To many, calculus is intimidating. To me, it’s a language—the language that explains how the world moves, heals, and changes. It’s the math of possibility. As a double major in Neuroscience and Bioengineering on the pre-medical track at Washington State University, I’ve come to see calculus not just as a requirement but as a foundational tool for innovation. Whether I’m studying neural pathways, modeling electrical signals in cardiac tissue, or analyzing changes in concentration during drug delivery, calculus is always there—quietly powering the science behind the breakthroughs. My relationship with calculus didn’t begin with confidence. I have ADHD, and like many students with learning differences, I struggled with focusing in math-heavy classes. Concepts would make sense one day and feel foreign the next. But instead of backing away, I leaned in. I began breaking down problems visually, applying calculus concepts to real-life examples—like how blood flow changes through constricted arteries or how neurons fire over time. That made it real. That made it powerful. And over time, that struggle became strength. I learned that calculus wasn’t just something to memorize—it was something to understand. It’s what allows bioengineers to model tissue growth, what surgeons rely on when calculating perfusion rates, and what researchers use to optimize experimental outcomes. I now use those same principles in the research I conduct and the systems I build. I’m currently preparing to begin a full-time summer internship at Stanford University’s Cardiovascular Institute, where I’ll focus on stem cell–based therapies for heart failure patients. This experience builds on an independent research proposal I wrote, which used integrals to analyze patient survival and graft success after transplantation. Calculus wasn’t just part of the theory—it was the structure of the argument. But calculus doesn’t just matter in research. It matters in representation. As a low-income, underrepresented student of color, I often didn’t see myself in advanced math courses or STEM labs. I’ve worked hard to change that—founding the Pre-Med Advisory Program (PAP) at WSU to support students from marginalized backgrounds on their path to medical and research careers. We provide mentorship, workshops, and free panels—empowering students to take on challenges like calculus instead of avoiding them. I’ve also mentored high school students through Harvard’s HPREP, worked as a student ambassador and Cougar Connector, and served as a student senator—all while balancing coursework, lab research, and jobs to support my education. Every step of the way, calculus has been a bridge—not a barrier. A reminder that complexity can be understood if we break it down and keep solving. Calculus is essential to STEM because it teaches us how to think. Derivatives and integrals aren’t just math tools—they’re models of change. And in a world that needs constant innovation, from climate solutions to biomedical advances, understanding change isn’t optional. It’s everything. This scholarship would allow me to continue this work with less financial strain. As someone funding their education through jobs and scholarships, even $500 means more time in the lab, less time worrying about textbooks or program fees, and more energy devoted to giving back through mentorship and research. Every dollar would directly support a future physician-scientist who believes that the power of calculus can save lives, design better technologies, and build more inclusive systems. To me, calculus isn’t just important—it’s transformative. And as someone who once feared it and now uses it to change lives, I know its true value. Calculus helps us model reality, improve it, and reimagine what’s possible. And I’m ready to keep solving.

I chose to study Neuroscience and Bioengineering not because I saw myself in the textbooks—but because I didn’t. As a first-generation Egyptian-American and a student of color, I didn’t grow up seeing people like me in science labs, hospitals, or on the covers of STEM magazines. But instead of deterring me, that absence drove me. I wanted to be the person who made space for others like me, to not just enter STEM but to reimagine it. Today, I’m an undergraduate student at Washington State University, double majoring in Neuroscience and Bioengineering on the pre-med track, and holding junior academic standing as a freshman. I maintain a 4.0 GPA while serving in more than ten leadership roles on campus. Every day, I work to transform that childhood frustration—of not feeling represented—into action that creates opportunity for others. My short-term goals are grounded in service and access. I recently founded the Pre-Med Advisory Program (PAP), a student-led initiative that supports underclassmen and underrepresented students in the medical field. We host workshops, mentorship pairings, and career panels. In April, I organized WSU’s first-ever student-led pre-medical conference, serving over 40 students—all free of charge. This fall, we’re expanding our programming to include mental health, financial literacy, and first-generation academic support. In the long term, I hope to become a cardiovascular surgeon and physician-scientist, leading research in organ transplantation and stem cell therapy. This summer, I’ll be conducting research at Stanford’s Cardiovascular Institute, focusing on regenerative solutions for heart failure. My dream is to combine clinical practice and bioengineering research to treat the underserved—not just in hospitals but through outreach, education, and global partnerships. I want to build clinics in marginalized communities and fund free academic pipeline programs for students who have been told they’re “not the STEM type.” Because I was once that student. Being an underrepresented minority in STEM has shaped every part of my journey. I’ve had to work harder to be heard, to be trusted, and to be seen. I’ve walked into classrooms and leadership meetings where no one looked like me and still chose to speak up. That experience has made me deeply empathetic and community-minded. It’s also taught me to lead from the margins—to bring voices into the room that are too often left outside. I carry this mindset into every role: as President of the Egyptian Student Association, Vice President of MESA, ASWSU Senator, and Team Leader for CASHE and VIBES, two major conferences for students of color. Financially, being a low-income student in such an intensive double-major program comes with many sacrifices. I work part-time while conducting research, mentoring students, and leading programs. This scholarship would directly reduce the burden of tuition, books, and lab supplies—allowing me to focus more on the impact I want to make instead of constantly worrying about how to make ends meet. It would also help fund transportation to my Stanford research program this summer, which is unpaid and located across the country. What makes this scholarship special is its purpose: to uplift minority students who are building futures in technology and innovation. That’s exactly what I aim to do—not just for myself, but for the next generation. I want to break the cycle that keeps students like me on the outside of opportunity, and instead build a STEM future where diversity is the norm, not the exception. This scholarship would be an investment not just in my education—but in the students, patients, and communities I plan to serve. I’m ready to carry this mission forward. I just need the support to keep going.

