Henry Respert Alzheimer's and Dementia Awareness Scholarship

The first time my grandfather forgot my name, I didn't imagine that he would become a child just like me. Alzheimer's disease was already taking him, and over the months that followed, I watched it take everything: his memories, his words, and finally his recognition of me. I watched him forget who I was. I watched myself stop being a child in his eyes as he slowly became one himself. Loving someone with Alzheimer's means grieving them twice: once as their mind leaves, and again when their body finally does. For a long time, I didn't understand clearly what was happening to him. As a family, we noticed the small things first, the repeated questions, the misplaced objects, the stories of the old days. We made excuses for each one because admitting the truth felt like surrendering him prematurely. But Alzheimer's does not wait for a family to be ready. It advances quietly and then all at once, and by the time we fully accepted the diagnosis, the man who had helped raise me was already slipping beyond our reach. I saw him die; he forgot how to breathe on his own, and there I stood, watching him agonize while I was trying to call 911. That experience changed the direction of my life. When he passed away, I made a promise to study the brain to the fullest of my ability, so that other families might be spared the slow, helpless loss that mine endured. For me, that promise points directly toward a career in neurosurgery and toward research into Alzheimer's disease. I do not want other grandchildren to sit across from someone they love and realize they have become a stranger. I do not want other families to feel as powerless as we did, watching, waiting, and hoping for answers that medicine could not yet give us. What Alzheimer's taught me, above all, is that this disease is not only a medical problem, it is a human one, and it is far larger than any single family. In Puerto Rico, where our population is aging rapidly, and access to specialized neurological care is limited, families like mine often confront dementia with too little support and too few answers. Many caregivers are relatives with no medical training, doing their best out of love while the healthcare system around them struggles to keep pace. Seeing that reality up close convinced me that awareness and research are not abstract academic goals; they are urgent, personal needs. There is still so much we do not understand about what causes Alzheimer's, how it progresses, and how it might one day be slowed or stopped, and every gap in that knowledge is measured in families like mine. I have tried to turn that conviction into action rather than let it remain a wish. I am currently a junior at the University of Puerto Rico at Arecibo, pursuing a bachelor's degree in microbiology while maintaining a 4.0 GPA. To push myself further, I am taking an immuno-oncology course through Harvard Medical School, a demanding class that has taught me how diseases operate at the cellular and molecular level, and how researchers translate that understanding into treatments. That framework is exactly what fields like Alzheimer's research demand: patience with complexity, comfort with uncertainty, and a willingness to chase questions that do not yet have answers. Beyond the classroom, I am part of four research projects, several of them in collaboration with hospitals and neurosurgery departments, all aimed at producing work that genuinely helps the people of my island. My love of mathematics led me to combine biostatistics and computational modeling with the applied sciences connected to my major, because I believe the future of medicine will be built at the intersection of biology, data, and human insight. Each of these projects is, in its own quiet way, a continuation of the promise I made at my grandfather's bedside. When I analyze data late at night or troubleshoot a model that will not converge, I am not only chasing a publication, I am chasing the possibility that research like this might one day spare another family the grief mine lived through. Alzheimer's also taught me lessons that no laboratory or textbook ever could. I learned that caring for someone is not always about fixing them; sometimes it is about staying, listening, and preserving their dignity when the disease tries to strip it away. I learned patience, because rushing him only deepened his confusion and fear. I learned presence, because the moments when I simply sat with him mattered more than anything I could say. And I learned that medicine, at its core, is as much about compassion as it is about cures. A physician who understands the science but forgets the person has only done half the job. My grandfather made sure I would never forget the other half. There is a particular clarity that comes from watching a disease take someone you love and being unable to stop it. It removes any doubt about why the work matters. I have met classmates who are still searching for their reason to endure the long, punishing road toward medicine. I am fortunate, in a painful way, to already know mine. My reason has a face, a voice I still remember, and a name I will carry into every operating room and every research lab I ever enter. My grandfather did not live to see who I am becoming, and he never will. But every exam I study for, every research project I pursue, and every step I take toward neurosurgery is shaped by his memory. I am not a waiter, I am a doer, and I refuse to let his suffering be meaningless. No one believed I could accomplish much of what I have already done, yet I have learned that determination turns grief into purpose and obstacles into direction. If I can spend my career advancing our understanding of Alzheimer's, treating the patients this disease and others like it produce, and raising awareness in a community that desperately needs it, then the loss my family endured will have planted something that outlives it. That is the difference I intend to make. It began with him, and I intend to honor him with everything I build.

