My passion for mental health is rooted in my lived experience. When I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder, I began to understand how closely mental health and neurological function are connected. For over two years, I used a wheelchair due to symptoms that had no clear structural cause. FND is complex and often misunderstood, and like many others, I faced confusion, frustration, and moments of feeling invisible in the healthcare system. Those experiences did not break me, but gave me direction. Being dismissed or misunderstood by professionals made me realize how important it is to listen to patients fully, to see beyond charts and scans, and to understand the emotional and psychological layers of health. That was the moment my interest in neuroscience shifted into purpose. I wanted to understand the brain not just from a scientific angle, but from the human side too. I wanted to learn how we can create systems that treat the whole person, especially when conditions do not fit into traditional categories. I began taking online courses to educate myself on medical devices, healthcare evaluation, and clinical language. I earned certifications in areas like pharmaceutical and medical device innovation, vital signs, and medical terminology. I also sought out shadowing opportunities with physical therapists and volunteered in spaces where I could support others. Tutoring students, including those with learning differences, helped me build patience and adaptability skills that are essential in mental health work. Every step I took brought me closer to the kind of work I want to do long term. My goal is to work in the neuro device field as a Therapy Development Specialist. I want to help develop and introduce tools that support both neurological and mental health recovery. Technology should not just exist in labs. It should reach people in clinics, hospitals, and community spaces where it can truly change lives. I want to make sure mental health is not an afterthought in neurological care but a fully integrated part of how we treat patients. As a woman of color who grew up in a single-parent household, I understand how access and representation in healthcare affect outcomes. I did not always see people who looked like me in medical spaces, and I often had to advocate for myself in ways others may not have needed to. That is why advancing diversity and inclusion in this field is so important to me. I want to create space for more patients and professionals of different backgrounds to feel heard, respected, and supported. In the future, I hope to combine my personal journey, academic foundation, and clinical experiences to make mental healthcare more equitable and human-centered. I want to bring awareness to conditions like FND and similar disorders that do not always fit within traditional models of care. I want to help patients who feel lost find clarity, and I want to be part of a generation of healthcare professionals that values both science and empathy. This scholarship would not only support my education, but it would also support my mission. I am committed to using my story, my voice, and my training to make a lasting impact in the mental health field, and I am grateful for the opportunity to be considered.

I was raised in a single parent household where resources were limited but love and encouragement were always present. My mom has always been the one steady force in my life, making sure I had what I needed to stay focused even when we could not afford many of the opportunities others had. We did not have access to extra academic programs or tutoring or outside help, but I was taught that if I wanted something badly enough, I could work for it. That mindset stuck with me and became a core part of how I move through the world. When I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder, everything changed. It was not a diagnosis that came with immediate answers or easy treatments. For two and a half years, I was in a wheelchair. My body struggled to function the way it used to, and there was no clear scan or test that could explain why. I experienced daily symptoms that disrupted my ability to move and live normally, but I also had to face disbelief. That was often harder than the physical challenges while being in pain and having people assume I was fine simply because nothing “showed up" and I'm doing all of this for attention. Living through FND taught me more than any classroom ever could. It showed me what it means to feel trapped in your own body, to search for answers and not find them right away, and to have to advocate for yourself when no one else quite understands. It also made me incredibly curious. I needed to understand what was happening to me, not just from a patient perspective but from a scientific one. That is what led me to neuroscience. I became obsessed with understanding how the brain functions and how something like FND could happen. I took courses online in everything I could access such as medical technology, clinical terminology, vital signs, pharmaceutical and medical device innovation, and healthcare evaluation. These were not school assignments. No one was making me take them. I did it because I wanted to feel empowered and because learning became my way of fighting back. Through that process, I started to see myself not only as a student or patient but as someone who could make an impact. I also began shadowing physical therapists, volunteering in healthcare spaces, and tutoring students who had learning differences or needed academic support. These experiences helped me connect my lived experience to real patient care. I started thinking less about how I was affected and more about how I could use what I had been through to support other people, especially those whose conditions are not always visible or easy to explain. Now I am working toward a career as a Therapy Development Specialist in the neuro device field. I want to be the person who helps bring meaningful, functional technology into clinical spaces tools that improve quality of life, restore movement, and give people hope. I want to be someone who supports healthcare teams, trains providers, and advocates for patients, especially those with conditions like mine. There is a gap between medical innovation and patient experience, and I want to help close that gap. Being in a wheelchair for over two years shifted how I view mobility, care, and recovery. It gave me a kind of empathy and clarity that no textbook could. It made me determined to never assume what a patient is going through just because they do or do not show certain symptoms. I want to bring that perspective into everything I do in this field. I know what it is like to feel like you are too complicated for the system. I want to change that system so no one has to feel that way again. Everything I have done, every certification, volunteer role, tutoring job, and shadowing experience has been intentional. It has all been part of the process of rebuilding not only my health, but my sense of purpose. I have learned how to stay focused when things are uncertain, how to create opportunities when they are not handed to me, and how to keep moving forward even when progress feels slow. Adversity did not break me. It shaped me. It gave me the drive to understand what most people overlook. It gave me the perspective to care deeply about those who are unheard. And it gave me the vision to pursue a future that blends science, compassion, and advocacy. I am passionate about neuroscience and medical technology because I have lived through the kind of confusion and fear that many patients face. But I have also come out the other side with purpose, education, and determination. I am not just studying this field. I am becoming part of and am ready to contribute, ready to lead, and ready to change lives the same way I have been changed.

Love Island Challenge: “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” Welcome to Whose Line Is It Anyway?—the ultimate Love Island challenge that blends romance, memory, and a bit of chaos. This game reveals just how closely Islanders have been paying attention… or not. Here’s how it works: Each Islander writes down one spicy, flirty, dramatic, or even slightly embarrassing line they’ve said in the villa. It could be something sweet, savage, or unforgettable. All the quotes get tossed into the “Heart Jar,” and then the real fun begins. Islanders take turns pulling a quote and guessing who said it and who it was said to. If they get it right, they score a point. If they get it wrong, the person who actually said the line stands up, owns it, and explains the context in front of everyone—no hiding, no excuses. The catch? The quotes are a mix of everything—from romantic confessions like, “I caught more feelings in three days than I have in three years,” to brutally honest ones like, “I only coupled up with you because no one else was left.” Every quote pulled adds a new layer of excitement, awkwardness, or drama to the game. To make things even messier, if an Islander pulls a quote they originally said and doesn’t recognize their own words, they get iced with a bucket of heart-shaped confetti—and maybe a little side-eye from their partner. The couple with the most correct guesses wins a romantic sunset dinner, while the losing pair has to serve them wearing aprons that say, “Didn’t Listen.” This challenge works because it’s the perfect combo of funny, vulnerable, and real. It gives Islanders a chance to reflect on what they’ve said, relive iconic villa moments, and either own up to or cringe at their past words. It’s entertaining for everyone and gives the audience the drama and laughs they love. In a place where emotions run high and bonds can change in a day, Whose Line Is It Anyway? keeps Islanders on their toes—and reminds everyone that words can be just as unforgettable as actions

I’ve always been the kind of person who needs to know why and how things work—especially when it comes to the human body and brain. That curiosity is what pushed me toward healthcare in the first place. Over time, it turned into something bigger: a real passion for science, technology, and helping people in a way that actually matters. Like Stelios, I’m someone who wants to do more than just learn. I like to apply what I know and keep building on it. That’s why I’ve gone out of my way to take medical-related certifications on my own—from medical technology to vital signs to device innovation. None of it was required. I just wanted to understand more. I wanted to see how healthcare works, not just from a textbook, but from every angle—especially how medical devices can make a difference in someone’s recovery or quality of life. At the same time, I’ve been gaining hands-on experience through tutoring, volunteering, and shadowing physical therapists. Working with students who have disabilities taught me patience, flexibility, and how to explain tough things in a way that clicks. Shadowing in a clinic helped me see how therapists use tools and technology to guide recovery. These real-life experiences showed me how everything I’m learning actually plays out—and they’ve helped me become more empathetic, confident, and motivated. I’ve always had an entrepreneurial mindset, even if I didn’t call it that at the time. I’m the type of person who will create my own resources if they don’t exist, try new ways to teach others, or reach out for opportunities when no one tells me to. Whether it’s tutoring, volunteering at a hospital, or shadowing, I’m constantly trying to piece things together that will help me grow and get closer to where I want to be. That mindset is a big part of why I want to go into medical devices—especially as a Therapy Development Specialist. I love the idea of combining neuroscience, innovation, and patient care all in one career. Academics have always mattered to me, but not just for the grades. I genuinely want to understand the material and how it connects to real life. I graduated with honors, earned Student Employee of the Year, and kept up my GPA while balancing work, school, and certifications. That work ethic comes from wanting something more for myself and from seeing how much I can do when I stay focused. The way Stelios approached life—through curiosity, creativity, and purpose—really matches how I see my own future. I want to take what I’ve learned, keep building on it, and use it to help people in a real, lasting way.

Right now, I give back by being present for people in ways I wish someone had been present for me. A few years ago, I went through something that completely flipped my life upside down. At sixteen, I lost my ability to walk due to a misdiagnosis that led to Functional Neurological Disorder. I went from being an active athlete to hearing doctors tell me, “Come back when you’re walking.” I’ll never forget how that felt—alone, dismissed, and hopeless. But that experience gave me something I didn’t expect: purpose. Now, I use that purpose to support others. One of the biggest ways I give back is through tutoring. I work with students through Tutors.com and at my college’s Center for Disability Services. A lot of them struggle with learning differences or just need someone to break things down patiently and clearly. I never treat it like a job—I treat it like a responsibility. I know how hard it is to feel like you're falling behind or that no one gets what you’re going through. So I sit with them, listen, and meet them where they’re at. Watching someone go from “I can’t do this” to “Wait—I got it!” is one of the most rewarding feelings. I also volunteer at the Quran Academy and Orland Park Prayer Center. Whether I’m helping in classrooms or working with younger kids at events, I try to be the kind of person I needed when I was growing up—someone who understands, encourages, and sticks around even when things get tough. I’ve also served as Vice President of my school’s Muslim Student Association, where I helped plan events focused on community wellness and belonging. In the future, I want to take all of this—the tutoring, the volunteering, the lived experience—and bring it into the healthcare world. I plan to become a Therapy Development Specialist, working in neuro devices. I’ve been the patient in the wheelchair wondering what was happening inside my own body. I’ve sat through the tests, the confusion, the blank stares. That’s why I want to be someone who not only works with advanced technology to help people walk again, but also explains things in a way they can actually understand. I want to be the person who says, “You’re not alone. We’re going to figure this out together.” To me, giving back isn’t just about hours or volunteering. It’s about showing up for people—academically, emotionally, physically—and doing it consistently. It’s about using my pain as fuel to bring others peace. I don’t know exactly where life will take me, but I know this: I’m going to keep finding ways to serve, speak up, and shine a light for people going through their own darkness—just like others did for me.

Selflessness, for me, is rooted in empathy, resilience, and a desire to uplift others through the very challenges I’ve faced myself. My journey into selflessness wasn’t chosen—it was shaped by a life-changing experience when I was sixteen, during what was supposed to be a simple trip to visit family in Jordan. One summer afternoon, I collapsed in a clinic and lost the ability to walk. I had been misdiagnosed with a bulging disc and underwent a medical cupping procedure that ended with me on the floor, terrified and unable to move. After a long emergency flight back to the U.S., I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder. I spent months in and out of hospitals and rehab centers, including Shirley Ryan, where I was eventually told, “Come back to us when you’re walking.” It was the kind of sentence that could’ve shattered me. But through the darkness, someone believed in me—a coach who invited me to join the track and field wheelchair division. That moment changed everything. From that point on, I made a silent promise: if I ever regained strength and stability—emotionally or physically—I would use it to help others find light in their own dark moments. That’s how I embody selflessness. Not through grand gestures, but by showing up: as a tutor, a volunteer, a teammate, and a listener. As a tutor for students with disabilities and through Tutors.com, I’ve met learners who didn’t just need academic help—they needed someone to believe in them. I saw myself in them, remembering what it felt like to lose confidence and independence. I spent hours adapting my approach, simplifying concepts, and cheering for their progress. I wasn’t being paid for my time or effort—I did it because I knew how powerful it is to have someone fight for your success when you can’t see it yourself. In my community, I’ve consistently volunteered at the Quran Academy and the Orland Park Prayer Center. Whether it was helping in classrooms, setting up events, or mentoring younger students, I gave my time freely. One of my favorite roles has been helping organize youth programs that are culturally sensitive and emotionally supportive—because I understand what it feels like to not fit in, or to feel misunderstood, especially in healthcare and educational spaces. Perhaps the most important expression of selflessness in my life is my intention to serve others through healthcare. I’ve applied to volunteer at UChicago Medicine AdventHealth Bolingbrook Hospital, not to boost a resume, but to support patients and staff with the same compassion I once needed. I want to become a Therapy Development Specialist in the neuro device field because I know what it feels like to lose control of your body and have unanswered questions about your brain. I want to be the person who brings hope, understanding, and advocacy to others. Selflessness, to me, is about transforming pain into purpose. I live it by sharing my time, energy, and story with those who need it most—just like others once did for me.

