Bick First Generation Scholarship

Being the first person in my family of eight to attend college means carrying hope that extends far beyond myself. Every opportunity I earn reminds my younger siblings that a different future is possible. My family in Zimbabwe sees my education as a chance to change our future, and that responsibility has become my greatest motivation. Earning a degree is not the finish line for me. It is the beginning of what I plan to make possible for those who follow me. Growing up in Zimbabwe, I learned how quickly life can change. When my grandfather, our family's primary provider, became unable to work because of cancer, our household lost its income almost overnight. I had to leave school, and at twelve years old, I sold freezits (frozen juice snacks) and cooked maize at a local bus station to earn enough money to return. That experience inspired me to pursue actuarial science, using mathematics and data to measure financial risk and protect families and businesses from life's uncertainties. My journey to the United States became another test of that mindset. After twelve college rejections, I earned admission two years later. When I discovered my college did not offer an actuarial science program, I created my own path by seeking mentors and independently preparing for actuarial exams while working twenty hours each week to finance my education. Those efforts led me to pass four Society of Actuaries exams, intern with Reinsurance Group of America and Corebridge Financial, and become a National Finalist in the Travelers Actuarial Case Competition. My dream is to become a Fellow of the Society of Actuaries and build stronger financial protection systems for families facing life's uncertainties. That commitment to creating opportunity for others has shaped my path. After high school, I became an assistant teacher at Olivet Science Academy in Zimbabwe, teaching mathematics, physics, and statistics to more than forty students from resource-limited backgrounds. Having faced similar barriers, I focused not only on teaching difficult concepts but on building my students' confidence and helping them see that their circumstances did not define what they were capable of achieving. By year's end, my class achieved a 100% national exam pass rate. In college, I have continued serving others as a General Senator in Student Government and Co-Head of the Voter Registration Committee, advocating for students and helping them access educational resources and opportunities. My younger siblings attend under-resourced rural schools and walk 2.5 miles each way to class. I hope to help them attend better schools, support my parents, and mentor first-generation students. If I succeed, my success will never belong only to me. This scholarship would do far more than reduce my financial burden. As an international student with limited access to financial aid and loans, outstanding tuition balances have delayed my registration, bringing back the fear of leaving school once again. This scholarship would provide the stability to focus on my education, change my family's future, and help others overcome the barriers I once faced.

Being a first-generation student means writing the manual as you go, with no one ahead of you to call back directions. I left Nigeria at seventeen with a multi-million naira loan, no family in the United States, and no blueprint for any of what came next. Nobody in my family had attended college before me. Nobody could explain what financial aid looked like, how to ask for help without feeling like you did not belong, or what to do when the system assumed you already knew the rules. I learned every step alone, usually by getting it wrong before getting it right. The hardest moments were not academic. They were the semesters where I could not pay rent. The moments where I was close to losing my enrollment entirely because I could not cover tuition. The nights where I sat with the math over and over trying to find a version that worked, and there was no version that worked. I navigated all of it because the people who believed in me enough to let me leave were counting on me to make it worth it. I could not go back. That was never an option. What kept me moving was building things I did not yet know how to build. I taught myself to implement two AI research papers I barely understood, which became a patent-pending multi-agent AI system I have presented at Vanderbilt and Yale. I built Tatin, a payment identity platform, after watching a family friend get scammed by a vendor she had no way to verify. I earned a software engineer internship at Google and then earned it again for a second summer. Each of those things happened not because the path was clear but because I refused to let the absence of a path be a reason to stop. My dream is to become a technical founder building AI infrastructure and financial technology for the people most often left out of the systems built to protect everyone else. The small business owner with no fraud protection. The student from a country where access is limited by circumstance and geography. I want to build the tools that close those gaps, and I want to do it as someone who has lived on the wrong side of them. This scholarship would give me the space to finish my final semester focused entirely on that work. Not split between surviving and building. Not choosing between the loan payment and the application deadline. Just finishing what I started so I can step into everything I came here to do. Being first-generation means you carry more than most people see. It also means that when you make it, you bring something back that nobody in your family has ever held before. I intend to make it, and I intend to make it matter.

