose, so other families do not have to face those moments alone.

The first time I volunteered in a senior home, I expected to be the one giving something. Instead, I left with a new understanding of what people carry in silence. I saw how quickly older adults can become invisible, and how loneliness can feel like a private problem even when it is clearly a community issue. That moment stayed with me because it connected to something I already knew from my own life: mental health is real, and it affects everything, but support is not equally available or equally accepted. I am a first-generation college student from a low-income background, and I am also Hispanic, raised in a culture where mental health is often minimized. In my community, asking for help can be treated like weakness. Pride can turn into denial, and denial can turn into years of untreated anxiety, depression, grief, or trauma. I have watched people push through pain with a smile because they were taught that struggling is normal and therapy is unnecessary. Over time, I realized that this mindset does not protect families. It isolates them. It makes people suffer longer and makes healing harder. That experience shaped my beliefs. I believe mental health care should never be a luxury, and seeking help should be seen as brave, not embarrassing. Those beliefs have influenced my activism, even in everyday ways. I have learned to speak openly about mental health and challenge the idea that silence equals strength. I try to normalize support, resources, and honest conversations, especially for people who have been taught to keep everything inside. My community service has also shaped how I define mental health activism. I have volunteered through GlamourGals with older adults, and I have seen how consistent connection and dignity can be a form of care. I have also worked in food drives, beach cleanups, and the restoration of low-income city parks. Those experiences taught me that mental health is connected to basic needs and safe environments. People cannot focus on healing when they are hungry, overwhelmed, or living in spaces that feel neglected. Supporting mental health means supporting the conditions that make stability possible. Because of these experiences, I am pursuing a career in social work with a clinical focus. I want to provide culturally responsive mental health services for marginalized communities, especially older adults and families who face barriers to care. I plan to work in settings that are accessible to low-income clients and communities of color, where services feel welcoming rather than intimidating. I also want to be part of outreach, not only treatment. I envision partnering with senior centers and community organizations to offer psychoeducation, support groups, and conversations that reduce stigma and help people understand that mental health is health. My goal is simple but serious: I want people who have been overlooked to feel seen. I want people who have been taught to stay silent to feel safe enough to speak. And I want mental health care to feel like something that belongs to them, not something that was built for someone else.

My career of choice is clinical social work. I am pursuing social work because I want to do public service that is personal, practical, and life-changing. I want to support people when life feels unmanageable, when systems are confusing, and when they do not have the resources or the language to advocate for themselves. I am especially drawn to geriatric social work, because older adults are often treated like an afterthought even though they carry so much history, loss, resilience, and unmet need. I have seen how powerful it is when someone is treated with dignity and not rushed or dismissed, and I want my career to be built around giving that kind of care. I am passionate about social work because I know mental health and stability are not just personal issues. They are shaped by money, housing, family stress, health, and the way systems respond to people. A lot of the time, the people who need help the most are the ones who have to fight the hardest to access it. Social work combines what I care about most: listening deeply, understanding people in context, and helping them move from surviving to having real support. I want to be the person who does not look away, who helps someone create a plan, find resources, and feel less alone. That is the kind of work that stays with you, and that is why I chose this path. The sacrifices I have made for my education are not one dramatic moment, but a pattern of choices. As a low-income, first-generation college student, I have learned how to make a small amount of money stretch and how to plan around uncertainty. I have had to be strategic about what I spend, what I postpone, and what I can do without. There have been times when I have chosen textbooks, fees, or school needs over things that would have been more fun or more comfortable. I have learned to be patient with myself and disciplined with my budget, because staying enrolled and staying on track matters more than short-term comfort. I have also sacrificed time and rest. Balancing coursework with extracurricular commitments means my schedule is rarely easy. I am involved in service work because I believe it matters, but it also means I often spend my energy on others when I could be taking the easier route. Even so, those choices have shaped me into someone consistent and reliable, and those are the qualities I want to bring into my profession. I have also sacrificed comfort in a different way: the comfort of having a clear roadmap. Being first-generation means I have had to ask questions, advocate for myself, and sometimes admit I do not know what I am doing while still pushing forward. I have had to learn how to navigate college systems, financial aid processes, and academic expectations that were not explained in my household. That can feel intimidating, but it has also built resilience and confidence that I carry with me. I am proud of the sacrifices I have made because they reflect my mission. I am not pursuing social work casually. I am choosing it as a public service profession because I want my education to translate into care that reaches people who truly need it. This scholarship would support not only my degree, but the future work I plan to do for my community.

Being a first-generation college graduate would mean I completed something my family never had the chance to navigate themselves, and that I brought that accomplishment back home with me. It would mean I turned years of sacrifice, uncertainty, and financial stress into a degree that changes what is possible for the people who come after me. When your parents have not gone to college, you are learning the system while you are living it. You are figuring out financial aid language, deadlines, course requirements, and professional expectations without a built-in roadmap. You are also carrying the pressure of wanting to make every opportunity count, because you know how easily money problems can interrupt school. Graduating would be proof that I can carry responsibility and still move forward. I am pursuing that goal at Rutgers because I want a career rooted in care and justice. I plan to become a clinical social worker, and I am especially interested in geriatric-focused work. I have been inspired by seeing how social workers can support older adults and families through difficult transitions, and how much it matters when someone is treated with dignity instead of being overlooked. Becoming a first-generation graduate would not just be a personal milestone. It would be the foundation that allows me to keep building toward that work with confidence and serve communities that too often get ignored. My extracurricular activities have shaped me because they force me to practice the values I care about, not just talk about them. Through GlamourGals, I volunteer in senior homes and spend time with residents through conversation and activities like painting nails. Those visits taught me that connection is not small. Loneliness is real, and a few minutes of focused attention can make someone feel seen again. I have learned how to listen with patience, how to meet people where they are, and how to respect someone’s story without trying to rush it. Volunteering has made me more grounded and more emotionally aware. It has taught me that care is not only big moments or dramatic change. Sometimes it is consistency, kindness, and support that shows up. Serving as the PR Chair for my chapter has shaped me in a different way. It pushed me into leadership and helped me find my voice. I help share our mission through outreach and social media so that volunteering is not something we do quietly, but something that can grow and reach more residents. That role has taught me responsibility and follow-through, but it has also taught me ethics. When we represent service work publicly, we have to be mindful and respectful. We are building community, not using anyone’s life as a storyline. I have learned how to communicate with purpose, represent an organization professionally, and encourage others to get involved for the right reasons. Being first-generation has made me determined, but my extracurriculars have made that determination meaningful. They have helped me become someone who wants success that reaches outward. Earning my degree would mean I am breaking a cycle, creating a new example for my family, and preparing for a career where I can keep expanding access, dignity, and support for others. Receiving this scholarship would ease the financial burden that often falls hardest on first-generation students and help me stay focused on finishing strong.