When I first began studying neuroscience, I was fascinated by the extraordinary complexity of the human brain. The more I learned, however, the more I realized how devastating it is when diseases such as Alzheimer’s and other forms of dementia slowly rob individuals of their memories, independence, and identity. What was once a scientific interest quickly became a personal mission. As a first-generation immigrant from Nigeria, a senior at Rutgers University–Newark majoring in Neuroscience and Behavior on the pre-medical track, and an aspiring neurosurgeon, I have come to understand that Alzheimer’s disease is not merely a neurological disorder—it is a disease that affects entire families, caregivers, and communities. It has strengthened my commitment to advancing neuroscience while advocating for compassionate, equitable healthcare. Throughout my undergraduate education, I have learned that Alzheimer’s disease extends far beyond memory loss. In my neuroscience coursework, I studied the anatomy and physiology of the central nervous system, the role of neurons and synaptic transmission, and how neurodegeneration progressively damages the hippocampus and cerebral cortex—regions responsible for learning, memory, and cognition. I learned about the accumulation of beta-amyloid plaques and tau protein tangles, chronic neuroinflammation, oxidative stress, and neuronal death that ultimately impair communication between brain cells. These concepts transformed Alzheimer’s from a disease described in textbooks into one I could understand at the cellular and molecular levels. One of the most meaningful experiences in my education was analyzing scientific literature on neurodegenerative diseases and discussing emerging therapies. My classes explored why current medications only slow symptoms rather than cure the disease and why early diagnosis remains one of the greatest challenges in treating dementia. Studying these limitations made me appreciate both the remarkable progress of neuroscience and the tremendous amount of work still required. It also taught me that research is not simply about publishing discoveries—it is about giving families more time with the people they love. Outside the classroom, my work as an ophthalmic technician has further shaped my understanding of neurological disease. Every day, I interact with patients from diverse backgrounds, many of whom are older adults managing multiple medical conditions. While my primary responsibility is evaluating their vision through procedures such as OCT imaging, retinal photography, and other diagnostic tests, these interactions have taught me that healthcare is about much more than technology. Some patients struggle to remember medications or appointments, while others rely heavily on family members for support. Observing these challenges has deepened my empathy and reminded me that neurological diseases affect every aspect of a person’s daily life—not only their health but also their relationships, dignity, and independence. Growing up in Nigeria and later immigrating to the United States also exposed me to disparities in healthcare access. Many families lack adequate neurological specialists, advanced diagnostic tools, or educational resources about dementia. In many communities, cognitive decline is misunderstood as a normal part of aging or surrounded by stigma, causing delays in diagnosis and treatment. These experiences have convinced me that increasing awareness is just as important as advancing medical research. Education empowers families to seek help earlier, understand available resources, and support loved ones with compassion rather than misunderstanding. My long-term goal is to become a neurosurgeon who combines exceptional patient care with innovative neuroscience research. I hope to contribute to developing therapies that not only manage Alzheimer’s disease but address its underlying biological causes. Whether through studying neuroregeneration, precision medicine, or emerging technologies, I want to help create treatments that preserve cognitive function and improve quality of life for future generations. While I recognize that curing Alzheimer’s is one of medicine’s greatest challenges, I believe meaningful progress begins with dedicated scientists, compassionate physicians, and persistent research. Equally important, I plan to use my education to serve underserved communities. I hope to organize community seminars that educate families about Alzheimer’s disease, risk factors, early warning signs, and preventive lifestyle strategies. I also want to partner with community organizations to provide free neurological health screenings and connect families with support services. As someone who has mentored students throughout college and served in leadership roles, I understand the power of education to transform lives. I hope to inspire young people—especially first-generation and underrepresented students—to pursue careers in neuroscience, medicine, and biomedical research. Receiving the Henry Respert Alzheimer’s and Dementia Awareness Scholarship would allow me to continue pursuing this mission while easing the financial burden of my education. More importantly, it would affirm my commitment to addressing one of the greatest neurological challenges of our time. The human brain allows us to remember our loved ones, pursue our dreams, and define who we are. Alzheimer’s disease threatens those very foundations of life. My education has taught me the science behind this devastating illness, but it has also taught me the importance of compassion, advocacy, and hope. I aspire to dedicate my career to ensuring that future generations experience a world where neurological diseases are better understood, more effectively treated, and, one day, prevented altogether. Through research, patient care, and community outreach, I hope to honor that commitment and leave a lasting impact on countless families facing Alzheimer’s disease and dementia.

