After meticulous evaluation of essays and applications, Absolute Fencing Gear has chosen its four scholarship recipients — two at the $4,000 level and two at the $1,000 level.

The 2024-25 scholarship recipients are:

• $4,000: Opal Lehman, Dunwoody Fencing Club
• $4,000: Eric Shao, Star Fencing Academy
• $1,000:  Genevieve Phan, West Coast Fencing Academy
• $1,000: Jubin Park, Nashville Elite Fencing Club

Essays were written in response to this prompt: "Every fencer has a moment that changed their perspective on the sport. Describe a specific event—whether it was a victory, a loss, an interaction with a teammate, or an unexpected challenge—that shaped your approach to fencing and personal growth. What did you take away from this experience, and how has it influenced who you are today?"

Read the winning essays below.

I have always been a quitter. I tried violin, quit. Soccer, quit. Guitar, quit. Dance, quit. Gymnastics, quit. The list goes on but you get the gist. It has given me a feeling of guilt, of shame, that I've carried around with me my whole life. Every time a friend mentioned a sport they've been playing for their whole life or how they're playing Beethoven's 8th symphony at their recital, I've just tried to answer one question: Why can't I commit? I, rather defeatedly, landed for two reasons: It’s too hard and I’m meant to be a quitter. It caused me to avoid trying new things because I knew I would give up on it. Last summer, my friend, Remie, told me about how she was trying fencing and how she thought that I would like it (because swords, obviously). I kind of dismissed it as another thing I wouldn't stick with but she kept insisting. I ended up taking a fencing class at my summer camp with Remie and it turned out to be, well, alright. The rules were weird and we didn’t have proper equipment. I was not impressed with it so when the school year started, Remie begged me to come to the fencing club interest meeting but after I did, I decided to take a risk and join. And since that first practice, all I've wanted to do is fence. Over my school’s breaks, I would try to organize a bunch of out of school practices with the school club (which is another level of difficulty when working with highschoolers) and have as many fencing lessons as I could get. Every night before a competition, I’d lay awake, trying to picture tactics and moves in my mind, even though I’d forget them the very next day. I was a teensy tiny bit obsessed. At the end of year fencing club party, our team captain, Lexie, was handing out our personal awards which were superlatives drawn on a paper plate. When it was my turn, I was called up and presented with my paper plate which read, "most involved and fashionable." At that moment, I didn’t care about the "fashionable" part, I was too busy playing back all of the times I had stretched myself to go a little further, even when it was difficult. Every time I made myself go early to competitions to support the guys on my team, even though I could have slept in. Every time I told myself that there was a good chance I’td be hard and still did it. I stood in front of my team and, I have to admit, I got a little emotional because it was a big moment for me to recognize the fact that I had found my thing and I stuck with it. All that effort had also shown me that, for me, it's not the sport that changed me, it was my own actions and will to achieve my goals that changed me.

"Every fencer has a moment that changed their perspective on the sport."
For me, that moment wasn't a gold medal or a dramatic last-point loss–it was the day I realized I couldn't fence at all.

In early 2021, after months of quarantine, my fencing club finally reopened for in-person training. I was thrilled. I'd missed fencing with my teammates. But, just as I started practicing again, something felt off. My knee throbbed every time I lunged. At first, I dismissed the pain, believing it was just soreness from training. But soon, the pain grew worse. Even walking downstairs was difficult.

Eventually, my doctor diagnosed me with Osgood-Schlatter Disease, a common growth-related knee condition. The prescription was clear: stop fencing, start physical therapy, and rest. At that moment, I felt like everything I'd worked for was slipping away. My teammates would continue to progress while I fell behind. My first instinct was to push through it, to train anyways. That's what grit means, right?

But as the weeks went on, I began to realize that real strength isn't just about pushing forward. It's about knowing when to step back. I followed through with physical therapy, even when it frustrated me. And slowly, I recovered. When I finally returned to the strip, I came back smarter, more patient, and more aware of my body and limits.

That injury changed the way I approach not only fencing but also challenges in general. I now understand that resilience isn't reckless–it's intentional. It means making the right choices in the short term to protect your long-term goals. That lesson shaped who I am: a more thoughtful athlete, a more balanced person, and someone who sees setbacks as a chance to grow.

