After spending my entire high school career struggling, I can say openly the worst part of trauma is the aftermath. The recovery, something that should be a beacon of light, is more accurately a reminder that the pain will be with you forever. Every relapse tells you that the best you will ever get still won't be as good as the life you would have had if it didn't happen. You're given this opportunity to live the life of your dreams, to live the fantasies that give you a purpose- and you just can't. It gives you this taste of hope before its ripped away again, or your possible tomorrow ends up being more misery cloaked in a dream. More misery for it to give you, because when kindness is sparse, you'll do anything to get some. Any of it, the smallest amounts make you drunk, and the world can treat you as horribly as it wants but hey- it's better than before, right? When I finally escaped my father, they came to torment me. My grandfather to neglect, my grandmother to excuse, and my other grandmother to blame. Then Mom got sick, and even though she was still here and there, I spent so much of my time seemingly mourning a living woman. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense, you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself. The horrors not just of re-living the misery in memory, but in so many of the people that come after. The only difference between avoidance and recovery then becomes the possibility that treatment will make you better than the worst. I escaped childhood abuse and neglect placed upon me by my father- I have been homeless, left at random men's houses, abandoned on street corners. I have grown matts and mold in my hair because my father would pawn all of my belongings to buy meth, I used to snack on uncooked pasta when I feared being not fed, and even all these years later I flinch when people touch me. Now, I have permanent access to a hairbrush and food, I know I will actually be picked up from school, and yet I still remember. That is recovery in a nutshell, it is still there, and it still sucks- but I am now able to relax knowing the nightmares end when I wake up and I'm not encased in misery forever. It's a really sad realization, that no therapy will ever erase what happened to me. I always thought it would, why else would there be people who have 'recovered' and 'survived' CPTSD? Maybe the reality is more motivating; it gives me hope, as cheesy as it sounds, in knowing that there is something so wonderful out there that people like me are able to find something so incredible that the pain becomes bearable. That, if the trauma never goes away, survivors must have found something so incredible on the other side the option of something like suicide is no longer appealing. We don't all get there, unfortunately, but all we can do is use all the life we have left to find the wonder that can coexist with hell itself and still remain wonderful. I'll find it, I'm working on it with my therapist every Thursday, I just have to make sure I'm up in time for school tomorrow.

Greif and loss are such complex things to deal with for a little girl, especially when you are mourning a living man. It becomes even more complicated when you both love and despise him. When my abusive father was officially gone in January of the third grade, I very quickly learned that grief wasn't just for the dead, nor was it just for good people. When I finally rid myself of the grasp of the rest of my abusive family in middle school, I realized it was me and my mom against the world. In the process of parenting through her traumatic aftermath, she pushed me to express myself in healthy ways without a shred of a clue how to do it herself. She put me in good schools, advocating for me to my teachers and pushing books into my hands, and I started to learn in ways I never had before. Pretty quickly there became dedicated time for homework- even after long days at work trying to support my family, even when I sat on the uncomfortable plastic couches of a hospital room. I would loudly and stubbornly complain some days, so much so in the beginning that I now know the scolding monologue she used by heart. In my moments of low ambition, I can still remember her saying that abuse and grief could not take away my education because if, heaven forbid, I ever ended up in that same position again all I could rely on was my intellect to get me out. It was the only thing the unfortunate events of my life could never steal from me. So, I worked harder than I thought possible every day under her watchful eyes. The moments of her pain being a single parent and abuse survivor would force many to have to put things like school on the back burner, but she was there whenever she could be. I would say it paid off, but not in the way most would assume. With college-level coursework being in my schedule since I was fourteen and having good grades, I fit many conventional criteria for success as a student. However, when I know the sacrifices required to get me here, my achievements will always be measured in my ability to overcome adversity. And, as I walk across the graduation stage come May, I will do it with the same strength I started with. As to be expected of course- I am my mother's daughter after all.