I've introduced myself to the same person more times than I can count. "Hi, I'm Milena. I'm here to draw your blood." She smiles. Five minutes later, while I'm labeling her tubes, she looks at me and asks, "Who are you?" So I smile back. "Hi, I'm Milena." As a mobile phlebotomist, I spend my mornings traveling from one nursing home to another. Many of my patients are living with Alzheimer's disease or other forms of dementia. I often recognize them before they recognize me. I know who prefers their left arm, who likes to joke before the needle, and who gets nervous the moment they see the tourniquet. Yet every visit begins the same way—as if we've never met. At first, I thought memory was what defined a person. Now I don't. Dementia has taught me that even when memories fade, humanity doesn't. My patients may not remember my name, but they still recognize patience. They still respond to kindness, reassurance, and a calm voice. They still deserve to be spoken to with dignity instead of being spoken about. Working with these patients has changed both my career and the questions I ask about medicine. As a Neurobiology student at Penn State, I am fascinated by how the brain creates memories, language, and identity. This fall, I will begin neuroscience research in Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab, where I'll study cognition and language processing. Every time I walk into another nursing home, I'm reminded that behind every scientific discovery is a family hoping for one more conversation, one more story, or one more moment of recognition. One patient once thanked me for being "the nice young girl who always comes." She had no idea who I was. But somehow, she remembered how I made her feel. That moment completely changed the way I think about healthcare. Medicine isn't only about helping people remember. Sometimes it's about making sure they're never forgotten. That is the physician I hope to become. Whether I spend my career treating patients, conducting neuroscience research, or advancing our understanding of neurodegenerative disease, I want every patient to feel seen, respected, and cared for—even on the days when they cannot remember my face. I've introduced myself to the same people hundreds of times. And every single time, I hope they leave remembering one thing that Alzheimer's cannot take away: That, for a few moments, someone cared.

There are few things more heartbreaking than watching someone you love slowly disappear before your eyes, trapped in a body that remains but a mind that fades away. Alzheimer’s and dementia have touched my life in deeply personal and profound ways. My aunt is currently battling dementia and Alzheimer’s, and watching her gradual decline has been one of the most difficult experiences my family has faced. Working at the Veterans Affairs hospital, I meet many individuals suffering from these conditions, and I see the pain it causes not only to them but to their families and caregivers. It is heartbreaking to witness the slow disappearance of someone you love, while they are still physically present. This experience has shaped my perspective on the importance of research and care in neurodegenerative diseases. It is not just about medical science but about human dignity, compassion, and hope. The challenges families endure are immense. Alzheimer’s robs people of their memories, their personalities, and their connections with loved ones — and that loss creates ripple effects that touch entire communities. Watching my aunt’s journey has made me determined to contribute to efforts that can slow, treat, or one day cure this devastating disease. In high school, I took my commitment beyond my immediate family by organizing and participating in several fundraisers for Alzheimer’s awareness and research. These events were meaningful to me because they allowed me to join a broader community working toward change. I learned how collective efforts, no matter how small, can build momentum and hope for families still in the middle of their struggles. Currently, as a Biomedical Engineering student and an intern at the Veterans Affairs hospital, I have the privilege of serving and learning from patients affected by dementia and Alzheimer’s every day. These encounters remind me that research is urgent and vital. The patients are more than medical cases — they are individuals with stories, histories, and families who need solutions now. My education and experiences fuel my ambition to one day contribute to medical advancements that improve lives not just through treatment but through early detection, accessibility, and support. The legacy of Henry Respert — a man who impacted his community and faced the challenges of dementia — deeply resonates with me. This scholarship represents more than financial support; it symbolizes a commitment to honor those affected by these illnesses through education, research, and service. Receiving it would empower me to continue my studies without distraction and allow me to invest more time and energy into the kinds of meaningful work that both help patients and advance scientific knowledge. Alzheimer’s and dementia are diseases that challenge us to care beyond ourselves — to value memory, identity, and the human connection. Through my academic journey and my work at the VA, I am learning that healthcare and research are not only about curing illness but about restoring dignity and hope. I want to be part of that future — one where families no longer have to watch their loved ones fade away, but instead can live with peace and support. This scholarship would bring me closer to that goal. It would enable me to pursue the research and healthcare path that I am passionate about and help me carry forward the legacy of compassion, leadership, and impact that Henry Respert exemplified.