Growing up, I was the translator in every doctor’s visit—bridging the gap between my family’s needs and the medical terms they couldn’t understand. At a young age, I learned that science, especially medicine, is a language—one that too many families like mine struggle to access. That’s what sparked my interest in STEM. Not just the fascination with the human body or the thrill of discovery, but the desire to make science more human—more accessible, more representative, and more just. As a minority, low-income, and first-generation student, my path to STEM has been anything but conventional. I have ADHD, and I used to internalize every moment I zoned out in class or missed an instruction as failure. I was the student who needed more time, more effort, more strategies—just to reach the same finish line as everyone else. But instead of giving up, I used it as fuel. I taught myself how to work with my brain, not against it—building systems, routines, and, most importantly, resilience. These early academic struggles have now become my superpower. They taught me how to adapt, how to lead with empathy, and how to support others who feel left out of the STEM world. Now, I’m a full-time undergraduate student at Washington State University, double majoring in Neuroscience and Bioengineering on the pre-med track, and holding junior academic standing as a freshman. I currently serve in 10+ leadership roles, including President of the Egyptian Student Association, Vice President of the Middle Eastern Student Association, ASWSU Senator, and Founder of the Pre-Med Advisory Program (PAP)—an organization that provides mentorship and career-building resources to underrepresented students in medicine. This spring, we hosted WSU’s first student-led pre-med conference, offering workshops and networking support to over 40 students at no cost. What started as one student’s frustration with the lack of guidance has become a resource for many. This summer, I’ll be conducting full-time research at Stanford University’s Cardiovascular Institute, focusing on stem cell–based therapies for cardiac regeneration. It builds directly on the independent research proposal I designed on improving heart transplant outcomes. Long-term, I aspire to become a cardiovascular surgeon and physician-scientist, working on innovative transplant technologies while building systems that close gaps in care for historically marginalized communities. But I don’t want to just participate in STEM—I want to transform it. I want to bring more color, more compassion, and more collaboration into medicine and research. That means mentoring underrepresented students, advocating for policy changes in access to care, and building organizations that center equity and innovation. I want to create a world where kids who grew up like me don’t just get through science—they shape it. This scholarship would be more than financial aid—it would be a vote of confidence. As someone balancing dual degrees, multiple jobs, and ongoing service commitments, financial strain is real. Every dollar helps lift that weight and lets me invest more time into research, mentoring, and the kind of leadership that makes a lasting difference. I’ve faced adversity—learning barriers, financial hardship, cultural adjustment—and turned it into action. I’m building a future in STEM where diversity isn’t just welcomed—it’s essential. Because the breakthroughs we need won’t come from one kind of mind. They’ll come from all of us—especially those who had to fight to be in the room. And I’m here to make sure those rooms never look the same again.

