The trait I proudly acknowledge and see in myself is scholarship; however, I have fallen victim to the dark side of academic uncertainty. My desire for knowledge would be tarnished by the need to be perfect, and my anxiety often rains victorious over my self-hating mindset, and losing my grandmother contributed heavily to this need for perfectionism. The education system has ingrained into me that grades correlate with self-worth, and this matter has inhibited my learning experience. Once I focused on absorbing the material, now I find myself “learning” solely for a grade. I am presently in the process of unlearning this toxic mentality. I long to once again take pleasure in courses that interest me. My academic standing is commendable, but I contend that my self-awareness of how toxic my mindset became is my greatest scholarly achievement, even if it is not conventional. I am progressively growing into the woman I aspire to be, as my grandmother left her legacy to be honored. She was not afforded the option of receiving a higher education and caring for her has taught me to be compassionate, alongside, empathetic towards others. My dream is to become a history professor and I will undoubtedly exhibit the pillars instilled by being raised by a single mother, and by extension, my grandparents. I thrive in leadership positions, I am re-learning how to learn and enjoy the realm of academia. More importantly, as a professor I will achieve the academic achievements my grandmother always envisioned for me, and I believe my experience with loss has granted me a broader perspective on life. I am thankful for the opportunities bestowed upon me now, and I look forward to what the future holds for me, especially as I know my grandmother is proudly looking down upon me.

Friendship is being greeted by your best friend at your grandmother's memorial service. In the mist of tears and the mind-numbing, heart-aching grief, feeling his arms pull you into a well-needed embrace. Friendship, to me, is a bond between two individuals that is strengthened by time, empathy, and love. I met Gael Zamorano in the summer of 2012, when my mother and I moved back to my home town of Portland, Texas. He and I quickly hit it off, as we were next-door neighbors. At the age of eight, friendship is understood as the people you walk home from school with, which we did every day, but with age my understanding of friendship grew; more so, my bond with Gael grew evermore. Gone were the days of elementary school, as middle school threw its challenges at Gael and I. We no longer had any classes together, but we would share each other's company in the cafeteria and catch up after school, as we still walked home together. These afternoons spent laughing at inside jokes and running to see who could make it home the fastest warm my heart to this day, and upon my grandmother's passing, Gael knew I needed these happy moments more than ever. My grandmother loved Gael and how I had someone to lean on through adolescence; it has been four years since she has passed, and I now realize that she was comforted that I had a support system in place. Gael did not fail in any capacity, he understood I needed time to process my feelings, and whenever I felt up to it, we would hang out, and at the end of the summer he moved. Moving a few hours away, we have continued to stay in touch and I am happy to have him.

My name is Justice Morris and this fall I will be attending the University of Texas at Austin, as a Liberal Arts Honors student. If I had $1,000 right now, I would momentarily feel my tense shoulders relax, as I find solace in subtracting this amount from my total cost of attendance. I am thrilled to be attending college! However, the expense of attending has tarnished this happiness and replaced it with dread. When I received the notification that I had been accepted into UT Austin, I quite literally jumped for joy! Years of studying, hours spent on projects and homework, and my extracurricular activities have paid off, as I am considered automatically for admission. UT automatically accepts students within the top 6% of their class and I am in the top 3%, number 8 out of 291 students in my class. Waiting for the news that I had been accepted into their honors program was what kept me biting my nails, yet I managed to get into this exclusive academic circle! Financially speaking, I am the child of a single mother and live in a single-income house. While we have received help from my grandparents, I am burdened with the infeasible feat of funding my bachelor's degree. My joy has not diminished, but I wish I could think of college without stressing over how my personal savings will amount to mere months of living on campus. I want peace of mind as I continue my education and career aspirations.