Cancer has a way of changing everything—how a family communicates, what matters most, and how each moment is valued. My family, like so many others, has been deeply impacted by cancer, and the experience has left lasting marks not just in our memories, but in the way we live and see the world. When a close family member was diagnosed, I was old enough to understand what was happening but young enough that the reality still felt far away. At first, cancer was just a word that came with doctor visits and new routines. But over time, it became a daily presence—shaping conversations, responsibilities, and emotions in our household. Watching someone I love go through treatment, experience physical and emotional changes, and face the unknown head-on was something I’ll never forget. What I learned through that experience is difficult to put into words because it touched so many parts of who I am. I learned what true strength looks like—not the kind that’s loud or outwardly confident, but the quiet kind. The strength it takes to get up for another appointment, to sit through hours of chemotherapy, to keep going even when you’re exhausted and afraid. I saw that strength in the patient, and I saw it in my family—especially in my mother, who held us all together while caring for someone who was slowly changing right in front of us. I also learned the value of time and presence. When someone is battling cancer, time becomes precious. I realized that just sitting with someone, listening to their fears, or laughing at something small could be more healing than any medicine. That experience gave me a deeper sense of empathy and taught me how to be there for someone without needing to fix everything—just to be there. Cancer also opened my eyes to the power of healthcare—not just treatment, but compassion. The nurses, doctors, and specialists who cared for my loved one left an impression on me. They weren’t just delivering medical care; they were offering hope, clarity, and kindness when we needed it most. That’s part of what inspired me to pursue a future in neuroscience and medical technology, particularly in patient-centered roles where I can help bridge the gap between innovation and care. I want to be part of giving people time, comfort, and tools to fight their battles—and I know the perspective I’ve gained from my own experience will make me more compassionate and grounded in that work. Cancer tested my family’s strength, but it also brought us closer. It taught me to be patient, resilient, and aware of what really matters. Most of all, it reminded me that even in the hardest moments, there is still love, purpose, and the potential to grow.

Growing up in a single-parent household, my greatest source of support has always been my mother. She is the person who has believed in me the most—when resources were tight, when life was unpredictable, and when I doubted myself. She never let me forget that education could open doors, and that my dreams were valid even if our path looked different than others. Watching her raise a family on her own, while juggling endless responsibilities, shaped me in ways I’m only beginning to understand. She didn’t have a safety net, but she created one for me—providing structure, emotional strength, and values that would push me forward. No matter how tired she was, she encouraged my curiosity. She didn’t have a background in science or medicine, but she’d listen with genuine interest as I talked about the brain, health, or what I had just learned in a Coursera course. Those conversations fueled me more than any grade ever could. She taught me that success isn’t handed to you—it’s built, slowly, and with intention. That’s why I’ve spent the last few years pursuing every opportunity I could: volunteering, tutoring students, earning healthcare-related certifications, shadowing physical therapists, and preparing to transfer into a neuroscience program. I honor my mother’s sacrifices by never wasting the chances she helped me reach for. Every time I earn a certificate, step into a clinic, or support a student who needs help, I remember that I’m walking on the foundation she laid with her strength and her belief in me. Her support has been especially important because of the environment I grew up in. Life in a single-parent household often meant doing homework while she worked late or managing responsibilities many of my classmates didn’t understand. But those moments also gave me empathy, independence, and an understanding of what it means to care for others—not just academically or clinically, but humanely. That’s why I’m drawn to healthcare. I want to work directly with patients and care teams, especially in neurorehabilitation and medical device therapy, where technology and compassion meet. My dream of becoming a Therapy Development Specialist is more than a career goal—it’s a way to give meaning to my journey. I want to be a part of improving patient outcomes, helping clinicians understand new tools, and being the link between life-changing technology and real people. Everything my mother taught me—resilience, clarity, purpose—will come with me into that role. I plan to build on her support by mentoring others, especially students like me—those who come from single-parent homes, or who didn’t have a straight path but still have deep potential. I’ve already started doing that through tutoring and volunteering, and I know that lifting others up is part of the legacy my mother helped shape. Her support has been instrumental because it filled the gaps life left behind. She was the parent, the motivator, the advocate, and the voice that told me I could make it—especially in moments when the world seemed silent. I wouldn’t be where I am without her, and everything I achieve will be rooted in her strength.

When I think of a woman who has broken through gender, cultural, and academic barriers, I think of my mother—a Palestinian woman who immigrated to the United States and is now about to graduate with a Ph.D. in Educational Leadership with a research focus on providing equitable education to multilingual students. Her journey is one of determination, sacrifice, and vision. Her story is the reason I believe in the power of women to change systems and create opportunity for others. Born and raised in Palestine, my mother grew up in a region shaped by political instability and strict gender expectations. Girls were often encouraged to prioritize marriage and caretaking over higher education and leadership. But even as a child, my mother knew she wanted more. She dreamed of being a voice for students who were often ignored, especially those navigating education while also navigating the complexities of language, culture, and identity. When she immigrated to the U.S., she arrived with limited resources and no formal support system. But she carried with her an unshakable belief in the value of education. While raising children and working multiple jobs, she taught herself English, enrolled in school, and slowly began building the academic career she had always wanted. Now, after years of perseverance, she is preparing to graduate with her doctorate—having conducted research on the impact of EL programming, specifically comparing push-in vs. pull-out services for multilingual learners. Her work is not only academically rigorous—it is deeply personal and socially urgent. She is using her lived experience to advocate for students who, like her, come from multilingual and multicultural backgrounds. By challenging outdated models and promoting inclusive education, she’s pushing school systems to serve all children more equitably. Her presence in the academic space is a form of resistance, and her success is a roadmap for the next generation of women, including me. Watching my mother rise through these challenges has shaped the way I see myself and my future. I am currently pursuing studies in neuroscience and healthcare technology with the goal of becoming a Therapy Development Specialist. I want to work at the intersection of medical devices, patient care, and advocacy—helping improve outcomes for patients recovering from neurological injuries. Just as my mother is creating space in education for those who are often overlooked, I hope to do the same in healthcare. Her example taught me that breaking barriers isn’t just about personal achievement—it’s about creating impact for those who come after you. She’s not only a scholar; she’s a mentor, a role model, and a disruptor of systems that were never built with people like her in mind. Through her, I’ve learned what true ambition looks like—and what it means to use that ambition to lift others up. My mother’s journey proves that you don’t need to inherit opportunity to create it. She built hers from the ground up, and now, she’s building it for others too.

Mental health has had a quiet but persistent presence in my life. I’ve witnessed how mental illness can reshape the course of a person’s life—not through a single dramatic event, but through slow, accumulating challenges that affect relationships, confidence, and overall well-being. These experiences have not only shaped my perspective as a student and future healthcare professional, but have also helped me develop deeper empathy, emotional intelligence, and a commitment to patient-centered care. In my family, we’ve faced anxiety, depression, and trauma-related symptoms. Like many families, we did not always have the language to talk about it openly. I watched people I care about struggle in silence, sometimes minimizing their symptoms, other times reaching out only when things became overwhelming. These moments taught me how important it is to listen, not just with ears but with intention—to notice when someone is withdrawing or not quite themselves. Over time, I became the “go-to” person for emotional support, which gave me a sense of purpose but also opened my eyes to the emotional toll mental illness can take on families as a whole. At the same time, I’ve experienced periods of stress, isolation, and burnout that made me realize how closely mental health is tied to physical health and daily functioning. In recent years, I’ve become more proactive in setting boundaries, checking in with myself, and supporting those around me in healthier ways. I’ve learned that healing is not always linear, and that resilience doesn’t mean pushing through everything alone—it means building a support system and knowing when to reach for it. These personal experiences are part of what drew me toward the healthcare field. I’m pursuing a career path that blends neuroscience, patient care, and medical device innovation. I want to be someone who not only understands how the brain functions, but also how to apply that knowledge in ways that improve quality of life—whether that means supporting stroke rehabilitation, chronic pain management, or mental health interventions through technology. My ultimate goal is to become a Therapy Development Specialist in neuro devices, a role that allows me to connect directly with clinicians and patients, helping them use tools that can make real, measurable differences. Mental illness is often invisible, but its impact is not. It affects families, communication, physical health, and access to care. Through my personal experiences and career aspirations, I hope to be part of the change—advocating for early intervention, holistic care, and tools that empower both patients and providers

As a second-generation immigrant, my journey into higher education has been shaped by both quiet strength and unspoken uncertainty. My parents came to this country seeking opportunity and stability, with hopes that their children would have access to everything they never did. While I am incredibly grateful for the life they’ve built, I have often felt like I was navigating a system that wasn’t designed for me. My family had no blueprint for how to approach college applications, financial aid, or career planning. There were no older siblings to guide me, and my parents, though endlessly supportive, could only do so much when it came to understanding how higher education in the United States works. Because of this, I have had to learn by doing—researching on my own, asking teachers for help, and seeking out mentors wherever I could find them. I often felt like I was behind before I had even started. There were moments I questioned whether I belonged in academic spaces that seemed filled with confidence, connections, and resources I didn’t have. But in those moments, I reminded myself of the quiet power in my story. I come from a family that values persistence and faith, where success is measured not just by titles or degrees but by how much you’ve overcome. My identity has shaped not only my approach to education but also the dreams I am pursuing. After facing a personal health crisis that left me temporarily unable to walk, I became fascinated with the way the brain and nervous system function—and how often they are misunderstood. I was eventually diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder, a diagnosis that showed me just how important it is to listen to patients and to provide care that is not only evidence-based but also compassionate. My experience as a second-generation immigrant further deepened this realization. In both education and healthcare, people like me are often overlooked, misdiagnosed, or not fully heard. That is why I want to pursue a career in neuroscience with a focus on patient advocacy and access. I don’t just want to study the brain; I want to help build systems that serve people with empathy and dignity, especially those from underrepresented communities. I hope to one day work in clinical neurorehabilitation or therapy development, helping patients regain confidence and function, and supporting families like mine who are trying to navigate unfamiliar systems. Of course, I still carry concerns with me—about imposter syndrome, about being underestimated, and about balancing academic pressure with the quiet expectations of being the “successful child” in an immigrant family. But alongside those concerns is hope. Hope that I can open doors not just for myself, but for others who come after me. Hope that my story, rather than holding me back, will become the very reason I succeed. Higher education is not just a goal for me—it is a path toward understanding, healing, and making change. It is where I plan to combine my resilience, curiosity, and compassion into a future that reflects both where I come from and where I am determined to go.