When I first saw a beating heart under a microscope, I wasn’t just fascinated—I was moved. In that moment, I realized that STEM isn’t just about formulas or theories. It’s about life, possibility, and the people we can help when we choose to ask hard questions and seek solutions. For me, pursuing a career in STEM is not just a choice—it’s a calling. I’m currently a freshman at Washington State University, holding junior academic standing, and double majoring in Neuroscience and Bioengineering on the pre-medical track. I’m also a proud person of color—an Egyptian-American, raised with the values of resilience, humility, and community. Growing up, I never saw doctors, researchers, or professors who looked like me. It took me a while to realize that my voice had just as much value. Today, I pursue STEM not in spite of my identity, but because of it. My lived experience allows me to approach science with urgency and empathy. I understand what it’s like to translate medical terms for family members, navigate systems with limited access, and fight to prove I belong in rooms where I’m often the only one. Those experiences have shaped not just my academic path, but also my leadership. I founded the Pre-Med Advisory Program (PAP) at WSU to support underrepresented students in healthcare fields. Our program offers mentorship, career panels, and workshops—resources I wish I had when I first started. We recently hosted WSU’s first-ever student-led pre-med conference, helping 40+ students access critical guidance and community, all at no cost. I’m also President of the Egyptian Student Association and Vice President of the Middle Eastern Student Association, where I work to build safe, inclusive spaces for cultural expression and pride—something that’s often missing on predominantly white campuses. I’ve chosen STEM because I want to create more than breakthroughs—I want to build bridges. My goal is to become a cardiovascular surgeon and physician-scientist, working on stem cell–based therapies for heart transplants. This summer, I’ll be conducting full-time research at Stanford University’s Cardiovascular Institute, focused on regenerative medicine. Long-term, I aim to lead a research center focused on transplant equity, making advanced treatments accessible to patients in marginalized communities who are often left behind in innovation. As a person of color in STEM, I know that representation isn’t just about showing up—it’s about showing the way. That’s why I’ve mentored students through Harvard’s HPREP program, led outreach through student government, and advocated for student needs through roles in MAPS, WSA, and ASWSU. Whether I’m leading a conference, writing legislation, or mentoring a student on how to write their first research email, I lead with one belief: no one should feel like they’re “not enough” for STEM. This scholarship would provide the crucial financial support I need to continue pursuing dual STEM degrees while sustaining my service work and leadership. As someone funding their education through scholarships and part-time jobs, this opportunity would allow me to focus more on research, mentorship, and outreach. I want to change the face of STEM—not just by becoming a doctor or innovator, but by opening doors for the next student of color who wonders if they belong. I want them to look at my story and see what’s possible when we lead with purpose, when we’re supported, and when we refuse to let our identities be a limitation. I chose STEM because I believe healing, discovery, and change all begin with one question: “What if?” And as a person of color in science, my answer will always be: “Let’s find out—together.”

When I first walked into a research lab, I didn’t see anyone who looked like me. But I stayed. I stayed because I believed that my perspective mattered—that my experiences, struggles, and hopes belonged in rooms where breakthroughs happen. And over time, I’ve not only found my place in STEM—I’ve created spaces for others to find theirs, too. My name is Abdelrahman Abdelrazek, and I’m a Black, low-income, first-generation college student double majoring in Neuroscience and Bioengineering on the pre-medical track at Washington State University. I hold junior academic standing as a freshman and maintain a 4.0 GPA while leading across ten organizations on campus. But this journey wasn’t easy. I grew up navigating systems I didn’t understand—where ADHD made school harder, where I translated medical terminology for my family, and where the financial burden of education loomed large. Still, I kept pushing. Those barriers built my resilience, sharpened my focus, and gave me the fire to lead. That fire led me to found the Pre-Med Advisory Program (PAP)—an initiative built to support freshmen and sophomores in STEM, especially those from underrepresented backgrounds. We provide mentorship, resume workshops, and career panels, and we recently hosted WSU’s first student-led pre-medical conference, serving 40+ students for free. PAP isn’t just a program—it’s a movement that helps students who were told they weren’t “cut out” for STEM see their potential clearly. My leadership also extends beyond medicine. As President of the Egyptian Student Association and Vice President of the Middle Eastern Student Association, I’ve worked to make cultural organizations more inclusive and vibrant. I helped grow attendance from 2 to 30+ at MESA meetings and organized campus-wide cultural showcases that drew over 150 attendees. Through ASWSU student government, I authored resolutions to improve campus support services and helped launch programs that spotlight outstanding first-year students. Each of these efforts reflects my belief that leadership should be about service—and that representation in every field starts with action, not intention. This summer, I will be conducting full-time cardiac regeneration research at Stanford University through their prestigious Cardiovascular Institute. My project will focus on stem cell therapy for heart failure patients, building on an independent research proposal I created on improving transplant outcomes using mesenchymal stem cells. My ultimate goal is to become a physician-scientist specializing in organ transplantation and cardiac care, bridging patient advocacy with cutting-edge bioengineering research. I want to help communities like mine—those who often experience delayed care, fewer options, and worse outcomes—access lifesaving treatment and hope. The degree I’m pursuing will prepare me to not only enter the medical field but to change it. I plan to use my education to create community-based health centers, mentor students of color in STEM, and launch a national nonprofit focused on academic equity for low-income pre-health students. In everything I do, I aim to uplift those who feel unseen, to open doors that once felt closed, and to rewrite what representation looks like in medicine and STEM. Receiving the Byte into STEM Scholarship would directly support my ability to continue this work. It would ease the financial pressure of pursuing a dual STEM degree and allow me to dedicate more time to community service, leadership, and research. I don’t just study science—I live it. I use it to heal, to build, and to empower. Because when I walk into a lab now, I don’t just want to be the only one who looks like me—I want to make sure I’m not the last.

