A lesson in advocacy by Annabelle

A lesson in advocacy by Annabelle - January 2026 Scholarship Essay

I groan as the sunlight slips through my curtains. I lay still, taking a moment, before attacking the day. Above me, there’s a collage made up of a finished puzzle with its pieces glued together, an impressionist painting of my family’s homestead in Ireland, and a framed copy of the St. Francis prayer. The prayer’s first line, “Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace” reminds me what I am here to do. I turn, glancing at my bookshelf: Lego flowers, thrifted decor, journalism awards, and photos of my family clutter the shelves. But two items remind me every morning of what I am here to do. First, a small marble square, with a blue anchor, inscribed with Hebrews 6:19-20. Next to this symbol of Hope, a plaque, detailed with flowers, and a declaration by St. Joan of Arc, “I am not afraid, I was born to do this.” Though my brain is jumbled with schedules, to-do lists, and every other thought a teenage girl may have, my cluttered room represents me: Annabelle Hope Reagan.
Hope has meant more to me than just a name sandwiched between my first and last. It has driven me in ways hard to describe, a constant reminder of who I must strive to be. The reminders in my room suggest that it has been easy to decide daily to be an instrument of peace and bold advocate. This is misleading. For while I know I was born to do this, fear has often blocked my path.
Since I can remember, I’ve dealt with anxiety: stomachaches before school, crying when things didn’t go as planned. During trying times in middle school, I turned to unsafe coping mechanisms because I felt alone, lost without hope. When I realized these mechanisms were becoming too dangerous I had to advocate for myself. One of the hardest things I had to do was muster up the strength to admit something small yet heavy: I needed hope.
Tapping on my teacher's door, my ears muffled the sound of Mrs. Kovarik’s call to enter. Sitting by her, admitting for the first time out loud that I needed help, a weight lifted off my shoulders as I was no longer living a lie. I sat in silence, timidly glancing up to meet her gaze after my confession. Within seconds, she smiled, offering guidance, broadening my vision to see that there was a light. There was hope. Together we went down to the office, advocated for the help that I needed to fight this, and together we took the next steps to healing.
Mrs. Kovarik showed me faith during that tumultuous time, and it is from her that I found my calling for advocacy. Later that year, I grew from being the shell of myself crying out for a glimmer of hope to the strong advocate for those who couldn’t see the light, discovering this new skill and learning to foster it.
This time when I knocked on the door and heard the faint “Come in,” I was empowered. Seated around the table were familiar yet intimidating faces of the administration waiting for me. A deep breath filled my lungs. Across the divide of the table, I remembered why I was there, to share my plan to help others. My voice steady, I passed out my papers, launching into my plan.
I outlined my Student Well-Being Initiative, a plan that if approved would ensure counselor visibility, spaces for students in crisis, monthly wellbeing check-ins, and mandatory awareness training in an effort to destigmatize mental health. I had worked for weeks, meeting with the DEI coordinator to express the need for a program, researching adolescent mental health, first aid programs, and gathering student opinions in order to prepare my pitch.
My presentation concluded, one voice broke the silence, questioning me, “Why?” I thought back to months earlier, how much I had grown, the hope Mrs. Kovarik had shown me, and the way I had to fight for myself. These moments made me realize that while I had the strength to speak up for myself, many other students were not so fortunate. It was my responsibility to speak loudly for those whose voices shake.
I snapped back to the conference room and responded, “Because I went through it alone, and I never want another student to feel the way that I did.” While it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, I knew being vulnerable would allow for many more students to have the space to be open about their struggles.
Years later, I still fight for destigmatization of mental health for students, proper mental health first aid training for staff members, and advocate for the quieter members of my school community. Through countless Board of Education meetings, advisory committees, and in daily conversations with those around me, I’m exercising what I am called to do.
I have used my discovered talent of empathy and advocacy to grow my own confidence, as well as influence the well-being of others through my strong sense of justice and desire to help. Without these moments, I would’ve never grown past the young girl who was struggling, and would’ve never dreamed that she could not only help herself out, but help others too.