Alzheimer’s disease isn’t something you truly understand until it takes someone you love away from you while they’re still breathing. I didn’t know much about the illness when my great-grandmother was first diagnosed. I had always known her as sharp, sassy, and deeply spiritual. She remembered everyone’s birthdays, could quote scriptures on the spot, and told stories from her youth like they happened yesterday. But slowly, piece by piece, we began to lose her. At first, it was little things—repeating questions, forgetting where she placed her glasses, or mistaking what day it was. But then came the heartbreaking moments. She didn’t recognize my mother, the very woman who had taken care of her for years. One day, she asked me who I was. I smiled through it, but something broke inside me. That was the moment I realized Alzheimer’s doesn’t just erase memories; it reshapes relationships. It robs you of the emotional safety you once had with someone. And for the person suffering, it must feel like being stuck in a maze with no way out. Watching someone you love lose their sense of self is one of the most painful experiences. It changes how you see time. You stop taking moments for granted. You hold conversations a little longer. You memorize voices, laughter, and even the quiet, in case it disappears one day. It also changes your understanding of care. It taught me that caregiving isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, spiritual, and deeply sacrificial. My mother became my great-grandmother’s full-time caregiver. I witnessed firsthand the toll it took on her—mentally, emotionally, and physically. There were nights when she barely slept, days when she felt invisible, and moments when she cried in silence because she didn’t want anyone to know how overwhelmed she really was. It was in those quiet sacrifices that I discovered the true meaning of compassion. And through that experience, I found my purpose. That purpose is nursing. I don’t want to just be a nurse who treats patients. I want to be a nurse who understands the patient beyond the diagnosis. I want to care for people with Alzheimer’s and dementia with dignity, patience, and empathy. I want to support families who are going through the same heartbreak mine did. And most importantly, I want to advocate for more research, more education, and better access to memory care—especially in underserved communities where these illnesses are often misunderstood, misdiagnosed, or ignored. Being a Black woman from a family that didn’t always have access to the best healthcare, I understand the disparities firsthand. I watched my great-grandmother go undiagnosed for a long time because her symptoms were dismissed as “just old age.” I watched my mother navigate the healthcare system on her own, confused by terminology, overwhelmed by paperwork, and often unheard by medical professionals. I want to be the kind of nurse who bridges that gap—who speaks up, who educates, and who listens. What I’ve learned from Alzheimer’s is that love is not always easy. It is not always pretty. Sometimes it looks like cleaning up after someone who doesn’t remember your name. Sometimes it sounds like the same question being asked five times in a row. But love shows up. Love adjusts. Love does not leave, even when it hurts. That kind of love is what I want to bring into healthcare—because patients are not just cases. They are people. They are stories. They are someone’s mother, father, grandparent, or sibling. This journey has also taught me the importance of mental health—for both patients and caregivers. We often focus so much on the one diagnosed that we forget about the silent sufferers: the families. Caregiver burnout is real, and I’ve watched it consume people I love. In the future, I hope to create or contribute to programs that offer mental health resources, respite care, and emotional support for those who care for loved ones with dementia. They deserve to be cared for, too. Alzheimer’s taught me how to grieve someone who is still alive. But it also taught me how to fight for the people I love, how to find strength in brokenness, and how to lead with empathy. I believe these are the very qualities that will make me an excellent nurse. This scholarship would not only help lift the financial burden of nursing school but would also serve as a reminder that my story, my pain, and my purpose matter. I want to turn what was one of the hardest seasons of my life into something healing for others. I want to be a part of the change in how we care for individuals with memory-related illnesses and how we support the families walking that difficult road. I will never forget the last time my great-grandmother looked at me and said, “You’re going to be somebody.” She didn’t know my name that day. But she knew my spirit. And I carry her words with me every time I feel tired, every time I question if I’m good enough, every time the road gets hard. I’m going to be somebody. Not for fame or recognition, but because I believe I was placed here to serve, to heal, and to love—especially when it’s not easy. Alzheimer’s may have stolen her memories, but it gave me a mission. And that mission is to make a difference in healthcare, one patient, one family, and one act of love at a time.