When I arrived in the U.S. as a child, everything felt unfamiliar—new language, new systems, and a new sense of pressure to succeed not just for myself, but for my entire family. What many people didn’t see was the silent challenge I carried: ADHD. It made focusing in class difficult and turned simple tasks into mountains. I struggled with staying organized, lost points for missing deadlines despite hours of effort, and constantly questioned my intelligence. It wasn’t until later that I realized my brain wasn’t broken—it just worked differently. I learned to turn my chaos into creativity, my energy into leadership, and my restlessness into resilience. Today, I’m a full-time undergraduate student at Washington State University, double majoring in Neuroscience and Bioengineering, while holding leadership positions across campus. I’m also a proud low-income student building something much bigger than myself. I founded the Pre-Med Advisory Program (PAP)—an organization that supports underclassmen in medicine by offering resume-building workshops, mentorship, and community. I created this program because I know what it feels like to be lost and overwhelmed, especially without financial or academic resources. Last April, I organized WSU’s first-ever student-led pre-medical conference, which served over 40 students—all for free. But my goals don’t end there. I plan to create a nonprofit startup that expands the mission of PAP across universities nationwide. My dream business will provide accessible academic advising, mental health resources, and skill-building workshops for underserved and underrepresented students in medicine and STEM. I want to build physical and virtual hubs where students—especially first-gen, low-income, or neurodiverse—can receive mentorship, guidance, and the confidence to pursue careers in science and healthcare. This isn’t just a project; it’s my purpose. And it’s deeply personal. There was a moment last year when I felt like giving up. I had just taken on three major leadership roles, was working a job at a nursing home to pay bills, juggling 18 credits, and still trying to stay at the top of my class. The weight was unbearable. One night, I missed an important application deadline for a program I cared about deeply. I felt like I had failed. But instead of letting that moment define me, I reached out to a mentor, restructured my schedule, learned to delegate, and rebuilt my habits. I began blocking out time for rest and reflection. That moment of burnout taught me that success isn’t about pushing through everything alone—it’s about building systems, setting boundaries, and asking for help. It’s a lesson I now pass on to every student I mentor. This scholarship would be a game-changer. As someone who funds their education through work, grants, and scholarships, this support would give me more space to focus on building my future business and continuing the work I’ve already started. Every dollar invested in me is a dollar invested in hundreds of students I’ll continue to serve, empower, and uplift through my program and beyond. In the end, my goal is simple: to light the way for students like me—those who’ve felt invisible, those who’ve been told they’re “too different,” and those who just need someone to believe in them first. I plan to build a legacy where those students are not only seen but celebrated. I carry my learning disability, my financial struggle, and my cultural roots with pride—not as burdens, but as fuel. I’m here to change the system by building within it. And I know that with support from this scholarship, I can continue turning that mission into a movement.

I’ve always believed that legacy doesn’t start with success—it starts with service. Before I ever had the title of President, Senator, or Founder, I was someone who paid attention to the students sitting quietly in the back of the room, unsure of where they belonged. I recognized that feeling because I had lived it too. As a low-income student and a first-generation college attendee, I often had to create my own roadmap—navigating scholarships, pre-med requirements, and leadership on my own. Now, I'm committed to building systems that make sure no one has to walk that path alone. I’m currently an undergraduate at Washington State University, double majoring in Neuroscience and Bioengineering, and I serve in several leadership roles across campus. But my proudest accomplishment is founding the Pre-Med Advisory Program (PAP)—a student-run initiative I created to support freshmen and sophomores on the pre-health track, especially those from underrepresented or financially disadvantaged backgrounds. We host panels, conduct resume workshops, and offer mentorship opportunities that empower students to believe in their potential. We recently hosted WSU’s first-ever student-led pre-medical conference—providing free lunch, professional development, and a welcoming community for 40+ students. I built PAP from scratch, and it’s now helping shape the future of medicine, one student at a time. That program is the beginning of my legacy—and I plan to take it further. After college, I hope to scale this work into a nonprofit business that provides free academic advising, mentorship networks, mental health support, and career coaching for underrepresented pre-health and STEM students nationwide. I envision physical centers in underserved communities and digital platforms that connect students to peer and professional mentors, scholarships, and internships. My model is simple: meet students where they are, give them the tools to thrive, and remind them that they belong in every room they walk into. That business will be the light I leave behind—built from the same challenges I once faced and transformed into something hopeful, lasting, and powerful. In everything I do, I try to lead with purpose and compassion. I serve as an ASWSU All-Campus Senator, the President of the Egyptian Student Association, and the Vice Chair of the Middle Eastern Student Association. I’ve helped pass resolutions to increase access to mental health and anti-discrimination resources, led voter engagement campaigns, and mentored high schoolers through major student-led conferences like CASHE and VIBES. I volunteer because I know what it’s like to feel unseen. I shine my light by making sure others don’t have to. I also mentor through Harvard Medical School’s HPREP program, guide students as a Cougar Connector, and conduct cardiac regeneration research through Stanford’s Cardiovascular Institute. No matter the setting, I stay grounded in the same mission: to serve, to uplift, and to create spaces where others can succeed. This scholarship would directly support my journey as a low-income student entrepreneur and allow me to further invest in the future I’m building—for myself and for others. The path I’m walking isn’t easy, but I’ve learned to treat obstacles as invitations to innovate. Whether it’s founding new organizations, passing policies that serve students, or researching solutions in medicine, I show up every day ready to lead with both ambition and heart. Dylan’s legacy reminds us that greatness doesn’t come from what we’re given—it comes from what we give back. I’m here to build something that lasts longer than me. Something rooted in empathy, powered by purpose, and made for students who just need someone to believe in them first. That’s how I plan to let my light shine.