1. My name is Abeer Sweis, and my life changed significantly at the age of sixteen when I experienced a sudden and unexpected collapse that left me unable to walk. I was eventually diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder, a condition that affects the communication between the brain and body. This experience reshaped my understanding of health and identity, and it has become the foundation for my goals, values, and motivation. What motivates me most is the desire to turn adversity into purpose. I want to be a source of support and understanding for others who are facing neurological or physical challenges. I remember the feelings of uncertainty, fear, and isolation. Because of this, I am committed to making others feel heard, seen, and supported in their most vulnerable moments. I am passionate about pursuing a career in neuroscience where I can contribute to both research and patient care and help bridge the gap between science and empathy. If I could do anything with my life, I would dedicate myself to improving outcomes for individuals living with neurological conditions. Whether through therapy development, patient advocacy, or community education, I want to help others reclaim hope and independence. I believe meaningful change stems from a combination of education, compassion, and action. My journey has given me a sense of purpose and a strong desire to use that experience to uplift and empower others through my future career. 2.What excites me most about STEM is its ability to turn curiosity into meaningful action. STEM provides the foundation for discovery, innovation, and problem-solving that directly impacts people’s lives. It allows us to take what we imagine and make it real, whether it is curing diseases, building sustainable systems, or creating tools that make everyday life better. My own experience with Functional Neurological Disorder taught me how critical accurate information, timely care, and well-designed tools can be. I experienced firsthand how technology can either ease a health crisis—or complicate it further. Information technology, in particular, is a powerful force for progress in healthcare. It improves the accuracy of data, facilitates communication between providers and patients, and enables better long-term tracking of conditions. For someone who faced long delays and emotional setbacks during diagnosis, I understand how IT could have made that journey more manageable. I envision contributing to the creation of applications that support neurological patients, such as platforms that log symptoms, send medication reminders, or simplify access to telehealth services. I also want to support providers by helping build systems that reduce administrative burdens and use artificial intelligence to assist in earlier, more accurate diagnoses. Integrating empathy into design is something I would prioritize that ensuring that healthcare technology respects both the science and the person. With a background shaped by lived experience and a passion for both technology and patient care, I believe I can help shape the future of IT in ways that are innovative, ethical, and genuinely human-centered. 3.The greatest challenge I have faced was losing my ability to walk and adjusting to life in a wheelchair at the age of sixteen. While visiting family overseas, I collapsed after a treatment session and could no longer stand. I was initially misdiagnosed, which only added confusion and fear to an already overwhelming situation. Eventually, after returning home, I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder—a condition where the brain and body fail to communicate properly. I went from being an active student-athlete to someone who needed help with basic tasks. Everything changed, including how I saw myself. The hardest moment came when a well-known rehabilitation hospital told me there was nothing more they could do for me and that I should come back only when I could walk again. That statement devastated me. It felt like a door had slammed shut, and I questioned whether recovery was even possible. I had to dig deep and find strength I did not know I had.Things began to shift when a coach introduced me to wheelchair track and field. For the first time since my diagnosis, I felt like I had something to fight for. I trained, competed, and eventually qualified for the IHSA State Finals, where I broke a state record and medaled in multiple events. That experience showed me the true meaning of resilience. I learned that while we cannot always control what happens to us, we can control how we respond. Today, I carry that mindset into everything I pursue, including my dream of helping others who feel stuck or invisible in their healing journey.

One of my greatest achievements to date didn’t come in a classroom or on paper—it happened the first time I sat in a wheelchair and had to relearn how to move through the world. I had lost strength in my legs and couldn’t walk. I wasn’t just dealing with physical limitations—I was confronting fear, frustration, and the feeling that I had lost control over my life. But what felt like the lowest point ended up becoming one of the most transformative experiences I’ve ever had. Navigating life in a wheelchair taught me resilience in a way no textbook ever could. Suddenly, simple tasks became exhausting. I had to rely on others for things I used to do without thinking. It tested my patience, my pride, and my ability to keep going when nothing felt fair. But with time, physical therapy, and a lot of determination, I improved. I learned how to advocate for myself, listen to my body, and appreciate the progress—no matter how small. More importantly, it completely changed the way I view others with physical or neurological challenges. I became more aware of accessibility, more sensitive to invisible pain, and more committed to making others feel seen, understood, and supported. That experience didn’t just teach me how to walk again—it taught me how to see differently. Now, as I work toward a career in healthcare—specifically in neuroscience and rehabilitation—that moment fuels my purpose. I don’t just want to work in healthcare because it interests me academically. I want to be there for people who feel scared, dismissed, or stuck in their healing journey. I want to be the person who says, “I understand,” and means it. I know what it’s like to feel trapped in your own body, and I know how powerful it is to have someone who believes in your recovery. In the future, I hope to work in environments where I can blend clinical knowledge with personal empathy—maybe as a therapy development specialist or someone working directly with neurorehabilitation patients. I want to be part of building a more compassionate and inclusive healthcare system—one that recognizes the whole person, not just their diagnosis. That wheelchair chapter will always be part of my story. Not because it slowed me down, but because it pushed me forward in ways I never imagined. It taught me that strength is more than just physical—and that the greatest achievements are often the ones that rebuild you from the inside out.

Climate change, pollution, and biodiversity loss are no longer distant concerns—they are urgent, interconnected challenges that demand action from every individual and community. As someone pursuing a career in healthcare and neuroscience, I believe my path can intersect with environmental stewardship in meaningful ways. My commitment to improving the environment and ecology stems from a recognition that human health and planetary health are deeply intertwined. One of the key ways I hope to contribute is by advocating for and supporting sustainable healthcare practices. The healthcare industry, while essential, contributes significantly to pollution through waste, energy use, and reliance on disposable materials. I want to be part of a generation of healthcare professionals who prioritize sustainable innovation—whether that’s by promoting reusable medical tools where safe, supporting hospitals in reducing their carbon footprint, or helping to implement eco-conscious systems in clinical settings. As someone who is already BLS certified and pursuing further training, I intend to seek out workplaces that share this commitment and push for change from within. Education is another powerful tool for environmental impact. My academic background in science has shown me the value of interdisciplinary thinking. In tutoring STEM students, I’ve seen how early exposure to environmental science concepts can shape values and choices. I hope to continue this kind of peer education—emphasizing how fields like neuroscience, public health, and ecology are interdependent. A cleaner environment reduces neurological health risks from toxins, noise, and pollution. A biodiverse, balanced ecosystem supports food security, mental well-being, and disease prevention. These connections are real and urgent, and I want to help others see them too. On a personal level, I practice sustainability through small but consistent habits: minimizing single-use plastic, using public transportation, and supporting ethical companies. I also believe in collective action—volunteering for local cleanups, supporting climate advocacy, and uplifting community-led conservation efforts. While individual habits matter, systemic change is where the biggest impact lies, and that means staying informed, engaged, and proactive. Looking ahead, I want to align my future career with organizations or hospitals that support environmental justice. I’m particularly inspired by initiatives that bring clean air, water, and healthcare access to underserved communities—places that often bear the brunt of environmental damage. Whether I work as a healthcare provider, therapist, or specialist in neurorehabilitation, I plan to use my voice and position to advocate for policies that protect both people and the planet. Ultimately, I believe environmental change starts with awareness, builds through education and collaboration, and is sustained by courageous action. Through science, service, and continued learning, I hope to play even a small role in healing the world we all share.

My pro-life beliefs are not just rooted in ideology—they’re grounded in experience, compassion, and a deep sense of human dignity that has grown through personal caregiving and witnessing suffering, resilience, and hope. Through these experiences, I’ve come to understand life as sacred at every stage, not just because of potential, but because of inherent worth. Caring for someone with significant health challenges—someone society might have written off as “less capable” or “burdensome”—taught me that life is never measured by ability or convenience. In my role as a caregiver, I saw firsthand how every human being, no matter how fragile or dependent, deserves love, protection, and respect. That same principle, when applied consistently, leads me to defend the lives of the unborn—those who cannot speak for themselves but whose existence carries the same dignity as every other person. My journey in neuroscience has also reinforced these values. Studying the human brain, its development, and the earliest signs of cognition only deepens my awe for life. From the earliest stages, the human body is developing with intentionality, and that development is not arbitrary—it’s human from the start. As someone committed to understanding and aiding the brain, it’s impossible for me to deny the humanity present even before birth. I believe science, compassion, and ethics can and should coexist to support life. But beliefs without action are hollow. I strive to promote the value of life through both personal and public efforts. I engage in respectful dialogue with peers, especially in academic settings, where difficult conversations about life and choice often occur. My approach is never to shame, but to speak with empathy and truth. I listen as much as I speak, because promoting life means showing compassion to women in crisis—not just advocating for birth, but also for support, healing, and dignity. Outside of conversation, I volunteer with local women’s resource centers that provide free counseling, supplies, and medical referrals for pregnant women, especially those in vulnerable situations. I believe the pro-life mission is not only to protect the unborn but also to care for the mothers, families, and communities surrounding them. I’ve helped organize donation drives for baby clothes, supplies, and prenatal vitamins, and I offer my time to help with educational programs that empower women with knowledge and resources. Being pro-life, to me, means advocating for the dignity of all human life: the unborn, the elderly, the disabled, the poor. It’s a holistic view of humanity that demands we not just protect life, but uplift it at every turn. It’s not easy to live out this belief in a world with so much polarization, but I’ve found that quiet consistency—rooted in real action, compassion, and truth—can make a lasting impact. I am committed to a life of service that reflects these values, both in my future career in neuroscience and in my everyday choices. Whether it’s advocating for ethical medical research, supporting mothers, or simply being present for someone who feels unseen, I aim to live in a way that honors the dignity of every person, born or unborn.

My name is Abeer Sweis, and I am a proud Palestinian-American student studying neuroscience. My journey into this field is not just academic — it’s personal, purposeful, and deeply rooted in my identity. My goal is to make a positive impact on the world through science, advocacy, and care — especially for those whose voices are often unheard. My family comes from Deir Yassin, a village in Palestine that was the site of a horrific massacre during the 1948 Nakba — a mass displacement that changed the lives of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians, including my own family. My great-grandfather fought in the resistance during the attack on our village. He risked his life to protect our land, our people, and our dignity. That story has been passed down through generations — not just as a painful memory, but as a legacy of strength, courage, and the unshakable belief in standing up for what’s right, even when the odds are against you. That legacy lives in me. My identity as a Palestinian-American has shaped how I view the world — especially when it comes to justice and human dignity. I’ve experienced what it means to be misunderstood, to have my story minimized, and to feel invisible in systems that weren’t built to include people like me. These experiences only deepened my desire to enter the healthcare field, where I can bring not only medical knowledge, but lived empathy to the work I do. I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that caused me to lose mobility and rely on a wheelchair for over two years. Alongside that, I live with crippling anxiety and PTSD, which have deeply affected my academic and personal life. I receive accommodations in college to support my mental health — a decision I made not out of weakness, but strength. These challenges showed me how many people struggle in silence, and how often their pain is misunderstood or dismissed. They also sparked my passion for neuroscience. I chose neuroscience because I want to understand the brain — but also because I want to humanize healthcare. I want to work in neurorehabilitation, trauma-informed care, or public health, helping others navigate the same systems that once made me feel invisible. I want to advocate for those who feel lost, and bring dignity, clarity, and care into spaces that desperately need it. My short-term goal is to finish my degree and continue serving others through tutoring, volunteering, and mentoring. I’ve worked with students with disabilities, led youth programs in my community, and tried to create open conversations around mental health — especially in places where it’s often seen as taboo. I believe even small efforts can spark big change. Long-term, I want to be part of transforming healthcare. I want to design systems that are inclusive, culturally responsive, and accessible — systems that listen before they diagnose, and care before they categorize. Systems that make people feel like people. My great-grandfather fought for our land. I fight in a different way — with education, with compassion, and with the belief that healing can be a form of resistance. Through my career, I hope to carry his legacy forward — not just by remembering where we came from, but by building a future where dignity, justice, and peace are the foundation of every person’s care.

When I think of Team USA and the kind of athlete who inspires not only fans but an entire generation, Simone Biles immediately comes to mind. She’s not just my favorite athlete to cheer for — she’s someone who represents excellence, resilience, and the power of knowing your worth. Simone Biles is the most decorated gymnast in history, and her athletic talent speaks for itself. She doesn’t just win — she dominates. Watching her perform on the world stage is mesmerizing. The precision, the power, and the ease with which she pulls off routines that most gymnasts wouldn’t even attempt is beyond impressive. She’s redefined the sport, forced judges to create new scoring methods, and continues to push the boundaries of what’s physically possible. She makes greatness look effortless — even though we all know the work behind it is anything but. But what truly makes her my favorite athlete is what she represents outside of competition. Simone has been incredibly open about her mental health, especially during the Tokyo Olympics when she made the difficult decision to step back from several events to protect her well-being. That moment was groundbreaking — not because she walked away, but because she showed that strength isn't just about pushing through pain. Sometimes, strength means choosing yourself, even under global pressure. As someone who’s faced mental health challenges myself, that moment meant everything. Seeing one of the world’s greatest athletes say, “I need to put my health first” wasn’t just brave — it was transformative. She reminded the world that athletes are human, and that success should never come at the cost of mental and emotional well-being. Simone also advocates for survivors of abuse, speaks openly about the importance of safe sports environments, and uses her platform to uplift others. She’s not just competing — she’s changing the conversation around what athletes owe to the public, to institutions, and most importantly, to themselves. Cheering for Simone Biles feels like cheering for more than just medals. It feels like cheering for growth, courage, and a healthier future for athletes around the world. She carries the flag not just for Team USA, but for anyone who’s ever had to fight to be taken seriously, to be heard, or to protect their peace in a world that often glorifies burnout. So yes — I’ll always cheer for her flips, her medals, and her routines. But more than anything, I cheer for the kind of person she is and the message she continues to send: that greatness isn’t just about what you do — it’s about how you do it, and why.