Growing up, my peers would talk about their grandparents like they were any normal figure in their lives. “Oh, my grandma’s picking me up early today to get ice cream” or “Ugh, I have to go to my nana’s house today after school, it’s going to be so boring.” As a child of two immigrants from opposite sides of the globe, I never had that privilege. Kids around me seeing their grandparents daily was not something I could relate to, since all four of mine were overseas. If I was lucky, I would see only my grandmothers in the summer every few years. But ever since second grade, I had basically lost one of my grandmothers to Alzheimer’s disease. My halmoni (grandmother in Korean) was a wise and soft spoken woman. I have fond memories of her teaching me Korean phrases and making me pajeon (Korean pancakes) when I was young. We both loved each other dearly; I would cherish every minute I could spend with her. I knew I was on borrowed time, and she loved to see her youngest daughter’s children. My mom was the only one out of five kids who married outside of her culture and had more than one child. When I was five, my grandfather passed away. We were living in Canada at the moment, and my mother could not make it in time for the funeral. My grandma losing her spouse was a factor that caused the initial stages of her Alzheimer’s disease. Losing a loved one by passing away and losing a loved one by Alzheimer’s can be quite similar. It was heartbreaking to visit my grandmother as I got older, because she was not the same person to me. In her early stages, she still recognized my mom, but she didn’t know she was married; even though she had been married for over 10 years. She had no idea who my sister and I were; we were unrecognizable strangers to her. We vanished as people from her memory, and that was devastating to me that she didn’t know who I was. Her conditions have only exacerbated since then. She lived with my uncle, but started to have dementia. She could not take care of herself; she lost weight and had no motivation to do anything. When my uncle, aunt, and cousin had to leave the house during the day for work and school, they fretted over whether she could handle being home by herself without any attentive care. Until one day, she left the apartment and began to wander mindlessly. Fortunately, the security guard of the building found her and guided her home safely before she had a chance to get on the streets. This was a wake-up call for my mom and her siblings that it was time to send her to a nursing home. My mom felt very guilty and shed many tears over this. Halmoni’s one wish to her children was for them to never put her in a nursing facility no matter her conditions, and they were going against her wishes that she could not even comprehend herself. Once she was sent to the care facility, she was so upset she refused to speak to my uncle and aunts. Sadly, none of our family could attend to her all day and make sure she was cared for, so as egregious as this was, it was the best and safest option for her. Once she was sent to the home, she was so upset she didn’t speak to my uncle and aunts. When Covid came, the nursing home refused to let in visitors, due to Korea’s strict quarantining policies and nursing homes being at higher risk for the virus. She was alone for almost one and a half years, none of our family could enter the nursing home to see her. When Covid started to settle down, my uncle was barely allowed to see her through the glass window of the door to her room. It’s been almost ten years since I’ve seen my grandmother. It always breaks my heart when I think about how she’s doing at the moment, and that she could not be there to see me grow and accomplish things in my school and life like other people’s grandparents can. She can’t see me graduate high school, meet my dearest friends and loved ones, learn about my interests, watch me go to college, get a career, and even maybe get married in the future like other grandparents can. After my dad’s mother passed away in sixth grade, my halmoni was the last grandparent I had, but it didn’t really feel like she was there. Having grandparents was something I truly envied; it is a hole in my heart that could never be filled. A big thing I learned about Alzheimer’s disease was that awareness is just as important as treatment. Knowing how it can alter the lives of the individuals and their families affected by it is extremely important. Although there is no cure, more people should be invested in learning about the disease itself and watch out for early symptoms in their elderly family members. Alzheimer’s disease has also inspired my career pathway. In university, I plan on majoring in neuroscience to learn more about Alzheimer’s and other brain disorders. I want to pursue a career in medicine, specifically neurology in order to research most brain disorders and find more answers on this condition. My personal connection to Alzheimer’s has motivated me to work with people on this topic and make an effort to improve people's lives.