There are some moments that shape you before you’re even old enough to understand their weight. For me, it was watching my mother fight a rare illness for years—quietly, courageously, and without complaint. I grew up helping translate during doctor’s appointments, researching symptoms late at night, and sitting in hospital waiting rooms more than playgrounds. She never called it suffering—only life. And watching her navigate it taught me what compassion, strength, and sacrifice really look like. That experience planted the seed of medicine in me early on, but not because I wanted to wear a white coat. I wanted to understand what was happening to her. I wanted to help when no one else could. Over time, that urgency evolved into purpose: I’m pursuing a career in medicine to serve families like mine—those who face illness without privilege, clear answers, or guidance. My mother’s journey continues to be one of quiet bravery, and though her illness has taken much from her, it gave me everything that matters: direction, perspective, and drive. Today, I’m a pre-medical student double majoring in Neuroscience and Bioengineering at Washington State University, where I’ve built my path with research, service, and advocacy. I founded the Pre-Med Advisory Program (PAP), a student-run initiative that bridges the gap in medical preparation for freshmen and sophomores. We hosted WSU’s first-ever student-led pre-medical conference this spring, covering networking, interviewing, and academic planning for over 40 attendees. I created this program because I know what it feels like to walk into medicine without a roadmap—and I refuse to let others feel the same. I also founded and lead the Egyptian Student Association, am a student senator in ASWSU, and serve as a mentor and event leader across multicultural and academic programs like HPREP at Harvard, the VIBES and CASHE Conferences, and the Honors College at WSU. Whether through organizing health equity tabling events, passing resolutions to expand student support resources, or mentoring first-generation students from underrepresented backgrounds, everything I do connects back to the same mission: expanding access, creating belonging, and using education as a tool for healing. This summer, I’ve been accepted to a full-time research internship at the Stanford Cardiovascular Institute, where I’ll study stem cell-based regeneration for heart disease. I plan to continue research in organ transplantation and cardiac medicine, not just to advance science—but to humanize it. In the future, I hope to work as a cardiovascular surgeon who doesn’t just treat patients, but who advocates for them, educates them, and listens deeply. Medicine is not a dream for me—it’s a promise. A promise to the child I once was who didn’t understand the diagnosis, to the families in waiting rooms who feel invisible, and to my mother, who showed me that love is often quiet, enduring, and brave. Her journey may not make headlines, but it transformed my life and gave me a story worth telling—a story I carry into every lab, every clinic, and every patient I’ll one day meet. Receiving the Tamurai’s Adventure Scholarship wouldn’t just ease the financial weight that medical training carries—it would honor the spirit of resilience and compassion that lives at the heart of why I chose this path. And it would allow me to keep moving forward, one step closer to serving others with the same dignity and care my mother deserved all along.

To me, college has never just been about earning a degree. It has always represented something much deeper—freedom, possibility, and proof. Proof that where you start does not have to define where you end up. I come from a low-income household, where pursuing higher education felt like an audacious dream—but I clung to it tightly. It became my way of rewriting the future—not just mine, but for those who come after me. My parents didn’t have degrees or connections. What we did have was grit. And that grit shaped me. I grew up watching them sacrifice comforts just to keep the lights on. I knew early on that if I wanted something different, I had to work harder than most people I knew. I had to find my own way to the top. That’s why I’ve thrown myself fully into every opportunity I could reach. Today, I’m a full-time student double majoring in Neuroscience and Bioengineering on the pre-med track, with a 4.0 GPA. But numbers don’t tell the full story. Behind them are sleepless nights studying after long shifts at my job as a nursing home server. There are moments I quietly skipped meals to afford lab supplies. And there are countless hours I’ve poured into volunteering, mentoring, and leading because I believe success means nothing if I don’t bring others with me. College, for me, is not a box I’m checking. It’s my launchpad. My dream is to become a physician-scientist, one who works at the intersection of patient care and cutting-edge biomedical research. I’m currently spending the summer conducting full-time research at Stanford University’s Cardiovascular Institute, where I work on stem-cell based cardiac regeneration. My goal is to make healthcare more equitable—especially for underrepresented communities who have long been left out of clinical trials, quality care, and scientific breakthroughs. But what fuels me just as much as science is service. At my home university, I founded the Pre-Med Advisory Program to support underclassmen—especially first-generation and low-income students—through mentorship, networking, and early research guidance. I also lead and represent multiple multicultural student organizations, advocate for student voices through ASWSU, and serve as a mentor for high schoolers exploring medicine. Because I know what it’s like to feel like the only one in the room. And I want fewer students to feel that way after me. Going to college means I get to break cycles. It means I get to prove that brilliance exists everywhere—even in the overlooked neighborhoods, even among the students who can’t afford tutors or brand-name lab coats. It means I can be the kind of doctor who doesn’t just heal with medicine, but with understanding and representation. This scholarship would help lighten the financial load of my journey. It would support the textbooks, research costs, travel, and quiet necessities that don’t make it onto financial aid forms—but that still matter. It would allow me to keep saying “yes” to the work I care about without worrying if I can afford it. I’ve made it this far by believing that my story matters. That my future patients, students, and community need someone who understands them—not from above, but from beside them. College is how I build that future. And I’m ready to carry it forward.