The worst part of trauma is the aftermath. The recovery, something that should be a beacon of light, is more accurately a reminder that the pain will be with you forever. Every relapse tells you that the best you will ever get still won't be as good as the life you would have had if it didn't happen. You're given this opportunity to live the life of your dreams, to live the fantasies that give you a purpose- and you just can't. It gives you this taste of hope before its ripped away again, or your possible tomorrow ends up being more misery cloaked in a dream. More misery for it to give you, because when kindness is sparse, you'll do anything to get some. Any of it, the smallest amounts make you drunk and the world can treat you as horribly as it wants but hey- it's better than before, right? When I finally escaped my father, they came to torment me. My grandfather to neglect, my grandmother to excuse, and my other grandmother to blame. Then Mom got sick, and even though she was still here and there, I spent so much of my time seemingly mourning a living woman. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense, you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself. The horrors not just of re-living the misery in memory, but in so many of the people that come after. The only difference between avoidance and recovery then becomes the possibility that treatment will make you better than the worst. I escaped childhood abuse and neglect placed upon me by my father- I have been homeless, left at random men's houses, abandoned on street corners. I have grown matts and mold in my hair because my father would pawn all of my belongings to buy meth, I used to snack on uncooked pasta when I feared being not fed, and even all these years later I flinch when people touch me. Now, I have permanent access to a hairbrush and food, I know I will actually be picked up from school, and yet I still remember. That is recovery in a nutshell, it is still there, and it still sucks- but I am now able to relax knowing the nightmares end when I wake up and I'm not encased in misery forever. It's a really sad realization, that no therapy will ever erase what happened to me. I always thought it would, why else would there be people who have 'recovered' and 'survived' CPTSD? Maybe the reality is more motivating; it gives me hope, as cheesy as it sounds, in knowing that there is something or someone so wonderful out there that people like me are able to find something so incredible that the pain becomes bearable. That, if the trauma never goes away, survivors must have found something so incredible on the other side the option of something like suicide is no longer appealing. We don't all get there, unfortunately, but all we can do is use all the life we have left to find the wonder that can coexist with hell itself and still remain wonderful. Oddly enough, part of my wonder has become grant writing, trying to fund projects that bring wonder back to the lives of others. Hopefully that means more people make it out of the darkness trauma harbors.

I believe that, as a collective human species, there are some experiences that we are destined to have through the things that happen in our society. In my corner of it specifically, I would say I have had my fair share of moments with what I would consider the most common human experience: The passion that characterizes watching something horrible occurs and wanting to change it. Sitting in my visitation waiting room as that abused little girl about to have her weekly meeting with her abuser, giving my mother her picc line medication and cooking her dinner at such a young age since she had no one else to help, or waiting in group therapy at the psychiatric hospital when I thought there was nothing good left in the world- I felt it. That empathy and passion could heal a wounded world. I cannot look at any of the suffering in our world and not feel the same. Yet, making an impact is hard when faced with problems like childhood neglect or mental health, especially when a new major issue seems to surface every few seconds. I see people every day who dedicate their lives to a better world and never get to see it. But I want to see my change, my impact, my holding back the flood moment that allows the heroes to save the day soon after, and it is money that creates a barrier for so many change seekers like me. This is why I have dedicated my education to working on my research, analysis, and communication skills in the hope of becoming a grant writer and trying to decrease money's impact as a barrier to the projects that help our world. As we look at those who struggle to get the aid needed to leave abusive situations to the very issue of world hunger, it is not the human experience of wanting to help that is holding us back. Unfortunately, the question of "why hasn't this changed" is usually followed by an account balance for either the research needed or the resources. When we feel this passion as human beings, we need people who help make it possible. Like I want to do for others, like you may do for me. It is only then that the nature of human passion moves forward, allowing passions to be important and keep the human race around so we can be passionate.

I have always been passionate and, admittedly, argumentative. I experienced so much of the misogyny and xenophobia in our society that there was no way I could be anything else. It is almost as if it was engraved into my genetic code by my soul itself. But just like I have always been passionate, there have always been criticisms- Saying that I will hopefully "calm down" when I am older, or that it's not very ladylike to argue about politics or the passive-aggressive you would be a great lawyer comment. They all affected me, but only one would become a central part of my life: the comments made with slight grimaces about me having a future spot on a great debate team. And I do, thank you very much. Going into my fourth year with the Overland Debate team, I have made some of the best connections, been present in some of the most important conversations, and fallen in love with the Lincoln Douglas Debate format. I have become the debate president, won many rounds, and competed at nationals. Yet, something always irked me: the fact that the rest of the world had a very different view of whether or not my team was as incredible as I think they are. Being the most diverse school in the state with maybe one or two kids who win awards per competition seemed to cement in people’s naive minds that debate was not "for people like us." After years of microaggressions, it starts to wear. It wouldn't be until the bus ride back from a taxing state competition in 2024 that included people giving us a hard time for even being in the venue for the tournament and taking pictures of a fellow Muslim teammate praying that I sat down and finally decided what debate meant for those who had to fight to speak. Every judge, for example, is a voter in the next election and is influencing policy, your opponent is a consumer who impacts the local economy, and the conversations we have to influence them. We debate with human beings who make decisions every day that can change the things we care about, and we must speak like the problems themselves are listening- because they are. When you are frequently left out of those conversations, especially when the topics have a unique meaning to you, people won't consider you in their decision-making. Therefore, those with spirits like Overland debaters must be in every conversation, or we will continue to live in a world where people believe certain aspects of life aren't for "people like us." This scholarship would help give one of those Overland debaters, the president in fact, the ability to be in more conversations than I ever thought possible.