While I wouldn’t call myself the world’s biggest basketball fan, I’ve always admired LeBron James — not just for what he’s done on the court, but for the way he carries himself off of it. LeBron isn’t just a player with incredible stats, highlight-reel dunks, and four NBA championships — he’s a leader, a role model, and a powerhouse of discipline, intelligence, and consistency. And for that, I’m definitely a fan. What stands out most to me is LeBron’s longevity. He’s played at an elite level for over two decades — which, in a sport that demands so much from the body and mind, is nothing short of phenomenal. His ability to evolve with the game, adjust his playstyle, and maintain peak performance speaks to his commitment and work ethic. He’s not just naturally talented — he puts in the work, year after year. Off the court, LeBron is just as impressive. He built a school — the I PROMISE School — to support at-risk kids in his hometown. He speaks out about social justice, supports communities, and sets an example of using your platform for something bigger than fame. That’s the kind of impact that makes someone a true legend, regardless of what the scoreboard says. Now, is LeBron James the greatest basketball player of all time? That’s a tough question — and it depends on what “greatest” means to you. If we’re talking about versatility, career stats, leadership, and off-court influence, he’s absolutely in the conversation. He’s an all-time great who changed the game in countless ways. But if we’re talking strictly basketball dominance, legacy, and clutch performance under pressure, some people still argue for Michael Jordan. Jordan went 6-for-6 in the NBA Finals, redefined what it meant to be a global sports icon, and had a level of intensity and killer instinct that fans still talk about today. For many, that level of dominance in the biggest moments is what sets him apart. Still, LeBron’s case is incredibly strong. He’s the all-time leading scorer in NBA history, top five in assists, and arguably the most complete player we’ve ever seen. He can score, pass, rebound, defend, and lead — all at a high level. And while the GOAT debate might never have a clear answer, LeBron’s greatness is undeniable. So yes — I’m a fan of LeBron James. Maybe not because I’ve followed every game or memorized every stat, but because I respect what he stands for: excellence, resilience, leadership, and giving back. And whether he’s the greatest of all time or not, he’s undoubtedly one of the greatest to ever do it.

I love math because it makes sense — even when life doesn’t. Math has been one of the few constants in my life. No matter what I’ve been going through personally, the logic and structure of math has always offered clarity. There’s something comforting about knowing that if you follow the steps and trust the process, you’ll eventually get to an answer. In a world where so many things are unpredictable, math feels like solid ground. But beyond its order and reliability, I love math because of its power. Math is behind every breakthrough in science, technology, and engineering. It’s the language we use to describe how the world works — whether it’s the orbit of a planet, the circuitry in a phone, or the flow of blood through the human brain. As someone studying neuroscience, I see how essential math is in helping us analyze data, model brain activity, and understand the patterns that shape behavior and thought. What makes math truly beautiful to me is that it builds on itself — one concept leads to another, and over time you begin to see how everything is connected. It’s a discipline that rewards persistence and patience, and it teaches you how to think critically, solve problems, and see both the details and the bigger picture. Math has also helped me build confidence. Even when I’ve struggled with anxiety or self-doubt, solving a complex equation or working through a tough problem reminded me of what I’m capable of. It’s a quiet kind of empowerment — one that I carry into everything I do. I love math because it’s not just numbers. It’s a mindset. And that mindset is something I plan to carry with me through every challenge and every achievement in my future STEM career.

Calculus is often seen as one of the most challenging subjects in math — but it’s also one of the most important, especially in the STEM field. Whether you're studying engineering, physics, biology, computer science, or neuroscience (like I am), calculus plays a central role in understanding and solving real-world problems that can shape the future. At its core, calculus is the study of change. It helps us understand how things move, grow, decay, and interact over time — concepts that are fundamental in science and technology. In physics, for example, calculus is used to describe motion, force, and energy. In biology, it helps us model population growth, disease spread, or the rate at which a drug is absorbed in the body. In engineering, calculus is what allows us to design bridges, spacecraft, and even the circuits inside a smartphone. It’s a foundational language that allows scientists and engineers to describe and predict how systems behave — often in ways we can’t see with the naked eye. As a neuroscience student, I see how calculus is critical in modeling how neurons fire, how signals move through the nervous system, and how changes in brain activity can be tracked over time. Calculus helps researchers understand complex brain processes by creating models that represent behavior, decision-making, and learning. Without it, we wouldn’t be able to interpret brain scans, analyze EEG data, or simulate neurological pathways in research that could one day help treat conditions like Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s disease. Beyond individual disciplines, calculus is also a bridge between theory and application. It teaches us how to think critically, break problems into smaller pieces, and build solutions step by step. These are skills that go far beyond math — they are essential for all areas of STEM. Whether you’re coding, analyzing data, or designing a new technology, the logical structure and problem-solving mindset that calculus teaches becomes incredibly useful. Calculus also shows us how connected the world really is. A rate of change in one variable often impacts another — a concept that can be applied to everything from climate models to economics to robotics. STEM fields are deeply interdisciplinary, and calculus is one of the few tools that crosses all those boundaries. It helps us see patterns, make predictions, and create tools that improve lives. I’ll be honest — when I first approached calculus, it felt intimidating. But once I began to see its real-world applications, it became something more than just numbers and graphs. It became a way of thinking — a tool that helps me connect what I’m learning in neuroscience to the broader world of science, technology, and human progress. In a time when STEM is solving some of the most pressing global challenges — from healthcare to sustainability to artificial intelligence — calculus remains a key part of the foundation. It gives us the structure we need to innovate with precision, the tools to model complexity, and the mindset to never stop questioning what’s possible.

My name is Abeer Sweis, and I’m a neuroscience student with a deep passion for making healthcare more compassionate, inclusive, and empowering — especially for people who often go unheard. What drives me is more than academic interest. It’s personal. Several years ago, I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that disrupted my brain’s ability to communicate with my body and left me in a wheelchair for over two years. Alongside that, I battled anxiety, depression, and PTSD — all while trying to stay afloat academically, emotionally, and socially. I know what it feels like to be in pain and not be believed. I know what it’s like to walk into a hospital room and feel like no one is listening. But instead of letting that experience defeat me, I used it to shape my path. I chose neuroscience because I want to understand how the brain works — but more importantly, how it can heal, adapt, and be better supported by systems that truly care about the people they serve. I want to make an impact that goes beyond research and textbooks. I want to change lives through advocacy, innovation, and empathy. In the short term, I plan to complete my degree while gaining experience in clinical, community, and research settings. I’ve already begun doing this by tutoring students with disabilities, volunteering in youth mentorship programs, and speaking openly about mental health in spaces where those conversations are often ignored. These experiences have shown me how important it is to listen, to support others with patience, and to create environments where people feel safe enough to ask for help. In the long term, I hope to work in neurorehabilitation or trauma-informed healthcare. I want to help create treatment programs that consider not just physical symptoms, but the emotional and psychological struggles people face — especially those with invisible illnesses. I also want to contribute to public health outreach and education, ensuring that underserved communities have access to the information and resources they need to care for their mental and neurological well-being. Representation matters. As a Muslim woman, a person with a disability, and someone from a culturally diverse background, I want to use my identity and lived experience to connect with others who feel like the system wasn’t built for them — because I’ve been there. I want to show people that their stories matter, that their pain is real, and that healing is possible when the right support exists. My impact won’t come from being the loudest in the room — it will come from being the one who listens. The one who advocates. The one who remembers what it felt like to be dismissed and uses that memory to make sure no one else has to feel that way. Through my career in neuroscience and healthcare, I plan to lead with compassion, challenge the norm, and help shape a world where people are cared for not just as patients, but as whole human beings. That is the impact I want to make — and the life I’m building every day.

believe the most powerful impact comes from turning personal pain into purpose — and that’s exactly what I plan to do. My journey hasn’t been easy. I’ve struggled with severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD, and for over two years, I relied on a wheelchair due to Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that affects the brain’s ability to send signals to the body. These challenges shaped how I see the world — and more importantly, how I want to change it. I’ve spent a lot of time navigating a healthcare system that didn’t believe me. I was dismissed by doctors, told my symptoms were “all in my head,” and left feeling invisible in moments when I most needed care. That experience opened my eyes to a deep, widespread issue: our systems are not built to truly listen to people — especially women, people with invisible illnesses, or those from underrepresented communities. But instead of staying stuck in that pain, I chose to do something with it. I’m now studying neuroscience, not just because I’m fascinated by the brain, but because I want to understand what happens when it feels like your brain is working against you — and more importantly, how we can help people heal both physically and emotionally. My goal is to build a career that blends science, empathy, and advocacy. I want to work in neurorehabilitation, therapy development, or public health to ensure that people with complex or misunderstood conditions receive care that is both effective and compassionate. I want to help reshape healthcare systems to center the voices of patients — especially those who are often dismissed or unheard. I believe that science and kindness can work hand-in-hand, and I plan to prove that through every step of my career. Outside of academics, I’ve already started this mission. I tutor students with disabilities, volunteer at my local prayer center to mentor youth, and speak openly about mental health in my community — spaces where those conversations are often overlooked. I believe one of the greatest ways to make change is through service and connection: showing up for others, sharing our stories, and making sure no one feels like they’re going through life alone. I also want to be a role model for other girls and young women — especially those who’ve been told their dreams are too big, or that their stories don’t belong in science. Representation matters, and I hope to be proof that you don’t have to have a perfect path to make a real impact. You just need passion, resilience, and a reason to keep going. The impact I hope to make isn’t just in treatments or policies — it’s in how people feel when they’re in the room with me. I want them to feel believed, respected, and safe. That kind of impact can ripple outward and change lives, communities, and systems — one person at a time. And that’s exactly the kind of change I’m working toward.

As a woman studying neuroscience, my path into STEM hasn’t always been straight — but it’s been purposeful. What brought me here wasn’t just a love of science, but a personal journey shaped by struggle, healing, and the desire to turn my experience into impact. Years ago, I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that caused me to lose my ability to walk and rely on a wheelchair for over two years. At the same time, I was battling severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD. What made this even more challenging wasn’t just the physical symptoms — it was how I was treated. Many doctors didn’t take me seriously. I was told my symptoms were “just stress” or that I was exaggerating. I learned firsthand what it means to be a woman in a medical system that often doesn’t listen — and that experience changed everything. Instead of giving up, I turned toward science. I wanted to understand why my brain was doing what it was doing, and more importantly, how I could use that knowledge to help others. That’s how I found neuroscience. Not just as a major, but as a mission. My curiosity comes from lived experience. I don’t just study neurological and psychological conditions in textbooks — I’ve lived through them. That gives me a unique perspective, one that allows me to ask better questions, connect more deeply with people, and advocate for those whose pain doesn’t always show up on a scan. As a woman, as someone with a disability, and as someone from a culturally underrepresented background, I’ve also learned what it means to exist in spaces that weren’t always built for me. But I’m not discouraged by that — I’m motivated by it. STEM needs more voices like mine. More women who lead with empathy, who innovate from lived experience, and who are determined to make science more inclusive and compassionate. My short-term goals include completing my bachelor’s degree in neuroscience and gaining hands-on experience through research, clinical work, and service. I’ve already worked as a tutor for students with disabilities and volunteered in youth programming at my local prayer center — opportunities that allowed me to support others and speak openly about mental health and resilience. I plan to continue this work while deepening my knowledge in neuropsychology, rehabilitation, and trauma-informed care. Long-term, I want to work in a field that allows me to combine research, patient care, and advocacy. Whether that’s through therapy development, public health, or neurorehabilitation, I want to help create systems where people — especially women, youth, and people with invisible conditions — feel seen, understood, and supported. I hope to mentor other girls entering STEM, helping them believe in their voice even when the room seems too big or too quiet. This scholarship represents more than financial support. It represents a community — one where women like me are encouraged to turn our stories into strength and our passion into action. I’m proud to be part of a generation of women who are reshaping STEM not just with knowledge, but with heart. And I’m ready to contribute.