I often see my father with his head in his hands induced by a quiet spell haunted by the pain of his mother whom he repeatedly says is slipping away because of her dementia. "She's slowly disappearing," he says. I didn't know my grandmother until I was about 15 years old. She had just lost her husband of 60 years to a severe case of diabetes. She was alone and needed comfort from the nearest family she had, so she came to live with us. When I was young I thought it was irritating how she would consistently and only repeat the same three stories about my dad and how he loved examining her car when he was five years old, the story of how she wrote a letter to Barack Obama, and how she loved making paper flowers for her coworkers when she was younger. My dad said she used to be the sharpest, strongest woman he knew, and she was never like how she is now. All I saw was the repetition. Over time, I began to understand. Through her stories, though repeated, she held her family, her freedom, voice, and creativity close to her heart. It was heartbreaking to see my dad lose a part of his mother, but I was fascinated by the inner workings of the brain. My grandmother kept her identity through three random life stories yet couldn't remember my name or where I lived. During COVID-19, I was fortunate to receive a position at a lab where I was able to learn about the use of stem cell therapies to better understand Alzheimer's disease and dementia. My specific project was to understand the effect of paraquat, a toxic chemical and pesticide, on the brain and how it is commonly associated with triggering early-onset Alzheimer's and dementia. This research kickstarted my interest in the fascinating subject. When 60 Minutes released an episode about a large population of central South Americans who were contracting the disease in their early 30s, I dove deeper into the research. From a research perspective, it was exciting to see the parallels between the pesticide paraquat and South American farmers contracting Alzheimer's. Moreover, it was fascinating how the brain can change so drastically in such a short period, but also to never know what specifically triggers the onset of these neurodegenerative diseases in specific cases. There is also no standing cure. As I sat in on a Front Row talk at Scripps Institute this past summer, I listened to Jeffery Kelly give a presentation on how the alteration of gene formation can increase the risk of neurodegenerative diseases and how genetic editing and bioconstruction of new genes can serve as a prolonged preventative treatment for those who are "at risk." The presentation opened the door for new questions and curiosities for me. Who is "at risk" if only a handful of reasons for Alzheimer's onset are known? Is anyone sampling large groups of people and their genetic formation to assess the likelihood of getting dementia or Alzheimer's from youth to present to track societal, genetic, and environmental factors en masse? It's scary to imagine that one day I could be like my grandmother, and in less than a year, everything I ever knew was taken away from me. As I pursue my bachelor's degree and dream of obtaining an MD/PhD with a background in Biomedical Engineering and Global Health, I keep my interest in understanding and working with neurodegenerative diseases close at heart because one day I will contribute to this worldwide challenge of finding a cure. One day, It will happen, and I want to be there when it does.

