In Aurora, Colorado, Elijah McClain, a 23-year-old Black man, was walking home when his life was atrociously halted by law enforcement. He was not doing anything wrong, and was no danger—yet he was stopped, placed in a chokehold, and administered ketamine. He pleaded to live, but he was dead days later. Elijah passed away just 15 minutes from my house, a reminder that these tragedies don't happen in some far-off city, but next door. For my community, the issue isn't about one lost life—it's about a system that dehumanizes Black people. Elijah's case lays bare the undeniable truth: law enforcement must be held accountable, and the current system is not. When police officers can take a life with impunity, when their actions are met with silence or weak responses, we’re left with more questions than answers. Why was Elijah stopped in the first place? Why was his fear dismissed as aggression? Why did the officers escalate the situation to death? These aren’t just questions of justice—they are about whether Black lives truly matter. If police agencies are serious about reform, they need to promise more than just words—they need to deliver transparency. Independent probes, open body cam footage, and civilian control must be the bare minimum. Erasing these stories from the public discourse must become a thing of the past. Justice isn't optional; it's obligatory. But accountability is only part. The real change is going to come in how the police officers look at and deal with the neighborhoods they police. Elijah wasn't a suspect, he was a neighbor. Yet to the police, he was just another Black man who did not belong. That's where community policing comes in. Community policing is not about handing out badges or standing for photos with neighborhood groups. It's about building real relationships. Police need to reach out to the community well before the sirens ever start. They need to be familiar with names, learn their fears, and treat them as individuals—not as "perps" or "suspects." That won't happen if they only appear when something has gone wrong. And then there is the question of diversity. Elijah's murder serves as a poignant reminder of the need for police departments to be more diverse within the communities that they police. If police were truly diverse, would they have seen Elijah as a threat due to his skin color? Would the officers have been less aggressive if they realized the fear that he was in? If police are present to serve and protect all members of society, then they must reflect the society that they are protecting. Let's leave behind the "us vs. them" mentality. If you’re wearing a badge, your job is to protect everyone—not just those who look like you. Finally, Elijah McClain was having a panic attack when he was stopped by police, but instead of receiving care, he was met with force. This wasn’t a criminal act; it was a mental health crisis. Yet officers failed to de-escalate. They didn't know mental health is not always what you think. Mental health and cultural competence training are no longer "nice-to-haves" but necessities. How many more people have to die before we accept that police departments are not protecting the most vulnerable among us? The tragic death of Elijah McClain is a sad page, but not the final one. We cannot simply pretend everything is okay in the system. We must demand accountability, diversity, and training that confirms officers to serve and protect with compassion. Until we do, communities like mine will continue to mourn—and we will continue to push for justice.

For me, leading by example in daily life involves planting the seeds of change and watering them attentively until they grow into something greater and grander. Whether I am mentoring a younger student, advocating for policy changes, or organizing events, I believe leadership bridges the gap between where people are and where they could be; through Youth Thrive, the Mayor's Youth Council, and the DSST Leadership and Advocacy Board, I work to tear down the barriers and raise the doors so that others could get through, just as my grandmother opened doors for me. At Youth Thrive, I lead workshops designed around self-advocacy, mental wellness, and financial literacy-things that most kids in underserved communities have never even heard of. When I see students transform from confusion to clarity and from hesitance to empowerment, I realize that leadership is not wholly expressed in speaking but also in listening. It's about comprehending the missing pieces in the knowledge of others and putting forth the support to fill in those gaps. Just like a gardener, I nurture and tend to the young plants with the goal of growing their strength and confidence in the young minds I work with, helping them realize their worth and potential. As a Commissioner for the Mayor's Youth Council, I've learned that leadership is not just about taking control; it's about creating a collective vision. It is my job to present youth-centric policy recommendations to the city officials, thus making sure that our voices echo inside the hall of power. It is during those times when I sit with policy makers at the table that I get to see the very heart of advocacy for any system changes. This position has taught me to speak truthfully, while knowing my words carry the hopes and dreams of my community. On the DSST Leadership & Advocacy Board, I work alongside my peers to develop projects that engage students in city civic issues. We establish opportunities that expose students to elected officials, providing them with an opportunity to impact the world in which they will be living. Leadership, I've learned, is creating webs of influence—connecting individuals to resources and individuals needed to ensure they can flourish. But leadership is felt too in the off-scenes, the ones that do not make the headlines but which have the potential to alter the outlook of an individual. A conversation I had at a Youth Thrive workshop with a child: when asked what he wants to be when he grows up, he said that he doesn't believe a Black person can be a lawyer. "I never saw one," he said.I shared with him stories of Black lawyers and trailblazers who broke the odds, and by the end, the glow on his face spoke volumes. "Maybe I can be one too," he said. That moment of a shift in belief was a spark that could one day start a fire in him. There is an Igbo saying, "Wisdom opens many doors," and I have learned that leadership is about opening those doors for others. It's not about being the loudest voice in the room but making sure everyone has a chance to be heard. With every step I take, whether at a workshop, at a council meeting, or during a conversation, I am seeking to create a space for others to step into their leadership. Leadership should not be viewed as an individual act, but rather as a product of collaborative effort and mutual support.