Being a first-generation student means you are the answer to a question your parents never got to ask for themselves. My parents arrived in the United States from India speaking no English, without high school diplomas, and with nothing to their name. I still remember our first apartment in Burlington, Massachusetts. No furniture, no beds, no television. Only enough to cook. They worked twelve to fifteen hour shifts, walking to grocery stores before sunrise, locking my six year old self and my younger sister inside because there was simply no one else to watch us. I remember my father carrying my very sick body to the street in the middle of the night, holding me up, hoping a stranger would stop and take us to a hospital. Someone did. That moment never left me. It taught me what love looks like when it has nothing left to give except itself. Being first generation means figuring everything out alone. It means standing in a financial aid office not knowing what a credit hour is and staying until you do. It means applying to colleges without anyone at home who has done it before, navigating scholarship applications, tax forms, academic advisors, and career offices entirely by trial and error, and treating every confusing system as a puzzle you are responsible for solving by yourself. It also means carrying people with you. Every exam I passed, every office I walked into, every degree I earned was not just mine. It belonged to two people who worked themselves to exhaustion so that I could have options they never did. That weight does not burden me. It anchors me. I finished my Biology degree at UMass Amherst in three years, graduating Cum Laude with a 3.9 GPA and minors in Information Technology and Business. I mentored nearly 200 first year students, taught alongside professors in three courses, and logged 135 community service hours, all while working part time to help finance my education. I am now pursuing a Master of Science in Data Science at Merrimack College, building the technical skills to use data to improve real decisions for real people. My dreams are specific. I want to work at the intersection of data, technology, and strategy. I want to help my parents pay down their mortgage, to give back something foundational to two people who gave everything they had from nothing. And I want to build a nonprofit dental outreach organization for underserved communities in cities like Boston and New York, because I grew up in a home where basic preventive care felt out of reach, and I have never forgotten what that costs a child's dignity. This scholarship would ease a financial pressure that is real and present, freeing up the energy that stress consumes and redirecting it toward the work I know I am capable of. I am not the first person in my family to struggle. But I intend to be the last.

I know exactly how long hope can last: eighteen years. My family applied to immigrate to the United States in 2003. I arrived in 2021, six years after graduating from high school. By then, I had learned that opportunity can arrive late, and when it does, it rarely comes with instructions. That is what being a first-generation student means to me: entering rooms that my parents never entered, learning systems none of us understands, and then making the door easier to open for the person behind me. My path began with loss. My mother died in a tragic car accident while pregnant with me, and doctors, nurses, and the amazing medical team saved my life. I grew up without her, but with the knowledge that skilled, patient, and compassionate care can change a family forever. My uncle, Dr. Zafarmand, became one of my earliest mentors. At eleven, he gave me temporary braces; later, I spent summers observing him treat patients. Those experiences gave me a dream: to become a dentist who combines technical excellence with the kind of care people remember when they are frightened, uncertain, or in pain. The road there has not been direct. Iran's economic situation was getting worse every day. After high school, I worked full-time and studied English while my family continued waiting for our visa. After immigrating, I helped care for my grandmother with Alzheimer’s and became a translator and problem-solver for my family. Eventually, I returned to school in 2022, after a six-year gap, started at community college, earned a 4.0 GPA, and transferred to UCLA in 2025. Today, I study biology, participate in research, and have applied to dental school. Being first-generation student has also taught me that progress should not stop with me. As a General Chemistry teaching assistant, I explained difficult concepts, answered questions, and held office hours for students who needed individual help. I know how much one patient mentor can change a life because I had one. Financially, however, every step remains fragile. My family lives in low-income Section 8 housing, and I commute to UCLA while doing my best with balancing tuition, transportation, living expenses, research, and the cost of applying to dental school. Next year, I hope to begin dental school, where the total cost of education can reach hundreds of thousands of dollars. This scholarship would give me something that non-traditional first-generation students rarely have enough of: room to breathe. It would help cover my current educational and commuting costs, reduce how much I must borrow, and give me more time for research, service, and preparing for dental school. My dream is bigger than earning a degree. I want to become the mentor I once needed, to care for patients, to offer free service to underserved communities, guide students without a roadmap, and prove that an eighteen-year wait does not have to end in lost time. It can end in a life built deliberately, then used to make someone else’s path easier.