One of the issues I care most deeply about — both locally and globally — is the lack of accessible, empathetic, and inclusive healthcare, especially for people with invisible illnesses, mental health conditions, and neurological disorders. I’ve seen firsthand how these systems fall short, and I’ve lived through the consequences of that failure. That’s why I’m passionate about using my education in neuroscience to become an advocate, innovator, and force for change in both healthcare and public health systems. Locally, I’ve witnessed how cultural stigma, limited access, and lack of understanding leave too many people — especially women, immigrants, and youth — unsupported when it comes to their mental or neurological health. I come from a community where conversations about mental health are often avoided or minimized, and where asking for help can be viewed as weakness. Growing up with that stigma, while also dealing with anxiety, depression, and PTSD, made me realize how much harm silence can cause. That silence got even louder when I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that temporarily took away my ability to walk and left me navigating a system that didn’t know how to treat me. Many doctors didn’t believe my symptoms. Some blamed it all on stress. Others simply gave up. I realized then that this wasn’t just my personal story — it was part of a much bigger global issue: the disconnect between science and empathy, and the systemic erasure of invisible pain. My experience didn’t just motivate me to get better — it inspired me to do better. That’s why I chose to study neuroscience. I want to understand the brain, not only to explore its science, but to humanize it. I want to be part of bridging the gap between medical knowledge and real human experience — especially for communities that have been historically left out of research, treatment, and care. In the future, I hope to work in neurorehabilitation, therapy development, or trauma-informed healthcare. I envision using both my academic knowledge and my lived experience to advocate for patient-centered solutions, fight stigma, and push for policies that prioritize mental health and neurodiversity. I also want to create culturally inclusive educational programming around emotional health, especially in underserved schools and youth organizations, where early intervention and support can make all the difference. Globally, I believe we need more voices in science and healthcare that reflect diverse backgrounds and stories. We need more providers who speak from experience, more researchers who center underrepresented populations, and more systems designed with equity and dignity in mind. I hope to become one of those voices — someone who doesn’t just study the brain, but uses that knowledge to create compassionate, meaningful change. My goal isn’t just to succeed in science. It’s to serve through science — and help build a future where care doesn’t depend on visibility, privilege, or perfect timing, but on humanity.

Mental health and suicide prevention are urgent, critical topics among my age group — not just because they’re trending conversations, but because we’re living through a time when internal battles are louder than ever, and too many people are suffering in silence. Young people today are facing immense pressure — from school, social media, identity, family expectations, trauma, and global instability. And for many of us, mental health resources are inaccessible, stigmatized, or not culturally safe. There’s a silent epidemic of pain hiding behind high-achieving students, quiet kids in classrooms, and the “strong friend” who’s always there for others but never seems to open up themselves. I know this because I’ve been one of those people. My journey with mental health has been deeply personal. I’ve struggled with severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD — all while trying to keep up with school, be there for my family, and appear “fine” on the outside. There were times I didn’t think I could continue. Times when everything felt too heavy, and I convinced myself that I was a burden, that I was too broken to ever be okay. What saved me wasn’t a perfect solution — it was small moments. The teacher who let me turn in an assignment late without judgment. The friend who just sat with me in silence. The day I finally admitted I needed help and wasn’t ashamed of it. These experiences showed me the power of simply being seen. Mental health challenges also intersected with my diagnosis of Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), which left me in a wheelchair for over two years. During that time, I was not only physically limited but emotionally drained, isolated, and disbelieved. Many doctors dismissed my symptoms. Others blamed it all on “stress.” But I knew what I was experiencing was real — and I also knew I wasn’t alone. These moments didn’t destroy me — they reshaped me. They taught me that empathy is not optional. That listening can save a life. That science and compassion must go hand in hand. And most of all, that advocacy can be a form of healing. That’s why I chose to study neuroscience. I want to better understand how the brain processes trauma, how we can develop treatments that don’t just target symptoms but support people holistically, and how we can build systems where nobody feels invisible. I want to work in neurorehabilitation, trauma-informed care, or public health. I want to use what I’ve learned — both academically and personally — to make sure no one else feels what I once did: like their story didn’t matter. Mental health and suicide prevention matter to me because I’ve lived in the silence. I’ve survived it. And now, I want to be part of the reason someone else feels safe speaking up.

My name is Abeer Sweis, and I’m currently pursuing a degree in neuroscience — a field that blends biology, psychology, and the power of curiosity. But I didn’t choose science just because I liked the subject. I chose it because it gave me a way to understand myself and the challenges I’ve faced. My journey into science wasn’t traditional. It came from a place of lived experience — of pain, survival, and, ultimately, purpose. I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that caused me to lose mobility and rely on a wheelchair for over two years. At the same time, I was managing severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD. These weren’t just personal obstacles — they were barriers that tested every part of my academic journey. There were days I couldn’t attend class, days my brain felt too foggy to concentrate, and days I felt completely disconnected from who I was. What frustrated me the most wasn’t just the pain or isolation — it was the fact that so few people seemed to understand what I was going through, especially in clinical and academic environments. That experience lit a fire in me. I didn’t just want to get better — I wanted to understand why these things happen, how the brain could change so drastically, and what could be done to help others feel seen. That’s when neuroscience became more than a subject. It became a mission. My goal is to contribute to the field of science not just through research or academics, but through advocacy, innovation, and human-centered impact. I want to focus on patient-centered neurorehabilitation and the development of therapies that acknowledge the emotional and cognitive complexity of conditions like FND, PTSD, and anxiety disorders. I want to help reshape how we approach mental and neurological health — to make it more inclusive, more empathetic, and more effective. Beyond my long-term career goals, I’ve already begun giving back through education and mentorship. I tutor students with disabilities and mental health challenges, providing academic help and emotional support. I also volunteer at my local prayer center, supporting youth and leading discussions about self-worth, emotional wellness, and resilience — topics often overlooked in our communities. These small moments — whether it’s helping someone believe in themselves or making mental health feel less taboo — are just as important to me as any future career in science. I believe that science is most powerful when it serves people. When it not only seeks to explain how the brain works, but also works to heal the people whose lives are shaped by its complexities. My contribution to the field won’t just be through lab work or data — it will be through compassion, communication, and a lived understanding of what it feels like to fall through the cracks and fight your way back up. This is more than a degree for me. It’s a promise — to help others understand their minds, reclaim their stories, and never feel invisible in the process.

I chose to study neuroscience because I’ve lived through the kind of experiences that make you want to understand the brain — not just academically, but personally and emotionally. Years ago, I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), which caused me to lose the ability to walk and left me in a wheelchair for over two years. Alongside that, I’ve also navigated anxiety, depression, and PTSD. Living through that combination of neurological and mental health challenges sparked something in me: a desire to understand the brain’s complexity and to help others who are going through similar battles feel seen and supported. In the short term, my goal is to earn my bachelor's degree in neuroscience and continue gaining hands-on experience through clinical, volunteer, and research opportunities. I want to explore neurorehabilitation and patient-centered care, especially for individuals with invisible or misunderstood conditions. I also plan to continue mentoring and tutoring others, especially students with disabilities or mental health struggles, because creating safe, encouraging spaces for others has always been a priority for me. My long-term goal is to work in a healthcare or research setting where I can contribute to the development of more inclusive and empathetic approaches to care — particularly for women, people with chronic illness, and those navigating neurological disorders that aren’t always easy to diagnose. I want to be a bridge between science and humanity, combining data with compassion. Whether I end up in therapy development, patient advocacy, or neuropsychology, I know I want my work to directly benefit the people most often overlooked. As an underrepresented minority in this field — a Muslim woman, a person with a disability, and someone from a cultural background where mental health is still heavily stigmatized — I carry with me a perspective that’s rarely reflected in textbooks or healthcare systems. Instead of seeing that as a disadvantage, I see it as a driving force. My experiences allow me to connect with communities that aren’t often centered in STEM, and that motivates me to fight for better representation, better care, and better access. Being part of an underrepresented group does come with challenges: lack of mentorship, cultural barriers, and financial stress. Scholarships like this one don’t just ease the financial burden of tuition, transportation, and living expenses — they also remind students like me that our stories and aspirations are worth investing in. This scholarship would allow me to focus more on my studies and service work, rather than stretching myself thin to afford basic needs. It would give me the freedom to fully pursue my potential and keep giving back to others along the way. Ultimately, I want to be the kind of person I needed during my hardest moments — and this field gives me the tools to do exactly that.

My mental health has had a significant impact on both my academic performance and personal life while attending school — and not in ways that are always visible to others. Living with anxiety, depression, and PTSD means I’m constantly managing an internal world that doesn’t always match the environment around me. It’s a silent struggle that follows me into classrooms, study sessions, and even casual conversations with peers. Academically, my mental health can make focus difficult. On some days, it’s hard to absorb information when my mind is overwhelmed with intrusive thoughts or emotional exhaustion. I’ve had moments where I’ve frozen during exams, not because I didn’t study, but because panic overtook me. I’ve stayed up all night overthinking one assignment or one grade, even when I knew it wasn’t the end of the world. I’ve missed class to take care of my physical symptoms too — as my anxiety often manifests in my body due to my neurological condition (Functional Neurological Disorder). These experiences aren’t excuses — they’re the reality of living with mental illness while trying to succeed. In my personal life, mental health can be isolating. I often feel like I have to mask what I’m going through just to maintain friendships or appear “put together.” Social situations can be draining, and sometimes the effort to keep up with everything — school, work, relationships — leads to burnout. But despite all this, I’ve never let my mental health define my limits. I’ve used it to deepen my empathy, sharpen my resilience, and become more intentional in how I live and support others. To protect my mental health, I’ve learned how to set boundaries and advocate for myself. I’ve sought accommodations when needed, taken breaks when necessary, and learned to honor my capacity instead of constantly pushing past it. I journal regularly to process overwhelming thoughts, and I lean on people I trust when things get heavy. Therapy has also helped me develop strategies for managing anxiety and navigating PTSD triggers, especially in high-pressure academic environments. I’ve also found healing in helping others — tutoring students with similar struggles, creating safe spaces in youth mentorship programs, and speaking openly about my journey with mental illness. Supporting others reminds me that I’m not alone and that vulnerability is a form of strength, not weakness. Making mental health a priority isn’t something I do perfectly — it’s something I recommit to every day. I don’t always have it all together, but I show up. I reflect. I rest when I need to. And I keep going — not just for my grades or goals, but for the version of me who fought hard to get here.

One of the most important social issues I’m working to address is the way mental health conditions and invisible illnesses are misunderstood, dismissed, and often ignored — not just by society, but by the very systems meant to support and heal us. My passion for this issue didn’t come from a book or a class. It came from personal experience. I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that disrupted the connection between my brain and body and left me in a wheelchair for over two years. At the same time, I was struggling with severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD. I didn’t just lose physical independence — I lost confidence in a system that failed to see me clearly. Doctors questioned my symptoms. I was told I was “too young” or “probably just stressed.” The mental health challenges that came with my diagnosis were often brushed aside or treated like an afterthought. That experience opened my eyes to just how widespread and dangerous the stigma around invisible illness and mental health can be — especially for women, young people, and those from underserved communities. Since then, I’ve committed my life and education to being part of the solution. I’m studying neuroscience not just because I’m fascinated by the brain, but because I want to better understand how trauma, illness, and healing intersect. I want to bridge the gap between what science understands and what patients actually experience. Outside of academics, I work as a tutor for students with learning differences and mental health struggles. Many of them feel the same fear of being “too much” or “not enough,” and I meet them with the patience and belief I once needed. I also volunteer through my local prayer center, helping lead youth programs and mentorship opportunities that normalize mental health conversations, emotional safety, and self-advocacy — especially in cultural spaces where these topics are often stigmatized or silenced. My long-term goal is to work in healthcare, possibly in neurorehabilitation, therapy development, or patient advocacy. I want to be someone who doesn’t just treat symptoms, but listens, validates, and empowers. I want to design systems that recognize that not all pain is visible, and not all healing looks the same. My dream is to help create a future where patients don’t have to prove they’re suffering in order to be cared for. Through education, mentorship, storytelling, and service, I’m working to break the silence around mental health and invisible illness — and to replace it with empathy, knowledge, and real change.

