My passion for nutrition science was born out of a painful truth: I’ve seen too many lives cut short by diseases that could have been prevented-or at least delayed—through better nutrition. Cancer, in particular, has left a mark on my family. I watched my grandmother battle ovarian cancer, and I still remember the helpless feeling of knowing that something as simple as food—something we often take for granted—could have made a difference had we known more, earlier. That experience didn’t just break my heart. It lit a fire under me. I chose nutrition science because I want to be part of the solution. I want to turn what we now know—through decades of research linking diet to disease—into meaningful, life-saving change for individuals, families, and communities. Science has shown us that up to 30–40% of all cancers may be preventable through dietary and lifestyle changes. A diet high in processed meats, refined sugars, and inflammatory fats contributes to cellular damage, hormonal imbalances, and chronic inflammation—conditions that create a fertile ground for cancer to grow. On the other hand, diets rich in whole grains, fiber, fruits, vegetables, legumes, and healthy fats can reduce oxidative stress, support immune function, and help regulate body weight—all critical for reducing cancer risk. What drew me to this field is not just the science, but the potential to make a direct, tangible impact on people’s lives. I’m fascinated by how nutrients interact with the body on a cellular level—how compounds in cruciferous vegetables can support liver detoxification, or how fiber feeds beneficial gut bacteria that influence everything from inflammation to hormone metabolism. These connections aren’t just interesting facts—they are tools we can use to help people take back control over their health. Through my career, I want to focus on educating patients and communities on how to harness nutrition to prevent disease and live longer, higher-quality lives. I plan to work in both clinical and community-based settings, helping patients make evidence-based dietary changes that align with their health goals, cultural preferences, and daily realities. I want to be the kind of dietitian who doesn’t just hand out brochures, but sits down with a patient and says, “Let’s figure this out together.” Eventually, I hope to specialize in oncology nutrition, working alongside cancer care teams to support patients not only during treatment but also in recovery and prevention. This means creating anti-inflammatory meal plans that reduce treatment side effects, boost energy, and support immune resilience. It also means counseling survivors and at-risk individuals on long-term dietary strategies to reduce recurrence. In addition, I want to be involved in public health outreach, creating workshops and online programs to reach those who may not have access to clinical care. My dream is to launch a nonprofit initiative that brings cancer-prevention nutrition education into schools, food banks, and community centers, particularly in underserved areas where the need is greatest. I believe in a future where people don’t just survive longer—they thrive longer. Nutrition science is my way of helping build that future. With every meal, we have an opportunity to fuel healing, reduce risk, and extend life. And I plan to dedicate mine to making sure people know how.

My journey toward becoming a registered dietitian started not in a classroom, but at my grandmother’s kitchen table. I watched her battle both diabetes and high blood pressure with quiet resilience—but also with limited knowledge of how food could be her greatest medicine. She would often say, “If only someone had told me earlier.” That phrase stuck with me, and it’s the reason I want to dedicate my life to making sure others never feel left in the dark about their health. There is an overwhelming amount of research connecting nutrition to the prevention, progression, and sometimes even regression of major diseases like heart disease, cancer, arthritis, and autoimmune conditions. But the key isn’t just in knowing the science—it’s in translating it into compassion-driven action. If awarded this scholarship, I would use my education to become a bridge between clinical knowledge and real-world change for patients and their families. I believe in personalized, culturally sensitive nutrition education that considers every factor shaping a person’s choices: their cultural background, economic limitations, family support, and emotional relationship with food. It’s not just about telling a patient to reduce sodium or eat more vegetables. It’s about helping a busy, single parent figure out how to prepare heart-healthy meals on a tight budget. It’s about guiding a newly diagnosed cancer patient through meal planning when they’re nauseated and scared. It’s about listening deeply, first. I would offer bilingual resources, visuals like traffic-light food systems and “build-your-plate” guides, and host family-oriented workshops on label reading, chronic disease nutrition, and simple anti-inflammatory meals. I’d create a judgment-free space where patients feel empowered, not ashamed. In my experience volunteering at a community clinic, I saw how just a few minutes of tailored nutrition advice gave a woman with prediabetes the courage to start cooking again—this time with intention. My long-term dream is to launch a “Food is Medicine” community outreach program that partners with schools and clinics in underserved areas. We would provide free health screenings, cooking demos, and nutrition literacy training to help families understand that food is not just fuel—it’s preventative care. I’m especially passionate about addressing the often-overlooked connection between nutrition and autoimmune disorders, like rheumatoid arthritis and lupus. These conditions are often dismissed or mismanaged, but dietary interventions—like anti-inflammatory diets or gut health protocols—can make a huge difference. I want to be one of the professionals pushing for greater awareness and deeper patient support in this area. As a future dietitian, I plan to stay on top of the latest research in fields like nutrigenomics, the gut microbiome, and functional medicine, and share that knowledge in digestible, practical ways with those who need it most. My approach is rooted in science, but delivered with humanity. Because behind every diagnosis is a person—and often a family—searching for answers, comfort, and hope. This scholarship would not only support my academic path but help me continue building the tools, skills, and empathy necessary to serve others. Food changed my grandmother’s story too late. I want to make sure, for others, it’s just the beginning.