To many, college is a next step. To me, it’s a milestone generation in the making. I am a first-generation college student, a Syrian refugee, and a woman in STEM pursuing a degree in pharmacy. My educational journey began not in a classroom, but on foot, walking nearly 85 kilometers with my family to escape the war in Daraa, Syria. That journey was over 110,000 steps, each one carrying fear, hope, and the determination to survive. We fled airstrikes, walked through shattered streets, and finally reached safety in the Zaatari refugee camp in Jordan. I was only six years old, but I knew that education would be my way forward. When we resettled in the United States, I didn’t speak English. Every day was a challenge, from learning a new language to navigating unfamiliar school systems with no family history of higher education to guide me. My parents, who never had the opportunity to attend college, could not help with financial aid forms or course selection. I had to learn everything from scratch, what AP classes were, how to write a résumé, and why SATs mattered. Being a first-generation student means more than being the first to attend college. It means building a future without a blueprint. It means translating school emails for your parents while figuring out how to apply for scholarships late into the night. It means balancing cultural expectations with academic demands and carrying the dreams of your family with every step forward. But it also means being resilient. I’ve taken every opportunity to give back to the community that welcomed me. I’ve worked as a junior counselor for a summer program supporting newly resettled refugee youth, helping them adapt to their new environment. I’ve helped organize cultural and educational events, prepared meals for those in need, and supported local organizations that promote inclusion and youth leadership. I currently work as an IT assistant while studying full-time in a demanding academic program. Every job, every volunteer shift, every late night spent studying has been fueled by the belief that my success is not mine alone, it belongs to my family, my community, and every young person who dreams of doing more than just surviving. This scholarship would ease a financial burden that weighs heavily on my education. But more than that, it would affirm that my journey, and that of so many first-generation students, is seen and valued. It would allow me to focus on becoming a healthcare provider dedicated to community health and health equity. I hope to one day return to refugee communities to serve not just as a pharmacist, but as a source of hope. Being first-generation means being first, but never the last. It means paving a path so others can walk it more easily. I’m proud to be that person, and with your support, I’ll go even further.

Essay Being a first-generation college student means breaking a cycle that has existed in my family for generations. I grew up in poverty in a war-torn country where survival came before dreams. Education was a privilege most could not afford, and my parents—though loving and hardworking—did not have the resources or knowledge to guide me through school. From a young age, I learned to be independent, resilient, and to fight for a better life, even when the path forward was unclear. When I came to the United States, I faced a new world filled with challenges. I had to learn a new language, adapt to a new culture, and navigate systems that were completely unfamiliar to me. I didn’t have family members who could offer advice about college applications, financial aid, or career planning. My hardships became the foundation of my strength and compassion for others who face similar battles. Today, I am pursuing my Master’s degree in Clinical Mental Health Counseling at the University of Phoenix. Achieving this goal has been one of the most meaningful accomplishments of my life. I currently work nearly 80 hours a week as a crisis therapist, supporting individuals who are homeless, struggling with addiction, or facing severe mental health challenges. The work is demanding, but it reminds me daily why I chose this path. Having lived through trauma and scarcity myself, I understand the pain of feeling forgotten, and I strive to offer empathy, stability, and hope to those who need it most. My dream is to open a trauma-informed center that provides accessible, culturally sensitive counseling to people who have endured unimaginable hardship—immigrants, veterans, and individuals battling trauma or substance use. I want to build a space where healing feels possible and where people are treated with dignity, no matter their background or income. I believe that mental health care should not be a luxury but a human right. This scholarship would mean far more than financial assistance—it would represent validation of my journey and acknowledgment of the perseverance it took to get here. As someone who grew up with very little support, every opportunity I’ve earned has come through hard work, faith, and determination. This award would help relieve the financial burden of tuition and allow me to focus more deeply on my studies, clinical practice, and community outreach. With this support, I could expand my impact and continue helping those who have no one else to turn to. Being a first-generation student symbolizes hope and transformation. It means carrying both the dreams of my parents and the responsibility to create a better future for others. Though I came from poverty and uncertainty, I have built a life grounded in resilience, empathy, and purpose. I want my journey to show others—especially those who feel powerless—that it’s possible to rise beyond where you come from. With this scholarship, I can continue turning my hardships into healing and my determination into meaningful change for those who need it most.