I don’t believe in magic. At least thats what I used to think. The day I saw my depressed father who suffered from the onset of dementia, once surrounded by clouds of gloom beam as he spoke of his aspirations, I became a believer. The effects of magic, a tiny anxiety pill called Ativan, taken only to help my father ease through a simple procedure, completely changed my father in that moment. Some might say “that’s just modern medicine,” to me it was everything, it was magic. It was my thirteenth birthday when my dad had his first stroke. As I sat at his hospital bedside, my only wish on that birthday was for my father to live. Strokes and high blood pressure seemed to conquer my lineage and the thought of it unveiled anxiety in my thirteen year old body. My blood pressure spiked at the sight of a blood pressure machine as the apprehension built inside me. Doctors started to consider the unusual event that an underweight thirteen year old girl could have high blood pressure. From my trembling hands to my constant headaches, I kept it to myself, except for the occasions I would confide in my father that would comfort me. Being from an African household, often times it was reiterated that mental health was an “American” thing, a weakness. I coped by focusing on school, volunteering, joining my high school’s medical program, and taking care of my dad. It seemed once he was cleared of physical aliments he was too far gone mentally to ever recover. The constant strokes caused depression and the onset of dementia in my father. My once ambitious father slipped through my fingers like quicksand, until he was unrecognizable. He started giving up slowly becoming non compliant. I remember having to put his medications in his mouth and making sure he swallowed it. Making sure he wouldn’t flush the very thing keeping him alive down the toilet. And I mean that literally. So hopeless, he made no effort to improve. A part of me used to blame him, but I know better. I know that mental alimnets can be crippling physically. Last November, my father suffered one last stroke and met his end. On my 17th birthday, I cried realizing my special day without the man I loved the most was anything but special. Today I realize that mental/ cognitive health and physical health coexist, always. If one aspect of those two things is jeopardized, equilibrium will cease to exist in our intricate systems. From my spiking blood pressure induced by emotions to my dad’s deteriorating state, one of the most important things to me in life is mental health. When I think back to the time my dad took Ativan to go through an mri, seeing the effects it had on him, how he lit up our home in an instant, I am dumbfounded . With the power to change mental state like magic, I knew I wanted to be a magician. The experiences I’ve had surrounding mental health has solidified my desire to become a Psychiatrist. I want to help talk people through their problems and find solutions that work. Solutions that save lives. Back home in Sierra Leone West Africa, the whole country only has one practicing psychiatrist. The lack of communal concern in the Black and African American community regarding mental health fills me with indignation. When I pursue psychiatry I wont forget about my people back home. Now I am a certified nursing assistant also took the initiative to intern at my local hospital with the COPE health scholars program, where I shadowed nurses and doctors, discovering what I really want out of medicine. Currently, I am also trying to get into research focusing on the effect strokes have on the brain in terms of dementia. I make it a habit to challenge my self because I know I can do better, be better. Right now I am setting my foundation for a career in medicine. A foundation to a long road, the road to becoming a magician.

How would you feel if your grandmother believes your mom is her old college roomate or does not recognize her grandkids? I got to witness this with my own grandmother. The first signs of decline were seen at my college graduation. From forgetting what she ordered at my graduation dinner to misplacing Christmas money to waking up in the middle of the night thinking she was kidnapped because her surroundings were unfamiliar. As the progression of my grandmother's dementia continued, I witnessed her mind becoming more fragmented and her connection to reality slipping away. It was particularly painful to see her confuse my mother with her old college roommate, as it underscored the extent of her memory loss and the profound impact that dementia had on her cognition. Equally heartbreaking was the confusion she experienced when looking at her own grandkids, mistaking them for unfamiliar faces or attributing them to someone else's family. These daily encounters with her altered perception and memory were emotionally challenging for our family. It required us to develop a deep reservoir of patience, compassion, and understanding. We realized that correcting or challenging her beliefs would only cause further distress, so we learned to approach these situations with sensitivity and redirect the conversation gently, focusing on shared memories or engaging in activities that brought her comfort. It became evident that creating a calm and familiar environment was crucial in helping alleviate her confusion and anxiety. We maintained a consistent routine, surrounded her with familiar objects and photographs, and played music that held personal significance. These efforts aimed to anchor her to a sense of familiarity and preserve moments of connection. Beyond our immediate family, witnessing the impact of dementia on my grandmother shed light on the wider community's need for education, awareness, and support. We became dedicated to raising awareness about the challenges faced by individuals with dementia and their families, as well as advocating for improved resources and care. I realized that there was a significant gap in understanding and empathy surrounding dementia, leading to stigma and isolation for those affected. I sought opportunities to participate in community events, share personal experiences, and engage with organizations that focused on dementia support. Through my grandmother's journey, I have learned valuable lessons about resilience, adaptability, and the importance of cherishing the present moment. I have developed a deep appreciation for the strength and dedication of caregivers who tirelessly support their loved ones through the challenges of dementia. Witnessing their unwavering commitment has inspired me to consider a future in healthcare, where I can contribute to research, advocacy, and compassionate care for individuals with dementia. In conclusion, the impact of dementia on my grandmother and our family has been an emotional rollercoaster, filled with heartache and moments of profound connection. It has highlighted the need for increased awareness, support, and education surrounding dementia. While the journey has been challenging, it has also provided an opportunity for personal growth, deepened empathy, and a sense of purpose in contributing to a more compassionate society. I am committed to making a difference by raising awareness, providing support, and advocating for the dignity and well-being of individuals living with dementia and their families.

