When I was three years old, my father was diagnosed with leukemia. I was too young to understand the science behind it. However, I remember the drives from Delano to UCLA Medical Center, the smell of antiseptic, the quiet prayers in the waiting room, and the look in my mother’s eyes when she tried to stay strong. My father survived, and for that, I’m endlessly grateful. But what stayed with me was the uncertainty—how we didn’t always know what was happening or why. That need for understanding has followed me into adulthood. It’s what led me to pursue a career in medicine, and more specifically, forensic pathology.
I come from a close-knit Mexican immigrant family where hard work is an everyday act of love. Growing up bilingual and bicultural, I learned early the importance of empathy and resilience—not only from my parents’ sacrifices as agricultural workers but from navigating two worlds. There were no tutors, college savings, or academic role models—just a deep belief that if I worked hard enough, I could build a better future. And so, I became the first in my family to graduate from college, earning an Associate in Science for Transfer in Biology from Bakersfield College. I’ll be transferring to the University of California, Santa Cruz, this fall to complete my bachelor’s degree.
My dream is to become a forensic pathologist, a physician who investigates unexplained deaths and brings answers to grieving families. What draws me to this field isn’t morbidity—it’s the mission. Forensic pathologists speak for the voiceless. They reveal hidden causes, uncover medical truths, and often provide families with the only closure they’ll ever receive. In communities like mine, where language barriers and medical mistrust are common, that kind of clarity can mean everything.
For three semesters, I served as a Peer Assisted Learning (PAL) Leader for General Biology II, assisting students from backgrounds similar to my own—first-generation, under-resourced, and often unsure if they belonged in STEM. I didn’t just help them with biology; I helped them believe they belonged here. That role taught me that medicine isn’t just about science—it’s about compassion, mentorship, and community.
This summer, I was accepted and recently completed the BC/CSUB Summer Research Program, where I investigated environmental stressors on river ecosystems. It’s not clinical work, but it’s sharpening my scientific thinking and training me to ask better questions—skills I’ll carry into medical school and pathology. I’ve also come to appreciate how environmental and public health intersect, especially in vulnerable communities.
What makes me different is not just my GPA or my goals—it’s my story. I’ve lived through the helplessness that comes with a terminal diagnosis. I know what it feels like to wait for answers that never come. As a future forensic pathologist, I want to be the one who brings those answers—not just for science but for families like mine. I want to offer them clarity, compassion, and knowledge, even in their darkest moments.
The Tamurai’s Adventure Scholarship would alleviate the financial burden of my journey, enabling me to focus entirely on preparing for medical school. But more than that, it would be a reminder that people like Tamurai—who faced terminal illness with courage and purpose—can inspire those of us still walking our path. In every life I study and every report I write, I will carry forward that legacy: to serve, to reveal, and to heal in my way.
My dad was diagnosed with metastatic lung cancer when I was 5; for two years he fought to make memories with me. He fought for the clients in his personal injury law practice while he underwent chemo and radiation treatments. It wasn't until a few years ago that I learned that he knew would die as soon as the X-rays came back.
Most of my memories of dad come from those two years. I remember him reading to me every night and taking me to music festivals. I remember a road trip through the redwoods and watching the Winter Olympics together. I can picture him sitting by the side of the rink as I learned to ice skate, and finding a special bike so he could still ride with me to school.
His life has only grown to influence me more in the time since his death. For a decade after dad died, the associations I had made with his illness held me in fear. I worried about vomit and I worried about being late. I had been fascinated by the human body since preschool, but worried that my fear would prevent me from going into medicine. After years of exposure therapy and learning, I am proud that this is no longer the case.
Through a love of the wilderness and anatomy, I wound my way to a Wilderness First Responder class. In two weeks of intensive training, I became confident in my ability to assess and assist patients when higher level medical care was far far away. I took my patient assessment skills to summer camp where I tested them along with my old fears. I found that showing up with a grounded ethos and meticulous attention could do lots to alleviate stress and make sick or injured kids more comfortable.
Through that summer and into the fall, my desire to bring medical care to those who struggle to access it became stronger by the day. A palliative care nurse in the summer camp health center helped me recognize that I may be more able to do more with my skillset as a medical doctor than in other healthcare fields. I would have more freedom to seek answers and advocate for systemic change, and to contribute my skills in other places.
Between conversations with her and facilitating support groups for bereaved kids, I realized I had things to offer at the intersection of my experiences and interests. Now I am interning with a pediatric hospice in South Africa. Life is coming full circle: where my childhood self once wished I could be more present for my dad in his illness at the end of his life, I can now be present with kids through their illnesses and at the end of their lives. I have found ways to apply so many interests--in music, art, cooking, and gardening--to give a little to families that are teaching me so much.
I want to go into medicine so I can continue to be present for kids like them, to advocate for a more fair and equal world, and to honor the memory of my dad that I am so grateful to carry. I hope that I can contribute to making compassionate healthcare more accessible for people no matter where they are, and show a younger version of myself (and many kids like her) that anything is possible.