I didn’t choose neuroscience — it chose me. Years ago, I lost my ability to walk due to a condition called Functional Neurological Disorder (FND). I spent over two years in a wheelchair, navigating a medical system that often didn’t believe me. I was told it was just stress, that it was in my head, or that I was overreacting. And while my body struggled, so did my mental health. I experienced severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD — all while being expected to keep up with life like nothing had changed. I remember sitting in appointments and wishing there was someone who could truly see me — not just my symptoms, but my story. That moment changed everything. I knew that if I ever got better, I wouldn’t just walk again — I would walk into this field and make a difference. That’s when neuroscience became more than a subject. It became my purpose. I chose STEM because I want to understand the brain, but also because I want to challenge the way healthcare approaches invisible illnesses. STEM allows me to explore the science behind symptoms, but it also gives me the tools to innovate, advocate, and bridge the gap between patients and providers. I want to use my degree to improve neurorehabilitation, develop patient-centered therapies, and bring more empathy into clinical environments. My long-term career goal is to work in healthcare with a focus on neuropsychology or functional medicine. I want to advocate for women, people with disabilities, and individuals whose conditions don’t always show up clearly on scans. I don’t want to be someone who only treats symptoms — I want to be someone who makes people feel seen. Beyond my career goals, community service has always been central to who I am. I’ve volunteered at my local prayer center for years, helping with youth programs, tutoring, and community outreach. I’ve worked as a tutor for students with learning differences, many of whom struggled with self-esteem and anxiety. I’ve served in leadership roles, not for the title, but to create safe, inclusive spaces where people can be themselves without fear. Service, for me, is about presence. It’s about sitting with people in their struggle, advocating for equity, and using what I’ve learned — both in life and in the classroom — to build others up. STEM isn’t just about research or innovation. It’s about impact. I chose neuroscience because I want to bring humanity into science, and I want my education to be a tool I use to serve others — especially those who’ve ever felt misunderstood, dismissed, or left behind.

Supporting others with their mental health has been a part of my life long before I ever realized it could be a career. As someone who has struggled with anxiety, depression, and PTSD, I’ve learned to recognize the silent battles people fight — and I’ve made it my priority to show up for others the way I once needed someone to show up for me. I’ve worked as a tutor for students with disabilities and learning differences, many of whom struggled with self-doubt, frustration, or anxiety. I learned how to adapt not only my teaching style, but my presence — offering reassurance, patience, and emotional support when they felt overwhelmed. I’ve also mentored peers who were dealing with stress, identity challenges, or trauma, reminding them they weren’t alone and helping them find the words to talk about what they were going through. Sometimes it’s not about having all the answers — it’s about being the person who listens without judgment, who believes them, and who stays. My experience living with Functional Neurological Disorder has given me an even deeper understanding of what it feels like to be dismissed or misunderstood in both medical and emotional settings. It’s the reason I chose to study neuroscience — not just to understand the brain, but to humanize how we treat those living with psychological and neurological conditions. In my future career, I plan to work in patient-centered neurorehabilitation or healthcare advocacy. I want to be a provider who combines science with empathy — someone who supports not just physical recovery, but emotional healing as well. Whether I’m educating families, designing accessible care, or simply holding space for someone during a difficult diagnosis, my goal is to uplift, empower, and emotionally support those around me with compassion and honesty.

My inspiration for pursuing a career in public service stems from one simple truth I’ve lived: systems don’t always work for everyone — especially the most vulnerable. I’ve seen it in healthcare rooms, school settings, and everyday community life. I’ve experienced what it’s like to feel invisible in spaces that are supposed to offer support. That experience didn’t discourage me — it gave me purpose. Several years ago, I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), which caused me to lose mobility and rely on a wheelchair for over two years. During that time, I experienced firsthand how easily people — especially young women and people with invisible conditions — are dismissed by institutions. I watched how the system fell short not only for me, but for others around me: students struggling to access resources, families navigating language barriers, and patients trying to advocate for themselves in a rushed, understaffed healthcare environment. These experiences lit a fire in me to become part of the solution — not just for myself, but for others. That’s why I’m pursuing a degree in neuroscience with a focus on patient advocacy and community health. I want to blend science with empathy. I want to help people navigate systems that often leave them confused or unheard. And I want to use what I learn to create more inclusive, culturally responsive public services in my own community. Public service, to me, isn’t just a career path — it’s a commitment to improving the lives of others. I’ve already taken steps in that direction. I’ve volunteered at my local prayer center, tutored students with disabilities, and worked in educational support roles. I’ve seen how impactful even small moments of care, listening, and support can be. These moments build trust, and trust is what makes public service effective. As I continue my education, I plan to gain skills in communication, policy analysis, neuropsychology, and patient care — all of which I’ll bring back to my community. My long-term goal is to work in public health and healthcare access, especially for underrepresented populations, including women, immigrants, individuals with chronic illnesses, and people living with mental or neurological conditions. I also hope to partner with local organizations to launch workshops focused on brain health, navigating medical systems, and self-advocacy — especially in communities where those conversations are often silenced by stigma or fear. Public service is not about fixing people — it’s about removing the barriers that prevent them from thriving. I’ve faced those barriers, and I’ve learned how to navigate them. Now, I want to help others do the same. I believe my lived experience, combined with the education I’m pursuing, will allow me to make a meaningful, lasting impact. In the end, I don’t just want to study change. I want to be part of it — starting right here at home

Alzheimer’s disease is something I had heard about growing up — a condition I knew affected memory and aging — but I never truly understood its impact until it reached my own family. When my grandmother was diagnosed, everything changed. What began as small lapses in memory turned into deep confusion, emotional disconnection, and the heartbreaking realization that we were slowly losing parts of her, even while she was still with us. My grandmother was the heart of our family — the one who made tea for everyone, told stories from Palestine, and always had something kind to say. Watching her fade in and out of awareness was painful in a way I still struggle to describe. There were days when she didn’t recognize my mother, her own daughter. Days when she repeated the same question every few minutes. And eventually, days when she would forget who she was speaking to entirely. It was like watching someone you love drift away in slow motion. For my family, especially those providing care, the emotional weight was constant. Alzheimer’s didn’t just affect my grandmother — it affected our home, our roles, our communication, and our emotional stability. My mom, in particular, had to become a caregiver while also trying to hold the family together. The stress, grief, and exhaustion were invisible but heavy. I saw firsthand how caregivers often carry an emotional burden that the outside world rarely acknowledges. It taught me how important it is to support the people supporting others. But amid all the heartbreak, I learned powerful lessons — about patience, empathy, and the complexity of the human mind. Alzheimer’s is not just a disease of forgetting — it’s a disease that slowly rewrites how families connect. It challenged me to become more present, more gentle, and more understanding. I realized that sometimes the most meaningful thing you can do is simply sit with someone, even if they don’t remember your name. Because even when memory fades, love doesn’t. This experience also deepened my interest in neuroscience and healthcare. It made me want to study the brain — not just to understand how it works, but to understand how it breaks down, and how that breakdown impacts families, not just patients. It made me care about research, therapies, and advocacy — not from a distance, but from a place of lived experience. I want to be part of a future that includes better treatments, more support for caregivers, and healthcare systems that approach dementia with compassion, not just science. Alzheimer’s may have taken parts of my grandmother away from us, but it also gave me something — perspective, purpose, and a voice I plan to use for others going through the same thing. I carry her with me every day, not just in memory, but in mission. And through my education and career, I hope to honor her by making a difference in the lives of others facing the same slow goodbye.

My name is Abeer Sweis, and I am currently on the path to earning my bachelor’s degree in neuroscience — a journey driven not only by academic interest, but by personal experience, purpose, and an unwavering desire to create change in healthcare. For me, graduating with a college degree isn’t just a milestone. It’s a symbol of resilience. It represents everything I’ve worked for — every barrier I’ve pushed through, every doubt I’ve transformed into determination, and every time I chose to keep going even when it would’ve been easier to stop. Once I achieve my goal of graduating, I hope to use my degree to make a tangible, human-centered impact in healthcare. My long-term career aspirations are grounded in advocacy, empathy, and science. I plan to work in a neurorehabilitation or patient-focused clinical setting, helping individuals with neurological conditions — especially those that are misunderstood or difficult to diagnose — feel seen, heard, and believed. I want to specialize in the connection between brain function and patient experience, and to contribute to a field where empathy is valued just as much as medical knowledge. This passion didn’t come from a textbook — it came from lived experience. Several years ago, I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that disrupted my ability to walk and forced me to rely on a wheelchair for over two years. The most difficult part of that journey wasn’t just the physical symptoms — it was how the healthcare system responded. Despite clear and debilitating symptoms, I was often told that it was “just stress” or that it was “in my head.” That lack of validation created emotional wounds far deeper than any physical limitation. I realized how many people must go through the same thing — being dismissed or misunderstood simply because their condition doesn’t appear on a standard scan. That experience lit a fire in me. I knew I wanted to become the kind of healthcare professional who does things differently — someone who listens, who believes their patients, and who treats the whole person, not just their symptoms. I chose neuroscience not only because I’m fascinated by how the brain works, but because I want to bridge the gap between science and compassion — between research and real lives. This scholarship would be a critical support in that journey. Pursuing higher education while managing health challenges and financial stress is incredibly difficult. I’ve worked hard as a tutor, administrative assistant, and volunteer to support myself and gain experience, but tuition, books, transportation, and daily living costs add up quickly. Financial assistance would ease that burden and allow me to focus more on my studies and my long-term goals. It would also allow me to say “yes” to opportunities I might otherwise have to decline. I want to attend neuroscience and healthcare-related conferences to build my network and stay informed about the latest research. I’d love to take part in undergraduate research, participate in summer internships, and even pursue lab assistant roles — but many of these require time that I can’t currently afford without compromising financial stability. With this scholarship, I could afford to prioritize the experiences that truly enrich my education. In addition to earning my degree, I hope to later pursue a graduate program or professional certification in neurorehabilitation, therapy development, or patient advocacy. I envision working not only in hospitals or clinics, but also with nonprofits, universities, and research labs dedicated to women’s health, neurological disorders, and inclusive care. My ultimate goal is to help build a more empathetic, culturally responsive healthcare system — one that recognizes that healing is not just about treatments, but about dignity and trust. I’m also deeply committed to giving back. I want to mentor other students — especially young women, first-generation college students, and individuals with disabilities — who are navigating higher education with unique challenges. I want to create workshops and online platforms to help individuals with invisible illnesses understand their options, advocate for themselves in medical settings, and pursue careers in healthcare, even when the system wasn’t designed with them in mind. This scholarship would also support my personal well-being. Living with a chronic and unpredictable condition means I sometimes need time to rest, recover, or attend medical appointments. Having financial support would allow me to pace myself without the constant pressure of overworking just to survive. It would give me room to succeed, not in spite of my condition — but alongside it. Looking ahead, I know my goals are ambitious. But they are not unrealistic. I’ve already built the foundation. I’ve worked in support roles that required patience, adaptability, and empathy. I’ve tutored students with disabilities, volunteered for youth programs, contributed to interfaith events and academic support centers, and broken state records as a wheelchair athlete — all while navigating my own health challenges. I’ve learned how to lead through example, how to lift others up, and how to turn pain into purpose. My personal and professional goals are inseparable. They come from the same place — the hospital rooms where I felt invisible, the exam tables where I had to prove I was in pain, and the quiet determination I developed to make sure no one else feels the way I once did. These experiences didn’t hold me back — they became my blueprint for change. Every time I speak up, every time I study late into the night, and every time I choose to believe in myself — I’m walking closer to a future where I can change someone else’s story. I’m not pursuing a college degree for status or recognition. I’m pursuing it so I can help create a healthcare system that is more just, more compassionate, and more accessible to those who need it most. Now, I’m asking for support — not because I doubt my ability, but because I believe deeply in the impact I know I can make with the right tools and resources. This scholarship would not only relieve financial pressure — it would be an investment in the next generation of healthcare professionals who bring both lived experience and professional dedication to the field. I am not just a student. I am a future healthcare leader, a resilient advocate, and a voice for those who feel unheard. With your support, I can continue this journey — and make meaningful, lasting contributions to the world of neuroscience, patient care, and healthcare equity.