eing a first-generation student means stepping into a world no one in my family has had the chance to enter. It means walking into classrooms without someone at home who can explain financial aid, college systems, or what the future might look like. It means learning every step alone but refusing to let that stop you. For me, being first-generation has never been about pressure. It has been about opportunity, sacrifice, and the belief that I could build a life different from the one I was born into. When I left Iran at seventeen, I came to the United States completely alone. No financial support. No guidance. No safety net. I worked from early morning to late at night, walked nearly an hour to my job, saved every dollar, and taught myself how to survive in a new country while trying to earn an education. I often felt invisible struggling quietly while trying to keep up with students who had families helping them, who had homes to go back to, who weren’t worried about how they would pay rent or buy groceries the next day. The odds were against me, but every challenge I faced became the reason I kept going. What drives me today is the same thing that kept me going back then: the belief that education can change everything. I became the first in my family to attend college, the first to pursue a graduate degree, and soon, the first to earn a doctoral degree. I chose the field of medicine because I know what it feels like to be unseen, unheard, and unsupported and I want to be the kind of provider who makes sure no patient ever feels that way. My dream is to become a Physician Assistant and ultimately a PA educator, serving underserved, immigrant, and low-income communities. I want to provide compassionate medical care, teach future healthcare providers, and advocate for families who face the same barriers I faced when I first arrived in this country. I want to be living proof to other first-generation students especially young women, immigrants, and students of color that your starting point does not define your future. But pursuing higher education as a first-generation, low-income student comes with real financial barriers. I have supported myself every step of the way, and the weight of student loans is heavy especially as I enter my Doctor of Medical Science program. This scholarship would relieve part of that burden and allow me to continue my education without sacrificing my ability to focus, serve my community, and move toward my long-term goals. Being first-generation is not easy. But it has made me stronger, more resilient, and more determined. With your support, I will continue building the future my family never had the opportunity to imagine.

Being a first-generation student means choosing to climb a staircase no one before you has ever seen, with no one ahead to call back directions. I grew up in Poughkeepsie in a household where survival took priority over planning for the future. There were no savings accounts, no financial buffer, and no one who could explain what FAFSA or course registration even meant. I entered higher education the way many first-generation students do, by learning the rules while already living the consequences. What people rarely see is how isolating it can feel to be the first. There is no one to check whether a decision is wise, no one to warn you before you sign a binding document, no one who has walked the path you are trying to navigate. I have cried in financial aid offices, signed loan agreements I had to trust, gone to class after working overnight, and stretched groceries to make tuition work. None of that appears on a transcript, but it shapes who you become. Even in the middle of that instability I continued to serve others. I taught reproductive health to girls who had never been told their bodies belonged to them. I supported vaccine access work in Argentina so children I will never meet might live to dream. I did not wait for stability before contributing. I gave while still building, because I know what it feels like to need help and not have it. Being first-generation is not just an identity. It is responsibility. It is carrying the possibility that you may become the point where your family’s story changes direction. This scholarship would not create my motivation. It would relieve the constant strain that comes from advancing without a safety net. Students like me do not lack ambition. We carry ambition and burden at the same time. You would not only be supporting one student. You would be helping interrupt a pattern that has persisted for generations. You would be allowing someone who has already built from scarcity to continue building without risking collapse to do so. If I have been able to create this much with uncertainty under my feet, imagine what is possible when that ground is finally steady.