Challenge Name: “Truth or Temptation” Inspired by the ultimate mix of chaos, chemistry, and choice, “Truth or Temptation” is a brand-new challenge that pushes Islanders to reveal their feelings, test their loyalties, and stir the villa pot in true Love Island fashion. Overview: “Truth or Temptation” is a nighttime villa game played under the stars with all Islanders gathered around a glowing fire pit. The atmosphere is romantic, but the tension is high. Each Islander will be randomly selected to participate one at a time. When it’s their turn, they choose between two options: answering a brutally honest question (Truth) or participating in a potentially relationship-shaking task (Temptation). Rules: 1. An Islander spins a glittery golden bottle to determine their fate—Truth or Temptation. 2. If they land on Truth, they must draw a card and answer the question honestly in front of the group. Examples: “Which Islander do you secretly think is faking it?”, “If you had to couple up with someone else right now, who would it be and why?”, “Rate your current partner’s kiss out of 10.” 3. If they land on Temptation, they draw a card that includes a challenge that could cause some serious sparks or drama. Examples: “Give a sensual 30-second massage to the Islander you find most attractive (not your current partner),” or “Kiss the person you think is most likely to win Love Island, and explain your choice.” 4. If an Islander refuses to answer a Truth or complete a Temptation, they must forfeit a “couple privilege” for 24 hours (e.g., no sleeping in the same bed or no romantic gestures). Why It Works: “Truth or Temptation” takes everything we love about Love Island—flirtation, tension, jaw-dropping confessions—and raises the stakes. It forces Islanders out of their comfort zones and adds depth to their connections (or reveals cracks in them). The drama practically writes itself: crushes get exposed, feelings get hurt, and new alliances begin to form, all under the soft glow of fairy lights and the watchful eyes of millions of viewers. It’s the perfect storm of emotional vulnerability and cheeky fun—just what makes Love Island unforgettable. Bonus Twist: At the end of the game, the public gets to vote for the Islander who played the boldest game. That person earns a private date with the Islander of their choice—regardless of current couples.

I fell in love with math on a rainy Tuesday in fourth grade. The power had gone out at school, and our teacher handed out logic puzzles to pass the time. While the rest of the class groaned, I was hooked. Something about the way every clue slowly fit together made my brain light up. That was the first time I realized math wasn’t just about numbers—it was about truth. About solving problems when everything else feels uncertain. Math became my anchor. In middle school, when my parents went through a tough divorce and life felt out of control, I turned to math. While emotions were unpredictable, math was consistent. There were rules, patterns, and solutions. In a world that felt unstable, math was the one place I could always find order. What I love most about math is the way it sharpens how you think. It teaches patience, logic, and persistence. You can’t guess your way through a problem—you have to sit with it, break it down, and look at it from new angles. That way of thinking helped me far beyond the classroom. It made me a better problem-solver, listener, and decision-maker. Math also helped me connect with others. I’ll never forget helping my younger cousin with fractions. She was frustrated and confused, so I cut up a pizza to show her how one-fourth is bigger than one-eighth. Watching her face light up reminded me that math is more than formulas—it’s a language we all share. A bridge from confusion to understanding. Now, as I prepare for a career in health and nutrition, I see how math plays a role in everything I do. From calculating nutrient values to interpreting health data, math gives me the tools to make informed choices and help others do the same. I love math because it brings structure to chaos, clarity to confusion, and beauty to the everyday. It has helped me through difficult times, shaped how I think, and inspired me to keep learning. In a world full of unknowns, math reminds me there’s always a way forward—you just have to be willing to look for it.