Growing up in a low-income household taught me that ambition isn’t measured by how much you have, but how far you’re willing to go with what you’ve got. My parents gave everything they could to support me, but money was always tight. Still, I never saw our struggles as limits—I saw them as motivation. I remember studying under flickering lights, translating documents for my family, and saving every dollar from my part-time job because I knew: education was my way forward. What some people see as “extra” in college—textbooks, lab coats, certification fees—I see as barriers that quietly close doors for students like me. That’s why I’ve worked so hard to push them open. As a full-time student double majoring in Neuroscience and Bioengineering on a pre-med track, I’ve maintained a 4.0 GPA while holding leadership roles, conducting research, and mentoring other first-gen and low-income students. These experiences don’t just define my resume—they define my responsibility to use what I’ve learned to lift others up. I’m currently researching cardiac regeneration at Stanford while organizing mentorship initiatives at my home university. My goal is to become a physician-scientist dedicated to improving healthcare equity—especially for underserved patients who grew up like I did, with more grit than resources. I don’t just want to make it out of my circumstances. I want to reach back, widen the path, and make sure others know that being low-income doesn’t make you less capable—it makes you powerful in a different way. This scholarship would help cover the hidden costs that weigh heavily on students like me, and it would bring me one step closer to the future I’ve always believed in—even when it felt far away.

I don’t remember the exact moment I decided I wanted to go into healthcare—but I do remember the moments that confirmed it. There was the evening I spent with a dementia patient at the nursing home, watching her eyes wander as she tried to remember her own name. There was the afternoon I held the hand of a man who kept calling me “doctor” even though I was only serving meals. And there were the quiet volunteer hours at the local hospital, where the most impactful thing I could offer someone was not a cure, but comfort. Those moments didn’t feel grand or heroic. They felt human. And that’s exactly what drew me to healthcare: the opportunity to serve people at their most vulnerable, and the responsibility to do it with compassion, science, and purpose. My name is Abdelrahman Abdelrazek, though most people know me as Bodi. I’m a 4.0 undergraduate student double majoring in Neuroscience and Bioengineering on the pre-medical track at Washington State University. I’m also a proud volunteer and mentor—someone who’s spent hours supporting hospital patients, mentoring pre-med students, and leading community health events that connect underserved students to the resources they deserve. I’ve volunteered in spaces where language, culture, or money became barriers to proper care. I’ve seen students who want to pursue healthcare but don’t know where to start, and patients who feel overlooked because no one speaks their language or understands their background. That’s where my passion lies: in the space between science and service—bridging gaps, building trust, and empowering lives. My dream is to become a cardiovascular surgeon and researcher, specializing in organ transplantation and regenerative medicine. I’m currently preparing for a full-time research internship at the Stanford Cardiovascular Institute, where I’ll spend the summer contributing to stem cell-based cardiac regeneration projects. But beyond the lab coat and stethoscope, I want to be someone who brings light into the lives of others—especially those who feel invisible in the healthcare system. The financial road to medicine is daunting. As someone who balances multiple jobs, mentors students, and leads organizations while carrying a full academic load, I’ve learned to stretch every resource and maximize every opportunity. Scholarships like this one are not just financial support—they’re a vote of confidence. They remind students like me that what we’re working for matters, and that we’re not alone. One of the most meaningful projects I’ve worked on is the Pre-Med Advisory Program (PAP), which I founded to support freshmen and sophomores who are just beginning their healthcare journeys. We focus on mentorship, access, and early exposure—ensuring that no aspiring doctor feels lost, underprepared, or unsupported. It’s one way I’m trying to give back and create the kind of environment I wish I had when I was just starting out. Looking ahead, I plan to continue this dual mission of patient care and community impact. Whether I’m in an operating room, a research lab, or a local community center, I’ll carry the same intention: to heal, to empower, and to never forget the people behind the conditions. Healthcare is not just my career path—it’s my calling. And thanks to my volunteering experience, academic focus, and community leadership, I know this is where I’m meant to be. With your support, I’ll keep walking this path—head high, heart open, and always ready to be a beacon of light for someone else.

