I had just earned a spot on the varsity basketball team, the first in my family to reach this level, when my dream began to slip away. As my future felt uncertain, resilience, a constant in my life, empowered me to take charge. I have always known I am called to make a difference, and discovering how made me stronger than I imagined.
Basketball has been my life for as long as I can remember. I began intense training at age nine, dreaming of becoming one of the few female Asian collegiate players. I wanted to be a trailblazer for the next generation. Years of hard work paid off when I made the varsity team in my junior year. Everything was perfect until it wasn’t.
Shortly after making the team, I experienced my first life-threatening anaphylaxis attack during my basketball game. I recall the most severe episode, when I was on the bench, gasping for breath and losing consciousness. The most terrifying moment came when I had to self-inject epinephrine into my body, only to be rushed away by an ambulance moments later. After months of testing, I was diagnosed with mast cell activation syndrome, which caused exercise-induced anaphylaxis. I underwent an aggressive treatment plan, leaving school for infusion shots to reduce the risk of anaphylaxis and allow me to keep playing varsity basketball. In the following weeks, another requirement was added to let me play: I could not eat for five hours before games, a restriction that made me feel robotic, as if I were no longer truly living. Ultimately, the treatment plan failed because my body could not handle the debilitating side effects. The sport that had defined me was no longer an option, and I had to face that painful reality. During this time, I recognized my goal was never just to be the best basketball player but to break barriers in my cultural community and inspire others through the leadership basketball had taught me.
This realization led me to the Student Council and to run for Senior Class President at Allen High School, the largest high school in Texas. My mission was to reach all students and encourage participation. In the past, student representation was limited, and I wanted to change that. With this goal in mind, I made a conscious effort to connect with students of all backgrounds, taking the initiative to speak to strangers and share my ideas for the school. This willingness to engage came from the fearlessness and determination I gained through my struggle with health and basketball. I didn’t understand it then, but that situation developed my resiliency. I was the dark horse, not a top-ranked student, but I still had much to offer. I devised a unique campaign that showcased my interpersonal and social media skills, earning support and respect. My peers appreciated my willingness to accept everyone and represent a new generation of student leaders who may have strengths in other areas besides the norm. Before the election results were announced, our student council sponsor shared that it had the highest and most diverse voter turnout in our school’s history, bringing my vision to life. With ambition and optimism, I became Senior Class President and drove meaningful change in my school.
Looking back, these experiences shaped an unforgettable journey. When one road closed, I stayed true to my values, striving to make a difference. On graduation day, I will speak to over 1,700 classmates about how true strength is found not just in success, but in courageously choosing to rise.
This is not the life I dreamed of. I was supposed to become a nurse. I trusted my body to keep up with my ambition. It didn’t. Mast Cell Activation Syndrome (MCAS) changed everything. With the frightening, unpredictable symptoms I was experiencing, I made the painful decision to leave nursing school behind. The faculty warned me: “Once you leave, you’ll never come back.”
The words lingered, slowly unraveling the hope I was still holding onto. I shared the news with friends and family, though I hardly understood it myself. This illness was nearly invisible, yet affected every body system. Each doubtful glance and uncomfortable pause left me feeling like I had to justify my pain and choices.
I was now merely a witness to the upheaval of my life. Reactions, as I came to call them, arrived without warning: fatigue, dizziness, heart palpitations, rashes, nausea, swelling, and severe nerve pain. I needed answers. I dissected scholarly articles and joined online support groups. Each specialist referred me to the next. The appointments were rushed, tests were inconclusive, and I received more shrugs than answers.
They asked, “Why did you leave school? Was it the stress? You seem healthy enough.”
That gnawing urge to over-share always left a lump in my throat. Biting my tongue I’d think: Why in the world would I want to quit nursing school? I was the top of my class! I was almost done! I want to go back, why won’t you help me? I knew I had to advocate for myself, and refused to be ignored.