Eleven days before my sixteenth birthday, I said goodbye to my Grandpapa, whose life was deeply affected by dementia. Unfortunately, this is a disease my family knows too well. It was only after his passing that I realized the lack of interventions to slow down the progression of dementia in its middle stages. This simple yet complex question ignited a strong determination in me to bring about meaningful change in society with hopes of working with the federal government in studying dementia as my career. Witnessing the challenges faced by my own family members affected by dementia started a deep sense of empathy and a desire to contribute to finding effective treatments and support systems for those affected. When I was eight, we visited my great-grandparents, and little did I know that this innocent encounter would mark the beginning of a poignant journey. My Grandpapa's warm smile greeted me as usual, but something felt different this time. His repetitive questions about my school grade hinted at a puzzling change. Unbeknownst to me, this was the onset of his battle with dementia, setting off a chain of events that would deeply impact my family. As time passed, my Grandpapa's memory lapses worsened, and now I can identify that he was facing the early stages of dementia. It was disheartening to see him ask the same question repeatedly, and my Grandmama's laughter, though soothing, could not conceal the gravity of the situation. I have learned about the potential ways to manage and possibly delay memory loss, which has presented many “coulda, shoulda, woulda’s.” Controlling insulin levels and balancing, blood sugar levels, helping the patient focus, boost their energy, and cognition-enhancing medications all can prolong memory in dementia patients, offering hope in the face of this daunting illness. As the disease advanced, the cherished moments of playing go fish with my Grandpapa began to fade away. His memory loss was relentless, and it left me heartbroken and bewildered. Something that once held great meaning in our lives had become unimportant, and I found solace in tears, seeking to understand why this was happening to someone so amazing. In the midst of the turmoil, my Grandmama passed away, leaving my Grandpapa's health to further decline. As he entered the middle stages of dementia, he lost the ability to recognize us, his memories were reduced to blank pages. Despite the pain, I clung to the cherished memories we once shared, hoping to keep our bond alive. One day, as my family visited my Grandpapa during his middle stages, I noticed the profound changes in his appearance. Yet, amidst the fog of his memory, a fleeting moment of connection emerged. I initiated a game of go fish, and to my surprise, he smiled, teasing me with familiar words. Although the game was short-lived, I found solace in that fleeting moment, knowing that our shared history had not been entirely erased. Witnessing my Grandpapa's rapid deterioration sparked a fire within me to seek ways for patients to navigate dementia without losing cherished memories. My determination to make a difference in the lives of dementia patients grew stronger, propelling me toward a career in the medical profession. I am in my last year of pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Health Sciences at Howard University, driven by a deep desire to positively impact lives. Through my education, I aspired to become a compassionate and dedicated medical professional, supporting patients on their journey to better health and seeking innovative solutions for dementia. Having witnessed the devastating impact of dementia on my family, I dream of a future free from its relentless grasp. My goal is to contribute to medical advancements that empower individuals with dementia to maintain their memories and cognitive abilities, enhancing their quality of life. Throughout my journey with my Grandpapa's battle against dementia, I have been deeply touched by the profound impact it has had on my family and have learned a lot from this experience. Specifically, I have learned a lot about the progression of dementia as I’ve demonstrated throughout this essay with hopes of using this research in my career. This experience has been a profound lesson in empathy and compassion. As my Grandpapa's memory deteriorated, I learned the significance of understanding the emotions and struggles of individuals facing challenges. It became essential to offer him support and comfort, cherishing every moment we spent together, even as his memories slipped away. Above all, cherishing memories became a profound life lesson during my time with my Grandpapa. As he began to forget moments we once cherished together, I understood the importance of preserving and sharing stories about him, so that I could share them with my younger cousins who did not have the opportunity to know him. Those cherished memories became the bridge that connected us to the essence of who he was, and I vowed to honor his life and legacy by preserving those precious moments forever.