"14-14" echoed as I came to the line. "Engarde! Ready? Fence!" This final bout would earn me a rating. I joined fencing later than my friends, and this was an opportunity to make two years of work feel worth it. This one touch would define whether I earned my peers' approval and could have given me a leg up in every tournament
afterwards. My sabre missed. My heart sank, and I threw my mask down. Tears fell as I stomped off. “You need to calm down and go to the bathroom,” my mom reprimanded. In the bathroom mirror, a monster looked back with angry eyes. My mom eventually forced me to accept my silver medal, a symbol of my shortcomings. After the awards ceremony, however, I remembered I had had a young spectator that day. She fenced with my club, but I had never seen her before. According to my mom, she had witnessed all my bouts and watched me lose without grace. After the tournament, six weeks ticked by like seconds. I would roll over in my bed, shut the alarm off and dismiss practice for another week. I pulled the covers over my head and hid. The practices I had once loved seemed like a chore rather than an opportunity to better myself. When I finally resolved to go back, I stared absentmindedly out the window of my dad's Toyota. Every red light we stopped at reminded me of why I was hesitant, haunted by the practices after my loss when my coaches congratulated me. “Genevieve, I saw who you fenced. She’s a difficult opponent; you fenced very well.” It felt like an expression of pity. I knew deep inside that I was being insecure, but I couldn’t push the thought away. The young girl from the tournament resurfaced in my mind. She had been afraid to say goodbye. I realized that I didn’t want to be that kind of role model. I had let my temper control my actions and probably made a lasting negative impact on the girl. My first practice back, the girl was there as well. She ran up immediately when she saw me. Even though I hadn’t won that day and I hadn’t been the best loser, she still thought I was someone to look up to. I was going to work hard and be better to live up to her view of me. I now understand the difference between a winner and a champion isn’t about how many medals you earn, but how you handle challenges. A winner comes out on top in a single tournament, but a champion pursues excellence even after losing. Along the way, she lifts up others and inspires them. That day, I realized I didn’t want to be an angry monster, but a light to lead others. Fencing has taught me the importance of losing gracefully and building perseverance and determination. I might not have been a winner, but I am striving to be a champion.

"You can't get into shape by going to the gym for 9 hours – it won't work. But if you work out every single day for 20 minutes, you will absolutely get into shape"
- Simon Sinek

Simon Sinek is an author and speaker best known for his TED talks and inspirational thinking. He argues that consistency is more valuable than intensity; hard work and dedication beats spontaneous bursts of productivity and focus. Throughout my fencing career, I have had countless moments that have influenced my approach to fencing as well as my personal growth, with each moment holding a special value that shapes my perspective on not just fencing, but my life today. Of all these moments, the moment I realized the importance of consistency was my most valuable revelation.

When I first met Ved, we became friends instantly. What I admired of him was his dedication to fencing and how it did not die down. At first, I would beat him easily, day after day; however, in 2 years, I noticed I was losing to him more and more. I grew frustrated, not understanding why I kept facing loss followed by loss. Eventually, I decided to ask my coach where he then said:

"You're losing to Ved because he comes to practice more often than you do," he said.

At first, I did not think much into this statement since it sounded too simple. Yet, the more I considered it, the more it would make sense. Ved would show up continually- regardless of weather, tests, mood, or convenience, whereas I would only show up when it would fit into my schedule. Therefore, I made a decision: instead of being a fencer that practices only when the time feels right, I would be a fencer that came to practice even when I simply did not have to. I had to be comfortable with being uncomfortable.

In the beginning, I did not notice a difference, yet little by little, I started to improve in both my fencing and mentality; I felt confident not because I won more bouts, but because I proved to myself that I could stick with something. Not only did the shift in mindset change my fencing, it also changed other aspects of my life, such as my academics, relationships, and hobbies. I had faith in hard work that built up over will and time; I became a person of dignity yet humility.

Today, when I face a difficult obstacle in life, instead of questioning myself if I feel like overcoming it, I question myself if I have the will to move forward every day. Just as Simon Sinek said, "It's the daily practice of monotonous, little, boring things like brushing your teeth that matter the most."