Eventually, I received the “triad” diagnosis: MCAS, POTS, and hEDS. But a diagnosis didn’t bring normalcy. The humidity of a Missouri summer, a single bite of parmesan, or walking past Bath and Body Works could trigger week-long flares. In time, I grieved what was, accepting life would never be the same. I refused to lament within the systems that failed vulnerable patients. I was ready to start changing them.
My experience as a patient and caregiver gave me unique perspectives. I started sharing excerpts of my own clinic notes in support groups to reach patients of all backgrounds, dispersing information that would otherwise be inaccessible. Many people who suffer from Mast Cell Diseases are never diagnosed, treated, or even seen. Layers of identity, such as race, gender, disability, and socioeconomic status, directly influence if patients feel believed, supported, and protected. These are not isolated moments, but systemic failures within our health care system.
My health journey forced me to reimagine my future, ultimately leading me to finding a new purpose, one grounded in impact, clarity, and hope. I was no longer limited to clinical spaces, but could exist at the intersection of policy, advocacy, and health care. This revelation led me to pursue a Master’s in Social Work (MSW) in the Policy Pathway at the University of Michigan. As the nation’s top-ranked social work program, U-M will equip me to transform systems that fail vulnerable communities by meeting people where they are, rather than demanding more than what they have. This scholarship would ease the financial burden of graduate school and allow me to continue the medical treatments that I rely on to learn and function every single day. This opportunity would be an investment in both my future, and the communities I hope to support.
MCAS may have taken the life I once dreamed of, but it became the catalyst for the work I now feel called to pursue. Thank you for considering my application and for supporting students whose dreams are reshaped, not diminished, by Mast Cell Diseases.
Living with mast cell disease feels like trying to predict the weather in a storm I can’t see. One day, I can wake up feeling completely fine, and the next, it’s like my body has decided to wage war against me. It’s unpredictable, frustrating, and at times, completely overwhelming. I never imagined something so microscopic—so hidden—could have such a massive impact on my life and my family.
The diagnosis itself was a long, winding road. At first, I thought the random swelling, rashes, and shortness of breath were isolated issues. “Maybe it’s just stress,” I would tell myself. But when the symptoms became impossible to ignore, I found myself in and out of doctor’s offices with no clear answers. I saw the worry in my family’s eyes each time I had an episode. I’d try to downplay how I felt, but the truth was, I was just as scared as they were.
When I was finally diagnosed with mast cell disease, I remember feeling both relieved and defeated. I had an answer, yes, but it came with no easy fix. My family, as always, rallied around me, but I know it’s been hard for them too. Plans are often disrupted, dinners are sometimes spent at the ER instead of the table, and we’ve all had to learn to adapt to a “new normal.” My parents have become experts at spotting my triggers, and my siblings have mastered the art of knowing when to step in with support or when to just let me rest. It’s a strange thing to say, but mast cell disease has made us closer. We’ve learned to appreciate the quiet, good days more than we ever did before.
The biggest challenge, though, has been my plans for the future. I’m determined to live a life that isn’t defined by my illness. I’ve had to adjust my goals, of course—I think carefully about my energy, my triggers, and what I can realistically take on. But these limits have taught me something important: even when life doesn’t look the way you imagined it, you can still build something meaningful.
I’m pursuing a career in Information Systems and Technology because I want to solve problems that matter. Living with mast cell disease has shown me how much we rely on technology to keep us safe, informed, and connected. Whether it’s improving systems for medical care or designing solutions that help people with chronic illnesses, I want my work to make life just a little easier for someone else. If I can take the challenges I’ve faced and turn them into tools that help others, then I’ll know I’ve made an impact.
Mast cell disease has changed me, but it hasn’t stopped me. It’s taught me patience, resilience, and the power of hope. It’s reminded me that my family is my greatest support, that progress doesn’t have to be perfect, and that small victories—like a day without symptoms—are worth celebrating.
I don’t know what the future will look like exactly, but I do know this: I’m not giving up. I’ll keep learning, keep growing, and keep pushing forward. Mast cell disease is part of my story, but it isn’t the whole story. The rest is still mine to write.