I was thirteen the first time I heard Defying Gravity, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with an old iPod I’d borrowed from my older cousin. I didn’t know the story, didn’t know Elphaba or Glinda, didn’t even know what “defying gravity” really meant. But I remember feeling my chest tighten when Elphaba sang, “It’s time to try defying gravity / I think I’ll try defying gravity.” In that moment, something clicked in me—a longing to be brave, to be different, to be free. As I got older and learned the full story of Wicked, I realized it wasn’t just about magic and witches. It was about being misunderstood. It was about choosing integrity over popularity. It was about how painful, and beautiful, and necessary it is to grow apart from the people you love—especially when you're growing into who you’re meant to be. I connected deeply with Elphaba. As someone who’s always felt “othered”—too sensitive, too bookish, too outspoken—I saw myself in her green skin. Not literally, of course, but metaphorically. I grew up in a family where being quiet and agreeable was seen as graceful, and anything outside that mold was seen as rebellion. I was always “the emotional one,” “the intense one.” I felt like I was constantly apologizing for being myself. But Wicked taught me that maybe that was the point. Maybe being different wasn’t something to fix—it was something to embrace. Elphaba’s refusal to play by anyone else’s rules reminded me that doing the right thing isn’t always the easy thing. That sometimes, doing what’s right will cost you friends, comfort, and belonging. But it will never cost you your soul. The song For Good also became an anthem for how people come in and out of our lives, sometimes in unexpected ways. My best friend moved away halfway through high school. We had been inseparable, and I didn’t know how to exist without her. But “Because I knew you, I have been changed for good” became a way to grieve, and honor, and hold that friendship in my heart even when she wasn’t physically there. Wicked helped me understand that people can shape you permanently—and that love doesn’t have to last forever to be real. Today, when I listen to Wicked, I hear more than a soundtrack. I hear a blueprint for self-acceptance, a celebration of friendship, a call to live authentically—even when it’s hard. I hear the voice of thirteen-year-old me, wide-eyed and hopeful, finally believing that maybe she doesn’t have to hide who she is. I love Wicked because it didn’t just entertain me—it changed me. It gave me permission to be bold, to be misunderstood, and still be worthy of love. And that’s a kind of magic that no spell could ever conjure.

"I know my age and I act like it / Got what you can't resist" – from all-american bitch Adolescence is supposed to be full of contradictions, but no one prepared me for how painful it would be to exist in the middle of all of them. When I first heard Olivia Rodrigo scream those lyrics in all-american bitch, something in me cracked open. It was like someone had taken the thoughts I was too scared to admit and turned them into poetry with guitar distortion. "I know my age and I act like it"—it sounds like defiance, but underneath, it's drenched in exhaustion. That line reminded me of a very specific moment when I was sixteen: sitting at my grandmother’s funeral in a black dress I didn’t choose, surrounded by people telling me I was “so mature” for holding myself together. I nodded, said thank you, and stayed quiet. That night, I locked myself in my room and cried until I couldn’t breathe, punching my pillow because I didn’t even know what I was supposed to feel. I just knew everyone expected me to keep it together. And I did. Because I was “at that age” where feelings are dramatic, and girls are “emotional,” and you don’t want to give anyone another reason to say you’re “too much.” That lyric screamed back what I couldn’t say at the time: I was acting my age. I was sixteen and broken and confused and angry, and pretending I wasn’t. And that made me feel even more alone. Olivia Rodrigo’s GUTS gave those moments a place to breathe. Her music isn’t polished for comfort—it’s raw, chaotic, sarcastic, and full of guilt and longing. It captures exactly what it feels like to be too much and not enough at the same time. That feeling that no matter what you do, you’re either too loud or too quiet, too opinionated or too unsure. That pressure to play the "cool girl" role until your real self gets swallowed whole. Later in the song, she sings, "I’m grateful all the time / I’m sexy and I’m kind." It’s satire, but it also speaks to the absurd expectations placed on young women—to be everything at once, flawlessly. That line reminded me of how I am always “the responsible one.” People came to me for homework help, for advice, for tutoring—but no one ever asked how I was doing. I didn’t let them. Vulnerability felt like weakness. Olivia taught me that there is strength in admitting that things suck, even when you’re supposed to be okay. When I listen to GUTS, it feels like therapy with guitar solos. It reminds me that girlhood is a battlefield—but one I’ve walked through with dignity, even when I didn’t know it. Olivia’s lyrics helped me stop apologizing for feeling deeply. For being loud. For being quiet. For not having it all figured out. And honestly, that’s the most human thing about adolescence: we’re all just trying to survive the contradictions. Olivia Rodrigo doesn’t give us answers, but she gives us space to feel. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