My inspiration to pursue a career in women’s health is both personal and professional — shaped by my lived experiences, cultural background, and a deep desire to advocate for those who are too often overlooked or unheard in medical spaces. Several years ago, I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that caused me to lose mobility and rely on a wheelchair for over two years. Despite the severity of my symptoms, I was repeatedly told it was “just stress” or “all in my head.” As a young woman, I quickly realized that my pain was often minimized and my concerns dismissed — not because I lacked symptoms, but because I didn’t “look” like someone who was sick. I now understand that this experience wasn’t unique to me — it’s part of a much larger pattern many women face when seeking care. That experience inspired me to study neuroscience and to explore how invisible conditions — particularly those affecting women — are diagnosed, treated, and understood. I want to help bridge the gap between medical knowledge and compassionate care. I want to be a provider who listens without bias, who understands the role gender plays in diagnosis and treatment, and who advocates for equity in every patient interaction. Culturally, I’ve also witnessed how stigma and silence around women’s health can delay care and worsen outcomes. In many communities, including my own, conversations around menstrual health, mental health, or reproductive care are often brushed aside or labeled as taboo. I want to break those barriers. I want to use my background and voice to serve women from all walks of life — especially those from underrepresented or culturally misunderstood communities. Professionally, I hope to contribute to the field of women’s health through direct patient care, community education, and (eventually) advocacy work. Whether I’m working in a neurorehabilitation setting, designing therapy plans for women with complex conditions, or helping patients navigate their diagnoses with clarity and dignity, I want to ensure that every woman feels seen, believed, and respected. I also hope to use my story to inspire others — especially women with disabilities or invisible illnesses — to advocate for themselves and consider careers in healthcare. I want to mentor future students, work with organizations focused on equity in medicine, and contribute to research that examines how sex and gender affect medical outcomes. In the future, I plan to launch a platform to share resources and raise awareness about the intersection of neuroscience, gender, and patient advocacy — particularly for women with functional and neurological disorders. Though I do not yet have a published website or research link to include, I am actively building toward those goals as I continue my education and community work. I look forward to contributing meaningfully to women’s health — not just as a provider, but as someone who’s lived it, survived it, and is now turning that journey into purpose.

In Chapter Two of Real Insights, John Graff emphasizes the importance of continuous learning, adaptability, and building trust—principles that are equally vital in the healthcare field. Graff discusses how real estate agents must navigate a dynamic market, stay informed about industry changes, and foster strong relationships with clients to succeed. These insights resonate deeply with the challenges and responsibilities faced by healthcare professionals. One of the key takeaways from Graff's chapter is the necessity of staying current with industry trends and regulations. In real estate, this means understanding market fluctuations, legal requirements, and technological advancements. Similarly, healthcare professionals must keep abreast of the latest medical research, treatment protocols, and healthcare policies to provide the best care possible. Continuous education and adaptability are crucial in both fields to ensure effectiveness and relevance. Graff also highlights the significance of building trust with clients, noting that successful agents prioritize their clients' needs and establish credibility through transparency and reliability. In healthcare, trust between patients and providers is foundational. Patients are more likely to adhere to treatment plans and share critical information when they trust their healthcare providers. Building this trust requires empathy, clear communication, and consistent, patient-centered care. Furthermore, Graff discusses the challenges new agents face, including the risk of failure without proper preparation and support. He advocates for mentorship and learning from experienced professionals to navigate the complexities of the industry. This concept is mirrored in healthcare, where mentorship and collaborative learning are essential for professional development. New healthcare providers benefit from the guidance of seasoned practitioners to hone their skills and navigate the emotional and technical demands of the profession. In conclusion, the principles outlined in Chapter Two of Real Insights—continuous learning, adaptability, trust-building, and the value of mentorship—are directly applicable to a career in healthcare. Embracing these principles can lead to more effective patient care, professional growth, and a more resilient healthcare system.

My name is Abeer Sweis, and I’m a neuroscience student who has navigated education and life through the lens of a disability that many people can’t see but has shaped everything about me. I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that disrupted my nervous system and left me unable to walk for over two years. I used a wheelchair throughout that time, all while trying to keep up with school, navigate daily life, and understand what was happening to my body. What made the experience harder wasn’t just the physical impact — it was the way I was treated. Because FND doesn’t always show up on scans or traditional tests, I was often dismissed, misunderstood, or even accused of exaggerating my symptoms. That feeling — of being invisible in your own struggle — left a lasting impact on how I saw the world and what I wanted to do with my future. Despite these challenges, I pushed forward. I continued my education, volunteered in my community, and worked in roles that allowed me to support others — especially students with disabilities. My disability didn’t take away my ambition; it gave it direction. I chose to study neuroscience because I wanted to understand the brain that was working against me, and more importantly, because I want to help others who are living with misunderstood or invisible conditions. I want to work in healthcare spaces that prioritize empathy and truly listen to patients. Living with a disability also shaped my career path by making me more intentional. I knew I wanted to work directly with patients, advocate for more inclusive care, and eventually contribute to reshaping how neurological and mental health conditions are treated. But balancing school, medical needs, and financial limitations has been difficult. That’s why additional funding would make a significant difference in my life and future. Managing health-related costs while attending school puts a major financial strain on me and my family. Scholarships and financial support allow me to focus on my education instead of working excessive hours just to afford textbooks, transportation, or basic living expenses. Funding would also help me access resources that support my academic success and well-being — whether it’s assistive technology, tutoring, or simply having the time and space to rest when my symptoms flare up. My dream is to earn a bachelor’s degree in neuroscience and eventually work in neurorehabilitation, patient advocacy, or therapy development. I want to be part of building a healthcare system where no one feels as dismissed or forgotten as I once did. I want to use my story to help others feel seen. This journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s made me stronger, more determined, and deeply committed to helping others. I’m not asking for a handout — I’m asking for a chance to continue walking the path I’ve worked so hard to stay on, even when I couldn’t walk at all.

I’m worth the dreams I aspire to achieve because I’ve worked for them — not just in the classroom, but in life. My path hasn’t been easy, but it’s been purposeful. I’ve faced physical limitations, mental health challenges, and emotional hurdles that most people never see. And despite all of that, I’ve never stopped showing up for myself, my goals, or the people around me. For over two years, I relied on a wheelchair due to Functional Neurological Disorder (FND). I was told it might be stress, anxiety, or “nothing serious.” But the truth is, I was living in a body that stopped responding to me — and in a system that didn’t always believe me. The hardest part wasn’t the pain. It was the silence, the doubt, and the feeling that I had to prove my struggle just to receive care. But instead of giving up, I fought harder. I became my own advocate. I learned how to navigate a medical world that often overlooks young women, people with invisible illnesses, and patients who don’t “look” sick. That fight taught me resilience, and that resilience is exactly why I’m pursuing a degree in neuroscience — not just to understand the brain, but to help change the way people are treated when their symptoms don’t fit a clear diagnosis. My dreams aren’t built on fantasy — they’re built on lived experience, compassion, and a vision for how healthcare can be better. I want to work directly with patients, especially those with neurological or misunderstood conditions. I want to make them feel seen, validated, and respected. Whether through neurorehabilitation, therapy development, or patient education, I know I can bring something valuable to this field: not just knowledge, but empathy earned through adversity. Beyond academics, I’ve dedicated myself to helping others in every role I’ve taken. I’ve tutored students with disabilities, supported youth through community service, led cultural and religious student organizations, and worked in classrooms and resource centers to uplift others. Every step of the way, I’ve chosen paths that allow me to listen, lead, and serve — because I know what it feels like to need that kind of support. I’m worth the dreams I chase because I don’t just dream for myself. I dream for everyone who’s ever felt dismissed, doubted, or unseen. I want my success to be proof that obstacles don’t define potential — perseverance does. I’ve lived through the kind of challenges that shape character, deepen compassion, and sharpen purpose. And now, I want to turn everything I’ve overcome into something meaningful for others. I’m not chasing these dreams just to succeed — I’m chasing them to make a difference. And that, more than anything, is why I’m worth them.

My name is Abeer Sweis, and I’m currently pursuing a degree in neuroscience. My interest in the field comes from a place of both personal experience and deep curiosity about the human brain and behavior. I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that temporarily took away my ability to walk and forced me to rely on a wheelchair for over two years. It was one of the most difficult experiences of my life — not only because of the physical limitations, but because of how I was treated throughout the medical process. I was told things like “It’s probably just stress” or “It’s in your head,” and I quickly learned how invisible conditions are often dismissed in healthcare. That experience made me feel unheard and misunderstood — and that feeling stuck with me. It also sparked something in me: the realization that I wanted to be part of the solution. I didn’t want anyone else to feel the way I did. That’s why I chose neuroscience. I wanted to understand the brain, the body, and the space in between. But even more, I wanted to be a voice for people who are too often overlooked. Through my career, I hope to make a positive and lasting impact by combining empathy with science. Whether I end up working in neurorehabilitation, developing neurotherapies or medical devices, or working directly with patients, my goal is to bring compassion and advocacy into every setting. I want to work with individuals who have been dismissed or misdiagnosed and help them feel heard, supported, and understood. I know from personal experience that being believed can be the first step toward healing. Outside of academics, I’ve been heavily involved in tutoring, community service, and leadership. I’ve worked with students with disabilities, supported inclusive youth programming, and volunteered with my local prayer center and academy since I was a teenager. I’ve served as vice president of my school’s Muslim Student Association and participated in leadership and advisory committees. I’ve also broken state records as a wheelchair athlete. These experiences have taught me how to lead with compassion, how to listen, and how to adapt when faced with challenges. They’ve shaped me into someone who isn’t just driven — but deeply committed to helping others. Pursuing a college degree isn’t just about getting a job — it’s about building the foundation I need to create real change. I want to help reshape the way healthcare views invisible conditions. I want to bring more empathy into clinical spaces. And I want to remind people — especially women, young patients, and those from underrepresented communities — that their experiences matter, even when others can’t see them. My mission is simple: to turn my story into someone else’s source of hope. And through my education and future in healthcare, that’s exactly what I plan to do

I chose to study neuroscience because I’ve lived the questions it tries to answer. A few years ago, I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder — a condition that disrupted my ability to walk and confined me to a wheelchair for over two years. Doctors couldn’t immediately explain why it was happening. Scans came back “normal,” and some even suggested it was all in my head. But I knew what I was experiencing was real. That gap — between what’s felt and what’s understood — is what made me fall in love with the study of the brain. Neuroscience is a field that doesn’t just ask what’s wrong — it asks why and how. It’s about understanding the connection between the brain, body, and behavior, and using that understanding to improve lives. For me, it’s more than academic. It’s personal. I want to help patients who, like me, have felt invisible. I want to be the kind of person in healthcare who doesn’t just look at test results, but listens to the story behind the symptoms. The impact I hope to make is twofold: I want to bridge science and empathy in healthcare. First, I hope to work with patients — especially those with neurological or psychosomatic conditions — and advocate for care that takes the whole person into account, not just what shows up on a scan. Second, I want to help reshape the system from within by being someone who believes patients when others don’t. Whether I’m working in neurorehabilitation, therapy development, or patient education, I want to make sure that no one is dismissed the way I was. Getting to this point hasn’t been easy. I’ve overcome more than just medical challenges. I’ve had to fight to be believed. I’ve had to advocate for myself in rooms where no one seemed to understand what I was going through. I’ve dealt with the mental toll of being doubted, isolated, and misunderstood — and I’ve done it while continuing my education, supporting my community, and working toward a future I still believed in. My experience with anxiety, medical dismissal, and physical limitations could’ve broken me — but instead, they built me. They made me more resilient, more empathetic, and more driven than ever to help others who are navigating their own difficult journeys. I’ve learned how to show up even when I’m struggling. I’ve learned how to listen to others because I know how much it means to be heard. And I’ve learned that my story isn’t a setback — it’s the reason I’m going to be a strong, compassionate voice in healthcare

I’ve chosen to pursue a degree in healthcare because I’ve lived on the other side of the system — not just as a patient, but as someone who was overlooked, misunderstood, and told their symptoms weren’t real. I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that caused me to lose my ability to walk and rely on a wheelchair for over two years. It was a confusing, frustrating experience that left me physically exhausted and emotionally drained. But what hurt most wasn’t the symptoms — it was the way I was treated. My experience exposed the deep gaps that still exist in healthcare, especially for women, young people, and those with invisible or misunderstood conditions. I was often told it was “just anxiety,” “nothing serious,” or that I would “get over it eventually.” There were times I questioned my own reality because no one in the room seemed to believe me. That experience opened my eyes, not just to the complexity of the brain and body, but to the urgent need for compassion in medicine. That’s why I’m majoring in neuroscience — not only to understand how the brain works, but to make a difference in how patients are treated. I want to be the kind of healthcare professional I never had: someone who listens without judgment, who sees beyond lab results, and who treats the patient as a whole person — mind, body, and story. Whether I end up working in neurorehabilitation, therapy development, or patient education, I want to be part of reshaping the way healthcare approaches conditions that don’t always have clear answers. As a woman entering the healthcare field, I carry both my lived experience and a deep responsibility. I know what it feels like to have your pain dismissed, your voice talked over, or your symptoms minimized. That has made me more determined than ever to advocate for others — especially other women, marginalized communities, and young patients who are still learning how to speak up for themselves. I believe that healing starts with being heard. Representation matters, especially in healthcare. I want to be a face that reminds other young women — especially those living with disabilities or chronic illnesses — that they belong in this field too. I want to show them that you can go from being the patient no one believed to becoming the provider who makes someone feel safe for the first time. Women bring something powerful to healthcare: a blend of intelligence, empathy, and strength that can change not just outcomes, but lives. Pursuing a college degree isn’t just about a career for me — it’s about purpose. It’s about making sure no one feels as unseen as I once did. My journey through mental and physical health challenges has shaped me into someone who doesn’t give up easily, who listens deeply, and who leads with empathy. That’s the kind of person — and healthcare professional — I’m working hard to become.