Many communities such as mine find themselves in food deserts, where healthy and affordable food choices are unavailable. Instead, processed foods high in animal products take over. This food causes diabetes or heart disease or hypertension. I discovered that my health was virtual: It had been related to a flawed food system through which marginalized communities had very limited access to proper food. This drew me toward veganism, not as a fad but as a counter-attack to a broken system. Veganism became a chance to critique an industry that serves profit over health. Through this lifestyle act of committing to veganism, I was refuting a system that functions by harming people of color and propagates the material deprivation that significantly contributes to the poor health in oppressed communities. It was not only about my health anymore; it was a commitment to social justice and equality. However, I had a hard time reconciling my personal cultural identity with veganism. Food dwelt within the very heart of my culture, and by extension, my cultural identity was closely intertwined with meat-and-dairy ways of living. How could I embrace this lifestyle without letting it drown my roots? At first, my family didn’t understand. “Why can’t you just eat the food the way we’ve always had it?” they asked. But as I explained my choices, it became clear to my family that it was not about rejecting my favorites but about having a balance between tradition and health. It wasn’t about dismissing what we loved; it was about reimagining it more healthily and sustainably. It’s an act of rebellion against a system that keeps people stuck in cycles of chronic illness. Veganism, now seen as more than a personal choice, is part of a broader movement for social justice concerning food systems and equitable healthcare. I support the inclusion of plant-based options in my community while encouraging healthier eating habits among family and friends. Veganism requires acknowledging that food can be an agent of empowerment and that the power of choice can work against injustice. At its heart, veganism is not simply about what I choose to eat; it is about the way I make my choices, challenging inequality, and promoting health while honoring my culture in a manner that supports my values. It’s small, but it’s a long, hard road toward changing something in this world, meal by meal. The answer came through candid adaptation. Instead of casting off my cultural rituals, I began experimenting with plant-based substitutes: jackfruit for meat, coconut milk for dairy, and beans for the digestible proteins on which I once relied. They might not taste identical, but I soon learned that being vegan was not rejecting my culture; it was about moving it forward. This meant I could still celebrate the integral parts of my heritage while staying true to my values of health and sustainability. In conclusion, veganism is more than what I consume; it is an opportunity to rebalance inequalities, promote health, and uphold my culture, using my choices. It is a small and meaningful way to reform the world, one meal at a time.

The highway stretched along before me, flat and empty as streetlights flicked in my rearview mirror. My tires rasped through the silence—until all became quiet. A snap. A jerk. Not a sound a road should make. The car lurched wildly. A shift in weight tilted the whole world, and then the tires lost grip.My heart pounded. The highway wall rushed toward me, growing closer, inevitable. I braced for the crash, for the crunch of metal, for the moment everything would go dark. But it never came. The car stopped. Just like that. I sat there, hands clenched around the wheel, breath caught in my throat. The wall was a whisper away, close enough to count the cracks in the concrete. My car should have been crushed against it. I should have been hurt. But when I stepped out on shaking legs, there was nothing—no dents, no scratches. In that moment, I remembered Psalm 91:11, “For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.” Someone greater than chance had spared me. But life wasn’t done testing my faith. Soon after, my father fell sick. Four open-heart surgeries, each one a battle that left him weaker. I watched him fade, unable to hold his own weight. In my helplessness, I clung to Isaiah 41:10, “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Then the storm worsened. With my grandmother, uncle, and close friend all gone, it was another wave in the ocean of grief that threatened to drown me. My heart stretched thin with sorrow, crying out: "Why?" But I turned to 2 Corinthians 4:8-9: "We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed." I would not be crushed, though loss might press hard against me. As if to test me still further, I myself fell sick and lay in a hospital bed-confined in sterile white walls, with machines tuning in and recording evidence against my fragility. Even in those moments, it felt like God was holding me up in His strength. Isaiah 40:29 was one promise that anchored me: "He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength." When I felt I could no longer stand, I drew strength from him knowing that He would carry me through. As I prayed, something great happened: My dad fought back. He completed therapy feeling stronger than before. He stood tall watching him, a testament to God's healing power. As he recovered, I reflected on James 5:15: "And the prayer of faith will save the one who is sick, and the Lord will raise him up." I learned that faith is not formed free of storms but established by the presence of God. Afflicted by a loss like Job, who went through much and yet was restored, I held onto Him because I knew of His ability to restore me. Psalm 34:18, "The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit." I felt his presence even in sadness. He walked with me, leading one step at a time. And He will continue to be my strength, no matter what lies ahead. I am grateful for the strength He has given me. In every storm, He is my anchor, in every loss, my comfort, and in every victory, my Savior.