I became a fan of Sabrina Carpenter during a time in my life when I felt voiceless. It started with Eyes Wide Open—not just the album, but the feeling. At fourteen, I was drowning in expectations I didn’t understand how to meet. I didn’t know who I was yet, only who I was supposed to be. Sabrina's music felt like a hand reaching through the noise, reminding me that self-discovery is messy, and that’s okay. What makes Sabrina special isn’t just her voice—though it’s incredible—but her courage to grow publicly. Watching her evolve from Disney star to an unapologetically honest artist was like watching someone refuse to be boxed in, no matter how many people tried. She wrote through heartbreak, rumors, misunderstandings, and somehow still kept her signature wit and strength. That resilience changed how I saw my own struggles. Her song Because I Liked a Boy hit me like a freight train. I’d gone through something eerily similar—not with the fame, of course, but the judgment. When I was seventeen, rumors spread at school after a close friendship with a guy ended badly. I lost friends. I lost myself. I was painted in a version of a story I didn’t write. I remember listening to that song, sobbing in my car, because finally someone had put my unspoken pain into words. It didn’t fix what happened, but it made me feel seen—and that meant everything. But Sabrina’s impact goes beyond healing. She’s taught me that it’s okay to be soft and strong at the same time. To be clever, sarcastic, layered—and not feel the need to shrink any of it to make people comfortable. Her recent work, especially songs like Nonsense and Feather, show how she embraces all sides of herself: playful, wounded, empowered. It made me want to be brave enough to do the same. I’m now pursuing a career in health and nutrition, and at first, I hesitated. It didn’t feel “creative” enough. But Sabrina’s ability to reinvent herself while staying true to her values taught me that creativity isn’t about your job title—it’s about how you move through the world. I want to educate others about food and health the way she uses her platform: with authenticity, empathy, and a touch of humor. Sabrina Carpenter’s career helped me survive moments when I didn’t know who I was—and now it’s helping me become someone I’m proud of. That’s why I’m not just a fan. I’m a forever fan. Because through her journey, I found the courage to start my own.

The perfect ending to The Bear wouldn’t tie everything up with a neat bow—because the show has never been about perfection. It’s about chaos, family, grief, growth, and the relentless pursuit of something better. So for me, the most satisfying conclusion would be one that honors the characters’ struggles while giving them a sense of peace and purpose—however imperfect. Carmy finally learns to let go—not of his ambition, but of the fear that he’s never enough. After a brutal but successful year running The Bear, he begins to find balance. He repairs his relationship with Sydney, recognizing her as a true partner, not just a sous-chef. Together, they reimagine The Bear as not just a fine-dining experience, but a community hub where food tells stories. Carmy also starts therapy again and slowly reconnects with Claire, understanding that love doesn’t have to be sacrificed for greatness. Sydney steps fully into her power. By the end, she co-owns The Bear, leading the kitchen with confidence and compassion. She launches a mentorship program for young chefs of color, inspired by how hard she had to fight to be taken seriously. Her arc ends with her smiling—finally—watching a young mentee plate their first perfect dish. Richie becomes the heart of the restaurant. He keeps growing, not through drastic change, but by leaning into who he is: loyal, passionate, and capable. He starts a front-of-house training program and becomes a father figure to many. He’s still loud, still funny, but now grounded—respected. Tina opens her own small Filipino diner across town, drawing from her heritage and newfound confidence. Ebra returns to run the kitchen with her, and the two form a beautiful, unlikely partnership. The restaurant doesn’t earn a Michelin star, and that’s okay. What they build is something more real: a space that honors tradition, innovation, and family. The final scene is a quiet dinner service. The team moves like a symphony—flawed, human, but in sync. The camera lingers on Carmy in the kitchen, a small smile on his face. For the first time, he’s not haunted. He’s present. This ending would be satisfying because it stays true to the show’s essence: growth through pain, meaning through food, and healing through connection. It doesn’t promise perfection—just progress. And that’s what makes it feel real.