Living with anxiety has affected nearly every part of my life — not just internally, but in how I move through the world, make decisions, and build relationships. It’s not something you can always see, and for a long time, even I didn’t fully recognize how much it was shaping me. I would overthink every conversation, replay every moment, and constantly worry about things I couldn’t control. But instead of stopping me, anxiety has taught me how to keep going — even when things feel overwhelming. There were times when anxiety made me question my worth and my ability to succeed. I struggled with the fear of failing, of not being good enough, of letting people down. It made school harder, friendships more complicated, and simple tasks feel heavier than they should have been. But over time, I’ve learned how to work with my anxiety instead of against it. I’ve developed coping skills, built support systems, and grown into someone who is not just surviving with anxiety — but pushing through it with purpose. It’s that purpose that fuels my desire to earn a college degree. I’m pursuing a degree in neuroscience not just because I’m fascinated by the brain, but because I’ve lived firsthand the impact it can have when something feels off inside it. I want to help others who struggle with conditions like anxiety, depression, or neurological disorders — not just with facts and charts, but with empathy and understanding. College represents more than just academic achievement for me. It’s a chance to build a life that I can be proud of, one where I don’t have to rely on anyone else for stability. It’s a way to take back control — to prove to myself that I’m capable, resilient, and worthy of success, no matter what challenges I face along the way. It’s also a step toward the future I dream of: working in a field that blends science, mental health, and compassion. My anxiety hasn’t disappeared — and it probably never will. But now, instead of seeing it as something that holds me back, I see it as something that shaped my strength. It taught me how to fight for what I want, how to be gentle with others, and how to show up even when I’m afraid. That’s the kind of person I’ll be in college — and the kind of person I want to be in the world.

My experience with mental health has shaped nearly every part of my identity — not just how I see myself, but how I view others, form relationships, and build the future I want. It began with a diagnosis of Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that disrupted my ability to walk and confined me to a wheelchair for over two years. But the emotional toll of navigating a misunderstood illness often weighed heavier than the physical challenges. I quickly learned how invisible illnesses are treated. I was told, “It’s all in your head,” or “You’re probably just stressed.” I started to realize how easily people — especially women, especially people with nontraditional symptoms — are dismissed in healthcare settings. That experience didn’t just shape my understanding of the world. It lit a fire in me. I knew I never wanted another person to feel the way I did: isolated, doubted, and silenced. My goals shifted from simply wanting to study science to wanting to make science human. I chose neuroscience not just because the brain fascinates me, but because it holds answers to so many misunderstood conditions — conditions like mine. I want to work in environments where patients feel heard and validated. Whether I go into neurorehabilitation, therapy development, or direct patient support, I know that my voice — shaped by lived experience — can help change how others are treated. This journey also transformed my relationships. I became more patient, more compassionate, and more intentional with the people I care about. I learned that everyone is carrying something — even if they don’t say it out loud. My experience taught me how to recognize quiet pain, how to sit with people through their struggles without trying to “fix” them, and how to speak up when someone needs an advocate. Most of all, mental health has redefined how I see the world. I no longer view success as just physical strength or academic achievement. I see strength in vulnerability, in asking for help, in showing up when everything feels heavy. I see healing as nonlinear and deeply personal. I see mental health not as a weakness, but as a reflection of resilience, and I believe that compassion is one of the most underrated forms of intelligence. I carry all of this with me — not as baggage, but as fuel. My struggles gave me purpose, and now, I want to use that purpose to help others. Mental health didn’t break me. It built me into someone stronger, more empathetic, and more determined than ever to create a world where no one feels invisible.

My experience with mental health has completely transformed how I see myself, the world around me, and the future I’m building. It began when I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), a condition that caused me to lose mobility and rely on a wheelchair for over two years. My symptoms didn’t show up clearly on any scans, and that made me an easy target for doubt. Instead of support, I was often met with confusion, disbelief, and phrases like “It’s just anxiety,” or “It’s all in your head.” That period was one of the most isolating and painful times in my life, not just physically but emotionally. When your body stops working the way it used to, you already feel like you’ve lost something important. But when people don’t believe you on top of that — especially medical professionals — it takes a different kind of toll. I began to question myself, my future, and my worth. It would have been easy to give up. But instead, I started asking deeper questions: Why are so many people with invisible illnesses treated this way? What can be done to bridge the gap between what’s felt and what’s seen? And how can I be part of the change? Those questions led me to neuroscience. I want to understand the brain not just because it’s fascinating, but because it holds the key to so many misunderstood conditions — like the one I live with. I want to work in environments where I can validate patients’ experiences, where people feel seen and heard even when the answers aren’t obvious. Whether that’s through neurorehabilitation, therapy development, or direct patient education, my goal is to combine compassion with science in every step of care. This experience has shaped my beliefs at their core. I no longer see mental and physical health as separate things — they are deeply connected. I believe listening is one of the most powerful tools in healthcare. I believe healing comes in many forms, and that emotional support can be just as critical as medical treatment. I believe patients deserve dignity, no matter what shows up on a test result. In my relationships, I’ve become more empathetic and grounded. I pay attention to people differently now — not just to what they say, but to what they don’t. I’ve also learned the importance of setting boundaries, caring for myself emotionally, and holding space for others in a meaningful way. Most of all, my experience with mental health has given me purpose. I don’t just want to “work in healthcare” — I want to advocate, educate, and humanize the process for those who feel invisible, like I once did. I want to help build a future where no one is doubted for having an illness that isn’t immediately visible. I carry my story with me not as something that broke me, but as something that built me. My experience with mental health has made me more resilient, more curious, and more committed to making sure others feel supported, believed, and empowered.

My experience with mental health has not only changed the way I see myself — it’s completely transformed how I see the world, relate to others, and imagine my future. What started as one of the hardest chapters in my life has become the very reason I’m pursuing neuroscience and the motivation behind my desire to work directly with patients. When I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), it turned my world upside down. I went from being physically active and involved in everything to suddenly relying on a wheelchair for over two years. What made it even more painful was the reaction from others — not just strangers, but sometimes medical professionals. Because FND doesn’t always show up on scans or fit a “typical” medical model, I was often dismissed, doubted, or told it was “just anxiety” or “in my head.” Being treated like my experience wasn’t real was emotionally devastating. It wasn’t just about losing my ability to walk — it was about losing my sense of control, trust, and even identity for a while. But that experience did something I never expected: it opened my eyes to the deep disconnect between mental and physical health in the medical system. It showed me how often people suffer silently when their condition isn’t visible or easily understood. And it sparked something in me — not just a desire to heal, but a desire to help others heal, especially those whose voices aren’t always heard. My beliefs have shifted in powerful ways because of this. I now know that validation, empathy, and patience can be just as therapeutic as medication. I believe that mental health is not a side note to physical health — it’s intertwined. I’ve also learned that healing is not always linear. It requires resilience, support, and sometimes being willing to advocate for yourself when no one else will. In my relationships, this experience made me softer and stronger at the same time. I’ve become someone who listens more closely and judges less quickly. I’ve seen how many people are walking around with their own invisible struggles — anxiety, depression, trauma — and just need someone who will really see them. My friendships have become deeper, my family relationships more open. I’ve also learned to set boundaries and prioritize emotional safety, which I never really understood before going through this. When it comes to my career, this experience didn’t just influence my path — it gave me one. I’m now studying neuroscience because I want to understand how the brain works, yes, but also because I want to help bridge the gap between science and humanity. I don’t want to be someone who just memorizes symptoms. I want to be the person who says, “I believe you,” when no one else does. Whether I go into neurorehabilitation, patient advocacy, or therapy device development, my goal is always the same: help people feel seen, supported, and empowered. I also know what it’s like to feel hopeless and then slowly find hope again. That’s something no textbook can teach — and it’s something I’ll carry with me into every job, every patient interaction, and every decision I make. I know what it's like to have your life change in an instant. I know how it feels to have to rebuild your confidence piece by piece. And I know what it's like to not want to give up, even when everything feels stacked against you. That’s what makes me committed. That’s what makes me compassionate. And that’s what makes me a great candidate — not just for a scholarship, but for a future in healthcare. I’ve lived what many people only read about, and I’ve turned it into purpose. Mental health isn’t something I “went through.” It’s something I grew through. And now, it’s something I’m using to help others do the same.

One piece of technology that truly inspires me is the brain-computer interface (BCI). These systems allow the brain to communicate directly with external devices, offering hope and functionality to individuals with neurological conditions, paralysis, or severe disabilities. What fascinates me about BCIs is not just the science behind them, but the purpose — restoring independence and improving quality of life for people who often feel forgotten by traditional medicine. As someone who has personally experienced neurological challenges and spent time in rehabilitation, the idea of regaining control through a device that listens to the brain is powerful. When I lost my ability to walk, I felt disconnected from my own body. I remember how frustrating it was to want to move, but not be able to. BCIs remind me that technology can close that gap — not just physically, but emotionally. They’re not just machines; they’re bridges between potential and possibility. Even more inspiring is how BCIs are becoming more affordable and accessible through research and innovation. They’re helping patients type, move robotic limbs, and communicate just by thinking. It’s a blend of neuroscience, engineering, and empathy — a perfect example of how technology can be both cutting-edge and deeply human. This kind of work drives my passion for neuroscience and healthcare. I want to be involved in patient-centered care that incorporates innovative technology — not just treating symptoms, or being behind the scenes, but helping people live fuller lives. Brain-computer interfaces are proof that science can heal in ways we never imagined.

As a Palestinian-American, my identity is built from both resilience and pride. My heritage has been passed down not just through traditions and language, but through strength in adversity. Palestinians are known for their unwavering hope, generosity, and deep connection to family and community — all of which have shaped how I move through the world. These values were instilled in me at a young age, and they became even more important when my life changed dramatically at sixteen. In July 2021, while visiting family in Jordan, I suddenly collapsed after a cupping session and lost the ability to walk. What followed was months of misdiagnoses, fear, and uncertainty. After returning to the U.S., I was eventually diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder. At one point during inpatient rehabilitation, a clinician told me, “Come back when you’re walking.” Those words haunted me — but I didn’t let them define me. My family, who had always told me stories of our people standing tall through hardship, reminded me that we are not meant to give up. That mindset — rooted in my Palestinian heritage — helped me push forward. I found hope again when Coach Luttrell introduced me to adaptive track and field. I trained hard and competed fiercely, breaking the IHSA state record in shot put, and placing in discus and wheelchair races. That moment wasn’t just about medals — it was about proving that I am more than my diagnosis. It was about reclaiming my body, my purpose, and my future. Palestinians have always found ways to shine through the shadows. My great-grandfather, who is still alive today, fought in the Deir Yassin resistance — a legacy that lives within me. I come from Deir Yassin, a place tied to both tragedy and unimaginable strength. His stories remind me that our history is not just one of pain but of courage and resistance. From my grandparents who raised their children under occupation, to my parents who built opportunity in America, I’ve inherited more than cultural pride — I’ve inherited grit. That same grit fuels my academic and career goals today. I am pursuing a degree in neuroscience intending to work in patient-centered care — whether through neurorehabilitation or technology that improves quality of life, such as a therapy development specialist (TDS Neuro). I want to be the person in a clinic or hospital who says, “We won’t give up on you.” My personal experience with misdiagnosis and rehabilitation, combined with my cultural background, gives me a rare empathy. I understand how it feels to be unseen or unheard, and I want to be part of a future where patients are listened to, educated, and uplifted. To be Palestinian is to carry generations of strength while building new futures. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it has made me who I am: a fighter, a learner, and a future healer. This scholarship would help me continue my education and bring me closer to serving others — especially those who feel left behind, misunderstood, or stuck in darkness. Like my heritage has taught me: even in struggle, there is always light.