Growing up, I rarely saw doctors who looked like me—or understood the full weight of what I carried. That absence didn’t just make healthcare feel distant—it made it feel unwelcoming. Now, as a Black pre-med student with a 4.0 GPA and a deep commitment to community-driven care, I’m determined to change that reality for future generations. My goal is to become a cardiovascular surgeon and serve as both a healer and advocate. I want to treat life-threatening conditions, yes—but also restore trust in healthcare systems that have long failed Black patients. Through both research and practice, I aim to improve not only outcomes, but relationships—especially for Black individuals who have faced medical neglect, misdiagnosis, or silence in exam rooms where their voices should have been heard first. Representation in healthcare is not symbolic—it’s life-saving. Studies have shown that Black patients have better health outcomes when treated by Black providers. We listen differently. We relate differently. We hold space for lived experiences in ways that others might overlook or misunderstand. The data is there, but the pipeline is not. Only 4% of U.S. doctors are Black, despite Black people making up over 13% of the population. This gap is more than a statistic—it’s a crisis. At Washington State University, I’ve made it my mission to build platforms that uplift underrepresented students and push back against the barriers we face. I founded the Pre-Med Advisory Program (PAP) to support early pre-health students, especially Black and first-generation students, who often feel unseen in large, competitive environments. I also serve as a senator in student government, where I passed resolutions focused on mental health access, visibility of sexual assault resources, and equitable outreach across campus. Outside of leadership, I work as a caregiver in a senior living facility, and I’m currently preparing for a full-time research internship at Stanford’s Cardiovascular Institute. But what keeps me grounded are the stories of students and patients who’ve thanked me simply for making them feel safe—seen—not “othered.” That reminder is what fuels me every day. This scholarship represents more than financial support. It’s a recognition that students like me belong in this field—and that we’re not just applying to medical school, we’re working to rebuild it. I want to become the kind of doctor who listens before diagnosing, who leads with empathy, and who uses every opportunity to make healthcare a space where every Black patient knows: “You matter. And I’m here for you.” We need more Black surgeons. More Black physicians. More Black scientists. Not just for diversity’s sake, but for survival. For justice. For dignity. I’m committed to being part of that change—and creating space for others to join me.

I was the friend everyone came to for help, but rarely the one who asked for it. As a first-generation aspiring physician, I’ve always taken pride in being the one who had it together—balancing academics, caregiving work, student government, and cultural leadership. But beneath the leadership roles and high expectations, I carried silent emotional exhaustion. It wasn’t until I started mentoring other students that I realized just how common this feeling of invisible burnout was. My experience with mental health has shaped every part of who I am—from my relationships to my career goals. I’ve seen firsthand how untreated stress, anxiety, and academic pressure isolate students, especially in the pre-med and underrepresented communities. We’re told to "keep pushing," to achieve and not complain, but that mindset creates emotional suppression rather than resilience. At one point during my freshman year, I was working multiple jobs, taking upper-level STEM courses, leading several student organizations, and navigating overwhelming financial instability—all while smiling through the pressure. I couldn’t even bring myself to admit that I was struggling, because I thought doing so would make me look weak or ungrateful. But that silence almost broke me. What helped me recover wasn’t therapy or medication, but connection. I found strength in community—whether through late-night conversations with fellow cultural leaders, shared stories with other first-gen students, or small moments of encouragement during mentorship calls. That connection showed me that vulnerability isn’t weakness; it’s power. And it’s what inspired me to build spaces where others didn’t have to carry their burdens alone. I founded the Pre-Med Advisory Program (PAP) at Washington State University to support pre-health students emotionally and academically—especially freshmen and sophomores who felt overwhelmed and unseen. We hosted the first student-led pre-med conference at WSU Pullman, covering meals and supplies for over 40 students and offering workshops on stress management, imposter syndrome, and networking. We didn’t just teach them how to apply to medical school—we reminded them that they belonged in healthcare, even if they were struggling. As a Freshman Delegate in student government, I introduced resolutions to increase visibility of mental health and sexual assault reporting resources across campus. I also created the “First Year Coug of the Month” program to publicly recognize students who show resilience—not just academic achievement. Some cried when we told them they were nominated. It was the first time anyone had validated their effort. This year, I began working as a caregiver at a nursing home. While helping elderly patients with basic needs, I also learned how much emotional presence matters. Just sitting beside someone as they told stories of loss, or holding a hand during a moment of fear, was enough to bring calm. I also joined Stanford’s Cardiovascular Institute this summer for a full-time research internship in cardiac regeneration, working with top researchers to help advance healing technologies. But no matter how technical the science gets, I’ll never forget that real healing happens through human connection. I want to become a cardiovascular surgeon not only to treat hearts but to listen to the ones that are hurting in silence. I want to advocate for a healthcare system that sees mental health as inseparable from physical health. I plan to lead not just in clinics and operating rooms, but in policy and education—to create a system where future healthcare workers are supported, not broken, by the demands placed on them. Mental health has transformed my relationships, too. I’ve learned to be more open, more patient, and more understanding—not just toward others, but toward myself. I’ve learned to ask for help when I need it and to celebrate emotional honesty in others. My closest friendships are built on mutual support, not silent suffering. And in every mentorship relationship I’ve had—from conferences like CASHE and VIBES to one-on-one advising sessions—I’ve prioritized emotional check-ins just as much as resume reviews or academic tips. Mental health isn’t just a topic for me—it’s my mission. Whether through advocacy, medicine, or mentorship, I’m committed to helping others feel seen, safe, and supported. This scholarship would help me continue building that mission into every stage of my career. I want to become the kind of physician who creates space for healing not just with scalpels or prescriptions—but with understanding, compassion, and presence. To “elevate mental health awareness” means more than just posting about it—it means building systems, spaces, and relationships that honor the full humanity of those around us. That’s what I’m doing now. That’s what I’ll spend my life doing.