My greatest achievement thus far is knowing I have helped save hundreds of lives! The simple pleasure in my life that brings me the most joy is being the Chairperson of the Blood Drive Committee, as entailed by my office of Vice President for my school's chapter of National Honors Society; while this committee entails plenty of work, every opportunity to contribute to saving lives is an honorable and great pleasure! As the Blood Drive Committee Chairperson, I oversee the recruitment of donors on my high school campus and plan drives with my committee heads. Recruiting fellow teenagers to donate, as a teenager yourself, is daunting! We keep track of volunteer hours and help students attain their (graduation) red cords. As of December 8, 2021, we have hosted four successful blood drives in partnership with the Coastal Bend Blood Center, at our high school. With one pint of blood, up to three lives can be saved! Our most successful drive is also my favorite drive, held on the 13th of October; it was held in the name of Kendall Ramos. Kendall Ramos is a student at Gregory-Portland Middle School and the aim of this drive was to "fight childhood cancer one donor at a time." At this drive, 100 pints of blood were donated, meaning up to 300 lives could be saved. Moreover, each donation given would be attributed to Kendall Ramos and she would receive free units of blood for her treatments. This achievement brings me overwhelming joy! When I entered the election to be Vice President of NHS, I could not have imagined how rewarding this post would be for me, especially now knowing my advocacy for blood donors changes lives. I am thankful for this opportunity and will continue to be a regular blood donor myself!

I will rest happily upon my passing knowing I became a teacher and impacted the educational careers of my future students, as I am in pursuit of my dream profession: college professor. I will be attending UT Austin this fall as a Liberal Arts Honors student, majoring in history. My passion for history is the product of my past and present teachers; the educators that answered my big-world questions, nurtured my innate curiosity, and let me borrow books from their bookshelves. History is often associated with the past, as if history is a timeline – with a starting and ending point – and not a continuous stream of being. I view history as an explanation for the present and a resource for establishing a better future. On the latter, I intend to utilize my history degree to ensure that the past is taught in an inclusive manner, as I wish to become a history teacher. Throughout my academic career, I have gravitated towards my history teachers; I began so with my fourth-grade Texas history teacher, Mrs. Barnes. I close my eyes and vividly recall the day she brought a phonograph to class and the subsequent lessons on local Native American tribes. This mundane, dated piece of technology led me to actively engage in the mysteries of the past. The year concluded with a research project on a pre-selected Native American tribe; I was assigned to report on the Coahuiltecan tribe, and it solidified my fondness for the subject of history. As a person of Mexican and Indigenous descent, I have a duty to preserve my culture and include our place in history; more so, in the education system. Knowledge entices me and I would be overjoyed to spend my life sharing it; hence my desire to be a history professor.

The word "patience" invokes my mantra for my physical pain, and serves to remind me that my pain, while chronic, has the capacity to heal. For the past two years, I have battled severe knee pain and have lost my ability to run, and this reality is devastating. Running, for me, is synonymous with how my body relies on oxygen to survive; and life without running has shown me how I took my ability to run for granted. On August 18, 2020, I went on a recovery outrun, as instructed by my coach, and I eagerly began running and pacing myself for the first mile. However, less than a mile into my run, I felt a sharp, unrelentless pain in my left knee. I listened to my body, and elected to take a break from running, and today I find myself in recovery from the then undiagnosed patellofemoral pain syndrome. Patellofemoral pain syndrome is a common injury in runners, and it took almost a year and a half to get this diagnosis. I initially had a brief stint from running, only to have my knee pain bilateral or even more intense. Today, I am in physical therapy at my local Driscoll Children's Hospital, and have a steady line of treatment. With my daily pain, I began to lose faith in my ability to return to running, alone being pain-free once more. Yet, through patience, I have forgiven myself for an injury I could not have prevented, and I have appointments twice a week to regain strength and train my muscles to support my weakened knees. I am over the moon to say that my pain is starting to show signs of an end, as I work effortless to complete my exercises; I can now look forward to running again.

My mother's golden brown eyes are my eyes, her hardworking hands are mine, and when I speak, I hear her strength and perseverance channel through me. I am the proud daughter of a single mother, and I owe her my life. From leaving my abusive father to raising me herself, I am continuously amazed by the person she is for instilling her strengths into me, as her daughter and beloved. Justine Rae Morris is a monumental woman, she is my hero, and I am the woman I am today because of her. She gave birth to me at the age of 19, and sacrificed her youth to raise me with attentiveness and care. My fondest childhood memories are those of being tucked into my warm, comforting bed and drifting to sleep hearing her voice recite my favorite bedtime story; this routine has undoubtedly attributed to my passion for literature and storytelling. I strive to tell her story, and I was named after "Poetic Justice." My namesake is a tribute to my mother, and my devotion to writing inspires her. As I came into my own, my mother was my guiding light; she ensured I received a well-rounded education, worked nights to provide a stability, and taught me how to take care of myself. More so, taking care of my mental and emotional health, as she gave me a voice to express my concerns. Writing is my vessel of self-care, and my mother encourages my creativity and is my muse.