After spending my entire high school career struggling, I can say openly the worst part of trauma is the aftermath. The recovery, something that should be a beacon of light, is more accurately a reminder that the pain will be with you forever. Every relapse tells you that the best you will ever get still won't be as good as the life you would have had if it didn't happen. You're given this opportunity to live the life of your dreams, to live the fantasies that give you a purpose- and you just can't. It gives you this taste of hope before its ripped away again, or your possible tomorrow ends up being more misery cloaked in a dream. More misery for it to give you, because when kindness is sparse, you'll do anything to get some. Any of it, the smallest amounts make you drunk, and the world can treat you as horribly as it wants but hey- it's better than before, right? When I finally escaped my father, they came to torment me. My grandfather to neglect, my grandmother to excuse, and my other grandmother to blame. Then Mom got sick, and even though she was still here and there, I spent so much of my time seemingly mourning a living woman. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense, you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself. The horrors not just of re-living the misery in memory, but in so many of the people that come after. The only difference between avoidance and recovery then becomes the possibility that treatment will make you better than the worst. I escaped childhood abuse and neglect placed upon me by my father- I have been homeless, left at random men's houses, abandoned on street corners. I have grown matts and mold in my hair because my father would pawn all of my belongings to buy meth, I used to snack on uncooked pasta when I feared being not fed, and even all these years later I flinch when people touch me. Now, I have permanent access to a hairbrush and food, I know I will actually be picked up from school, and yet I still remember. That is recovery in a nutshell, it is still there, and it still sucks- but I am now able to relax knowing the nightmares end when I wake up and I'm not encased in misery forever. It's a really sad realization, that no therapy will ever erase what happened to me. I always thought it would, why else would there be people who have 'recovered' and 'survived' CPTSD? Maybe the reality is more motivating; it gives me hope, as cheesy as it sounds, in knowing that there is something so wonderful out there that people like me are able to find something so incredible that the pain becomes bearable. That, if the trauma never goes away, survivors must have found something so incredible on the other side the option of something like suicide is no longer appealing. We don't all get there, unfortunately, but all we can do is use all the life we have left to find the wonder that can coexist with hell itself and still remain wonderful. I'll find it, I'm working on it with my therapist every Thursday, I just have to make sure I'm up in time for school tomorrow.

Hi, I am Isabella Santana and I will be a high school junior this year! I was primarily raised by my mother Elizabeth, who was a single parent for most of my childhood following years of physical and emotional abuse and neglect we both suffered at the hands of my father. A few years after moving to Colorado from Illinois, my German shepherd Pirate was added to the mix and for many years it was us against the world. We have had many adventures together, survived years of struggle with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, seven of my mother's neck surgeries, and disability. Along the way, we have added other members to our odd little group, but my mother has remained my main pillar of support. Trailing my years of struggle with abuse, I have spent most of my teen years addressing my mental health struggles and trying to find joy in life's possibilities away from the abuse I used to consider unavoidable. I now spend my free time volunteering, participating in many extra-curricular activities, and learning about everything I can. As chaotic as it sounds, the hecticness of my life has led me to possibilities I never thought imaginable. Being raised by a single woman who was severely disabled introduced me to many of the systemic and social inequities in our society. It showed me how little accessibility was incorporated into day-to-day life, how little people thought of working mothers, and how much women were taken advantage of and prayed upon. Yet, the most important thing it taught me was something about sisterhood. I was raised by a village of women from co-workers who looked after me during work trips to women who allowed us a place in their homes as we ran from my father. They to taught me how women were unfairly treated, especially women of color, and how sisterhood spanned farther than I ever imagined. I also grew up being a caretaker for her and, in turn, learned how to look after myself very young. As I look toward the future, this is truly what has encouraged me to take an interest in advocacy, law, and legislature as I was introduced to issues surrounding it very young. These interests have shaped my academics and my desired career path, clearly being a major part of my life, and I attribute a lot of it to my experience as my mother's daughter.