I still remember translating medical documents for my parents when I was barely ten years old. As immigrants with limited English, they depended on me to explain everything—from prescriptions to diagnoses. What struck me even then was how isolating and overwhelming the healthcare system could be, especially for underserved communities. That early exposure planted a seed in me: I didn’t just want to understand medicine—I wanted to use it to bridge gaps, restore trust, and be a source of comfort in a system that too often forgets the human behind the chart. My journey has not been easy. As a first-generation low-income student, I’ve faced both financial and systemic barriers. Navigating the world of higher education alone was intimidating. My family couldn't offer academic guidance or financial security—I worked as a server in a nursing home while balancing rigorous STEM coursework and leadership roles across campus just to make ends meet. There were nights I’d finish shifts past midnight and still wake up for 8:00 AM lectures with barely any sleep. But every long shift and late-night study session only deepened my resolve. I didn’t see my circumstances as obstacles—I saw them as motivation. Despite the weight of financial strain, I have taken every opportunity to lead and serve. I founded the Pre-Med Advisory Program (PAP) to provide mentorship and resources for underclassmen who felt just as lost as I once did. We recently hosted WSU’s first-ever student-led pre-medical conference—covering the costs for all attendees. I also serve as an All-Campus Senator, where I passed multiple resolutions to increase access to sexual assault reporting resources and wellness support. These experiences are more than bullet points on a resume—they are proof that even without wealth or connections, I can still make a tangible difference. My academic journey is rooted in a dual major in Neuroscience and Bioengineering, with a focus on regenerative medicine. I will be spending this summer conducting cardiac regeneration research at Stanford through the Cardiovascular Institute. But science alone is not what drives me—what fuels me is the hope of being the physician who listens, who sees the full picture, and who treats not just symptoms, but stories. I want to specialize in cardiovascular surgery and work with underserved populations—especially immigrants and non-English speakers who often struggle to access or trust the healthcare system. I want to advocate for them, research better treatments for them, and educate the next generation of providers to treat every patient with empathy and dignity. The Dr. Tien Vo Healthcare Hope Scholarship would alleviate some of the financial burden I carry and allow me to continue leading with purpose. It would mean more than just money—it would be a vote of confidence in a student who has spent years believing in others and is now hoping someone believes in him. I may not have generational wealth or connections, but I have something stronger: lived experience, resilience, and an unshakable drive to serve. I’m not just studying medicine—I’m living it. And I plan to spend the rest of my life using it to heal, uplift, and advocate for those who’ve been left behind.

I didn’t fully understand the weight of mental health until I began mentoring students who felt invisible in the very spaces meant to uplift them. As a first-generation immigrant and healthcare student, I’ve not only navigated complex academic systems, but also supported countless peers in student government, campus mentorship, and pre-med advising—many of whom were silently struggling. I saw anxiety masked as ambition, depression mistaken for laziness, and burnout dismissed as weakness. Each time someone opened up to me, I realized just how desperate students were for someone who would actually listen. As a mentor with Harvard’s HPREP program and a student leader in multiple cultural and health-based organizations, I’ve used every platform I have to create safe spaces for emotional vulnerability—especially among students of color and aspiring healthcare professionals. Whether it’s walking someone through their first counseling appointment or simply sitting with them through a panic attack, I’ve learned that being present with empathy can save someone’s day—or their life. In my future career as a physician, I don’t want to just treat physical symptoms—I want to address the mental weight that so many patients carry silently. My goal is to bridge clinical excellence with emotional advocacy. That means continuing to mentor underserved students, championing mental health reform in medical education, and pushing for greater access to culturally competent care. I’m currently double majoring in Bioengineering and Neuroscience, conducting cardiovascular research at Stanford, and working hands-on with patients as a caregiver. But the most meaningful work I’ve done is simply being a voice of support when no one else knew what to say. This scholarship would help me continue that mission—by easing the financial burden of my education and allowing me to invest more time in mentoring, advocacy, and clinical outreach. Mental health is healthcare. And through compassion, science, and service, I intend to make that truth undeniable in every room I enter.