As I wait for the banana bread to finish breaking, I am greeted with the warm, familiar sweet smell of my grandmother's recipe. From defrosting the ultra-sweet bananas to combining my perfectly measured wet and dry ingredients, the methodical routine steps of this family recipe puts me at ease. Baking relaxes me and I turn to baking to relieve my anxiety and for the enjoyment of sharing with my loved ones. Growing up, I fondly watched my great-grandmother, grandmother, and my mother find solace in the kitchen and, from a young age, I understood the healing quality of food; more so, through baking. I am fortunate to not only possess family recipes, but to have watched and helped the women in my family with baking. I love the routine of baking and how I create delicacies with my two hands. My grandmother's delicate cursive on old, faded yellow paper instructs me how to bake her banana bread; this piece of paper means the world to me. Out of all her recipes, this bread recipe brings me the most joy, as we baked this together, and after her passing, I bake this recipe to remind myself of her presence. Baking is sentimental for me, and the structure of baking calms my nerves. My mind is often flooded with wandering thoughts and worries; however, baking grounds me. I appreciate the structure and am comforted by the edible sweetness! Just then the oven alters me that my bread is done, and I use my favorite purple mittens to pull out the golden brown loaves. My mom enters the kitchen and we happily wait for the bread to cool, and to indulge. My mother is happily reminded of her mother's recipe, and I am happy about my cherished relaxation practice.

During the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, I developed hormonal acne, I did not realize this was the cause of my volcanic zits and outbreaks; subsequently, my self-esteem plummeted. While I understand beauty is subjective and one should not be too vain or preoccupied by vanity, I found myself ugly and worthless. All these horrible feelings because my face was covered by pimples, even though I was never ugly or worthless. My journey to self-care was not linear, but I am grateful for the progress of this productive, loving action. From trying fad acne creams, cleansers, to using an anti-dandruff shampoo on my face, I tried everything to rid myself of acne; the latter I used as I thought my acne was fungal acne after reading one article! My skin was beyond irritated by these products and in the height of a Texas heat wave, otherwise known as summer, my oil skin was suffering. At the time, I did not realize constantly alternating products was harmful to my skin, let alone the importance of maintaining a healthy skin barrier; I abstained from using moisturizer as I thought my skin was "too oily." Ergo, I did not need to moisturize. I found myself more and more confined to my room as I did not want my family members to see my face; I was beyond embarrassed, ashamed, and insecure. At the end of the summer, my mom sat down with me and took action to improve my mental health, as my acne began to define my life, my emotions. I have been past my peak for over a year now. My dermatologist gave me a diagnosis and prescribed topical creams and gave me useful product recommendations. My self-care is being delicate and kind to my skin; I am happier now.

With 4:25 minutes of melancholy and angst, the rock song "1979" by the Smashing Pumpkins is the song that most inspires me; this song is a living memory of my deceased uncle, Jon Michael Morris. Born in 1979 himself, this song reminds me of the joyous times I spent with my uncle and godfather. I listen to be reminded of his love for me and to inspire me to continue living, in the memory of my uncle. "1979" is somewhat obscure today in the age of pop, yet this 1990s classic is near and dear to my heart. When I listen to this song, it brings tears to my eyes; it has been close to three years since I have lost my beloved uncle. My uncle Michael was a remarkable man; he worked tirelessly to support his family and never failed to make time for his god-daughter. From beach days eating sandwiches with Corpus Christi sand in them, blown in by the coastal winds, to afternoons gazing at fish at the Texas State Aquarium, my uncle spent quality time with me. My uncle was a devote country fan through and through, while he failed to convert me, we enjoyed listening to classic and indie rock, hence The Smashing Pumpkins. The song is a coming-of-age ballad filled with the expected pain and turmoil of growing up. In this sense, I relate to the lyrics. Apart from the year the song is entitled after, the lyrics do not directly pertain or characterize my uncle; he was simply found of the song. I listen to it and live on in his name; I continue to excel academically, even though he is no longer here to praise my A's and to his dismay, I am will attend UT Austin, instead of his Texas A&M.