Hi, I am Isabella Santana, and I will be a high school senior this year! I was primarily raised by my mother Elizabeth, who was a single parent for most of my childhood following years of physical and emotional abuse and neglect we both suffered at the hands of my father. A few years after moving to Colorado from Illinois, my German shepherd Pirate was added to the mix and for many years it was us against the world. We have had many adventures together, survived years of struggle with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, seven of my mother's neck surgeries, and being abandoned by much of my biological family. Along the way, we have added other members to our odd little group-my stepfather Brian, stepbrother Cameron, and my Saint Bernard puppy, a family given to me built on the foundations of love. Trailing my years of struggle with abuse, I have spent most of my teen years addressing my mental health struggles and trying to find joy in life's possibilities away from the abuse I used to consider unavoidable. I now spend my free time volunteering, participating in many extra-curricular activities, and learning about everything I can. As chaotic as it sounds, the hecticness of my life has led me to possibilities I never thought imaginable. If you would have told the version of me that was going between DV and women's shelters that I would have the opportunity to go to college for something I love, I would not have believed you. Even if that sounds super cheesy to you, the opportunity to do something I love and help others feels like a fever dream to me. This scholarship would allow me to pursue a career that will increase my overall happiness because I can use my hopes of being a grant writer to help people like me. If my life with CPTSD has taught me anything, it's that the people working in the background of non-profits and charities of things like the food pantry and homeless shelter I have used through my life is what buys people the gift of a better life. Not to mention, scholarships help support and protect me from the cycle of generational financial abuse and lack of access to healthcare. My ability to not only go to college but to support myself through college will open me up to financial means that aid in that process. In life after abuse, every step closer to happiness-even those accompanied by two or three steps back- increases your quality of life. Scholarship money allows me to take this step forward toward recovery and a better world for myself and my family.

The worst part of trauma is the aftermath. The recovery, something that should be a beacon of light, is more accurately a reminder that the pain will be with you forever. Every relapse tells you that the best you will ever get still won't be as good as the life you would have had if it didn't happen. You're given this opportunity to live the life of your dreams, to live the fantasies that give you a purpose- and you just can't. It gives you this taste of hope before its ripped away again, or your possible tomorrow ends up being more misery cloaked in a dream. More misery for it to give you, because when kindness is sparse, you'll do anything to get some. Any of it, the smallest amounts make you drunk and the world can treat you as horribly as it wants but hey- it's better than before, right? When I finally escaped my father, they came to torment me. My grandfather to neglect, my grandmother to excuse, and my other grandmother to blame. Then Mom got sick, and even though she was still here and there, I spent so much of my time seemingly mourning a living woman. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense, you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself. The horrors not just of re-living the misery in memory, but in so many of the people that come after. The only difference between avoidance and recovery then becomes the possibility that treatment will make you better than the worst. I escaped childhood abuse and neglect placed upon me by my father- I have been homeless, left at random men's houses, abandoned on street corners. I have grown matts and mold in my hair because my father would pawn all of my belongings to buy meth, I used to snack on uncooked pasta when I feared being not fed, and even all these years later I flinch when people touch me. Now, I have permanent access to a hairbrush and food, I know I will actually be picked up from school, and yet I still remember. That is recovery in a nutshell, it is still there and it still sucks- but I am now able to relax knowing the nightmares end when I wake up and I'm not encased in misery forever. It's a really sad realization, that no therapy will ever erase what happened to me. I always thought it would, why else would there be people who have 'recovered' and 'survived' CPTSD? Maybe the reality is more motivating;it gives me hope, as cheesy as it sounds, in knowing that there is something so wonderful out there that people like me are able to find something so incredible that the pain becomes bearable. That, if the trauma never goes away, survivors must have found something so incredible on the other side the option of something like suicide is no longer appealing. We don't all get there, unfortunately, but all we can do is use all the life we have left to find the wonder that can coexist with hell itself and still remain wonderful.