In March of 2020, I found myself awaiting the arrival of spring break and competing in the upcoming track meet in Rockport. This track meet would be our last school-sanctioned track meet of the season and the earliest days of the COVID-19 pandemic. The global spread of the virus transformed my life and education in its entirety. First most, my mother and I live with my grandfather and regularly visit with my great-grandmother, both are predisposed to contracting the virus. My family followed CDC guidelines and entered a quarantine period; the latter constituted our number one priority. My high school swiftly entered the digital realm for the remaining months of the 2019-2020 school year. The curriculum was rushed and amounted to an anticlimactic ending to my sophomore year. The summer of 2020 catapulted me into a period of isolation and grief. My anxiety rose to an unprecedented level, specifically as it pertained to my mother working in health care. My family was supportive, and we managed to convince ourselves that we could rise above this circumstance. However, the virus went on to alter the course of my junior year. To ensure the health and safety of my family, I opted to attend virtually for the first semester of the 2020-2021 academic year. While my teachers worked endlessly to create a sense of normalcy, I did not receive the education I desired, nor the one I deserved. Subjects such as history and English translated seamlessly to an online forum, unlike STEM classes. I am not confident in my math skills; I took pre-calculus and physics in my junior year, and my knowledge of these courses is mediocre at best. Within my physical absence, the teacher-student relationship could not transpire, let alone shape into a learning opportunity. As a senior in the class of 2022, I find myself mentally and physically drained. My household all received our vaccines and found a measure of solace in this measure, yet we find ourselves in the world of "in-between." Specifically, I occupy this realm as I am in-between high school and college, childhood and adulthood, and optimism and pessimism. On the latter, I actively choose to be optimistic as I know this is temporary; the losses will remain, as I lost family members over the pandemic, but their wishes for me to succeed remain evermore. I am in person for my senior year and being back in the classroom is a tremendous relief; I have friends to laugh and converse with, I have empathetic teachers who understand my anxiety, and an education that is personal and enriching. Last month I was accepted into my dream school, the University of Texas at Austin, as a Liberal Arts student! I am now utilizing the last semester of my senior year to spend time with friends and family, likewise cherish these last moments of my childhood. During these past two years, I am happy to say I have grown closer to my great-grandmother and mother, respectively. We spent many nights playing dominoes and retelling our favorite family stories. COVID-19, if anything, taught me resilience and to appreciate time with my family and the delicate nature of education; it is my dream to be a professor and this pandemic has shown me the greatest trait of teachers, empathy. I will be an empathetic educator dedicated to teaching my students, regardless of the circumstance at hand.

My happiness exists in the coastal winds of my hometown Portland, Texas; more so, the realm of nature which I inhabit. I feel the happiest when I am surrounded by nature, as it is serene and green is my favorite color. I am fortunate to say I grew up in the coastal bend community of Portland and adjacent Corpus Christi. Corpus Christi is perhaps best known for our beloved Selena Quintanilla, Reina de la cumbia, and I take pride in that sentiment. Nonetheless, the sound of flocking seagulls and crashing waves is undoubtedly the personification of perfection. There is no comparison to the sensation of warm sand against your toes as you walk North Beach, or my favorite beach, Rockport Beach. The Rockport Beach is a living time capsule of my favorite memories, from eating sandy sandwiches on beach days with my late uncle to carefully swimming away from adorable baby jellyfish. I love the water and could not imagine living in a dry area. The mere suggestion is incredulous! Alongside our breathtakingly beautiful beaches, Portland has several lovely walking trails, with my favorites residing at Violet Andrews Park and Sunset Lake. It is here I take long walks with friends and watch as migratory birds seemingly fly with the blush-pink sunsets. I feel at peace sitting in the shade of magnificent palm trees feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. My happiness exists in the environment I live in and there is no place quiet like Portland, Texas.