I acknowledge that, as a collective human species, we have some level of shared experience that we are destined to have through both our shared psychology and society. When watching my disabled mother struggle with medical debt or my friends face adversity because of their race, I experienced one of the most common shared human experiences. The empathy you feel when you watch an individual or group struggle and want to help. I find it virtually impossible that any human being can look at the suffering in our world and not want to do everything they can to aid in this effort. While my personal experiences as a feminist with a natural inclination toward government may shape the way I go about it, humanitarianism resides in us all. Yet, making an impact is hard when faced with problems like climate change. Especially when a new major issue seems to surface every few seconds- like the increase in police brutality during the pandemic. An individual could work a lifetime and never make a dent, regardless of their best efforts. Those people, however, have an important place in human society as they allow us to go forward. Like a drizzle from a water pump into a large bucket, one that is getting filled to drench a devastating fire. Even if only in small segments, they are essential to progress and I hope to one day have a place among their ranks. For me, this place would include using a higher level of education surrounding public policy to better understand the laws that govern our society. Policy dictates every part of life in America, impacting every area and its flaws, making policy understanding essential for all areas of civil problem-solving. From environment to economics, I will gain a synopsis of most subjects and their laws to learn how to change policies to have specific impacts. With this, I could be a sustainability coordinator, grant writer, policy researcher, legislative aid, journalist, and many more titles focused on societal benefit and advocacy. Of course, as a teenager, it is fair to say my plan is not foolproof or concrete, but my goals are consistent- to dedicate my career to helping others. It is this knowledge that has been a guiding light in every aspect of my academic career, knowing that with my passion for advocacy and my research skills, my part in this shared human experience could be leveraged to help those who need it the most. I bring it with me to every debate meeting, every group discussion, and every hard day. My every academic and professional goal includes a question of how to help the world, even if only slightly. Including while writing this, knowing financial aid for college is an essential step on my path to improving lives and the world.

Hi, I am Isabella Santana and I will be a high school junior this year! I was primarily raised by my mother Elizabeth, who was a single parent for most of my childhood following years of physical and emotional abuse and neglect we both suffered at the hands of my father. A few years after moving to Colorado from Illinois, my German shepherd Pirate was added to the mix and for many years it was us against the world. We have had many adventures together, survived years of struggle with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, seven of my mother's neck surgeries, and disability. Along the way, we have added other members to our odd little group, but my mother has remained my main pillar of support. Trailing my years of struggle with abuse, I have spent most of my teen years addressing my mental health struggles and trying to find joy in life's possibilities away from the abuse I used to consider unavoidable. I now spend my free time volunteering, participating in many extra-curricular activities, and learning about everything I can. As chaotic as it sounds, the hecticness of my life has led me to possibilities I never thought imaginable. Being raised by a single woman who was severely disabled introduced me to many of the systemic and social inequities in our society. It showed me how little accessibility was incorporated into day-to-day life, how little people thought of working mothers, and how much women were taken advantage of and prayed upon. Yet, the most important thing it taught me was something about sisterhood. I was raised by a village of women from co-workers who looked after me during work trips to women who allowed us a place in their homes as we ran from my father. They to taught me how women were unfairly treated, especially women of color, and how sisterhood spaned farther than I ever imagined. I also grew up being a caretaker for her and, in turn, learned how to look after myself very young. As I look toward the future, this is truly what has encouraged me to take an interest in advocacy, law, and legislature as I was introduced to issues surrounding it very young. These interests have shaped my academics and my desired career path, clearly being a major part of my life, and I attribute a lot of it to my experience as my mother's daughter.

Hi, I am Isabella Santana and I will be a high school junior this year! I was primarily raised by my mother Elizabeth, who was a single parent for most of my childhood following years of physical and emotional abuse and neglect we both suffered at the hands of my father. A few years after moving to Colorado from Illinois, my German shepherd Pirate was added to the mix and for many years it was us against the world. We have had many adventures together, survived years of struggle with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, seven of my mother's neck surgeries, and the pandemic. Along the way, we have added other members to our odd little group-my stepfather Brian, stepbrother Cameron, and my saint bernard puppy. Trailing my years of struggle with abuse, I have spent most of my teen years addressing my mental health struggles and trying to find joy in life's possibilities away from the abuse I used to consider unavoidable. I now spend my free time volunteering, participating in many extra-curricular activities, and learning about everything I can. As chaotic as it sounds, the hecticness of my life has led me to possibilities I never thought imaginable. If you would have told the version of me that was going between DV and women's shelters that I would have the opportunity to go to college for something I love, I would not have believed you. Even if that sounds super cheesy to you, the opportunity to do something I love and help others feels like a fever dream to me. This scholarship would allow me to pursue a career that will increase my overall happiness. Working in a field you love is known to have positive impacts on your psyche. Getting a college degree in line with my interests would allow me to reap the benefits of this phenomenon. Not to mention, scholarships help support and protect me from the cycle of generational financial abuse and lack of access to healthcare. My ability to not only go to college but to support myself through college will open me up to financial means that aid in that process. In life after abuse, every step closer to happiness-even those accompanied by two or three steps back- increases your quality of life. Scholarship money allows me to take this step forward toward recovery and a better world for myself and my family.