I sit anxious for the arrival of my mother in the principle's office I had never dared before enter. I found myself in this predicament after a series of painful months, and this period of isolation led me to utter the words, "I want to kill myself." At the ripe old age of thirteen, I wanted to end my life as I saw no escape from my soul-crushing anxiety and depression. My years in junior high were plagued by familial trauma and the shame of secrecy I carried within myself; moreover, how my drive for perfectionism led me to develop in imposter syndrome and I sincerely felt unless. Beginning with familial trauma, my absentee father has greatly contributed to feelings of worthlessness and the wish to be seen. I was a creative child and rather curious about the world I inhabited. However, I soon learned the cruel nature of my peers; more so, how it pertains to the violation of my bodily autonomy. At the age of eleven, I was sexually assaulted and can now rationalize how it affected me as a young woman. While loving, curious, and outgoing, I kept to myself emotionally. I found myself scared of men and I felt as if no one would believe my story; I silenced myself and felt guilty for being violated, as if it was my fault. My friends and family did not know and I was deathly afraid of revealing my shameful secret. This shame should belong to a young man who will remain unnamed, yet thirteen-year-old me carried the burden. Around this time, I developed anxiety; I acknowledge my genetics contributed to this development, and I contend the pressure of growing up intensified it undoubtedly. To this day, anxiety plagues me. Whether its having a panic attack, where I struggle to breathe, or the uncomfortably familiar sensation of sweaty palms. My anxiety stems from feeling physically unsafe around suspicious men, as the effect of being assaulted, alongside academic insecurities. Back to my junior high years, my academic anxiety is rooted in my inability to comprehend mathematics and I found myself in a stressful algebra course. I am sad to say I do not remember much from this time, as my brain has blocked these memories. The moments I do remember are not easy; I remember being unable to finish tests as time limits constricted my performances, I remember crying daily, about my inefficient math skills, and I remember telling my teacher, "I want to kill myself." I remember the moment vividly, as he encouraged me to continue talking. While he notified the principle, I opened up and for the first time in years, allowed myself to be vulnerable. The words we spoke have escaped my mind, yet I remember how my heart sank once being told my mother would be called to pick me up from school. I owe my life to Mr. Brent Wooten; a man who saw my pain and spoke up for me when I was too weak to do so myself. I am fortunate to say my mother was and is continuously supportive, as I went to therapy and am equip with anxiety coping mechanisms. I finally shared my truth about my assault and am learning to have a growth mindset, as it pertains to challenging school subjects. Being a star student does not have to correlate with the sacrifice of my mental health. My future is accessible, as I was saved. My dream is to become a history professor, so I can teach and inspire the next generation of learners, while remaining empathetic.

In the months leading up to my freshman year of high school, I found myself in mourning. I found myself aware of the inevitable death of my grandmother and upon her passing, lost in a sea of sorrows. My grandmother, Melody Elizabeth Morris, was a force of nature, and I watched her body fade away. At the age of fourteen, I lost my beloved grandmother, entered high school, and projected composure while feeling indescribable pain. With this loss, my academic achievements were motivated and encouraged by my late grandmother. From the age of eight, I begged for books and bombarded my grandmother with questions regarding the world around me. To this day, I am an avid reader and my bookshelf is comprised of dystopian literature. Throughout elementary school, my grandmother encouraged me to excel as she was not granted an avenue to receive a college education. As such, from an early age, I understood the importance of education, and she spoke proudly of my grades. She looked forward to my teenage years and my high school career, but she passed away. I entered the halls of my high school with a piece of my heart ripped from my chest. Through the assistance of friends and remaining family, I rebuilt my sense of self and began my journey of moving forward. In my first two years, I maintained a 4.0-grade point average, I participated in volunteering efforts, attended dances, and sought leadership roles in clubs. In my junior year, I pushed myself to become number 10 in my class, attend the Rotary Youth Leadership Awards, and accepted into the National Honors Society. These victories are not mine; they belong to my grandmother. I hold my head up high, looking forward to the pursuit of higher education, as my grandmother envisioned.