The smell of garlic sizzling in oil was a constant in my Lola's kitchen. In our home, food was never just food—it was how she loved us. My mom carried the same instinct, showing up for people with quiet steadiness: driving relatives to appointments, always knowing who needed something before they asked. Growing up in the Bay Area as a first-generation Filipino-American, I was raised by women who taught me that care arrives quietly—another serving slipped onto your plate, a soft kumain ka na ba?—everyone else nourished before they sat down themselves. Those rituals were never just habits. They were acts of preservation. Filipino culture survived centuries of colonization and yet something essential endured—not through monuments, but through the everyday: recipes passed down without being written, values carried quietly across generations and oceans. Resistance doesn't have to be loud. Sometimes it looks like refusing to let go of who you are. Sometimes it looks like feeding your family. The summer before junior year, I got sick—and stayed sick. Diagnosed with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS) and Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (ME/CFS) after over a year of dismissal, I learned firsthand how easily patients can be overlooked. Every doctor ran blood tests and insisted nothing was wrong. Bouncing from specialist to specialist left me feeling gaslit, my symptoms too diffuse to fit neatly into any one category. Eventually, my mom and I flew to the Mayo Clinic—two packed days of testing that finally gave me answers, even if those answers came with few solutions. Both illnesses had been neglected in research for decades. With no magic fix, I learned to advocate for myself: 504 accommodations, modified swim training, working closely with teachers through absences and exhaustion. But the deeper lesson was harder won. After a year of dismissal, I had stopped trusting my own body. My Mayo Clinic doctor was the first person who made me feel genuinely believed—and that validation changed everything. I recognized something in that experience that felt ancient and familiar: the same quiet persistence my Lola and my mom had modeled my whole life. My mom sat with me through the worst of it, advocating in rooms where I didn't have the energy to advocate for myself, responding to my illness the way she responded to every hardship—with steadiness and an unshakeable refusal to give up. I know what it means to fight to be believed. I know what it costs when the medical system fails to see you. And I recognize that for many patients—particularly women, particularly those with complex or invisible conditions—that fight is not an exception but a norm. There is something deeply familiar to me about that experience. The Filipino people have always known what it means to resist erasure, to persist without being recognized, to carry their identity forward through sheer will and love. I intend to carry that same spirit into medicine. This fall, I'll study molecular and cellular biology at UC San Diego on the pre-med track, with the goal of becoming a physician-scientist dedicated to under-recognized illnesses that disproportionately affect women. I want to be the kind of doctor my Mayo physician was for me—the one who finally makes a patient feel seen. My Lola and my mom never called what they did caregiving. They just showed up, carrying forward something much older than themselves. Healing, at its core, is an act of community, compassion, and resistance. They taught me that. So did my people.

1. Imagine getting the flu, and it never going away. That's what it's like living with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS) and Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (ME/CFS). Plagued with constant—and often debilitating—fatigue, brain fog, and muscle pain, my life came to a halt. I developed both illnesses the summer before junior year. I nearly had to quit my lifeguarding and coaching job and could no longer keep up with swim training. Once school started, even getting through the day left me too exhausted for homework. For over a year, I had no diagnosis. Every doctor ran blood tests and insisted "nothing was wrong." Bouncing from specialist to specialist left me feeling gaslit, not realizing my symptoms didn't fit neatly into any one specialty. After a year of getting sicker with no answers, I contacted the Mayo Clinic. My mom and I flew to Minnesota for two packed days of nonstop testing, leaving with diagnoses of POTS and ME/CFS—only to realize I'd traded one mystery for another. Both illnesses were neglected in research for decades, leaving few treatment options. With no magic fix, I learned to advocate for myself: 504 accommodations, working closely with teachers, and collaborating with my coach on a training plan that fit my limits. Most of all, I learned to trust my body. After a year of dismissal, I doubted whether my symptoms were even real. My Mayo Clinic doctor made me feel believed—and that validation helped me rebuild trust in myself, regain stability I never thought possible, and commit to listening deeply to others whose struggles aren't visible. It inspired my goal of becoming a doctor who, like my Mayo physician, changes the lives of those who have fallen through the cracks. 2. The smell of garlic sizzling in oil was a constant in my Lola's kitchen. In our home, food was never just food—it was how she loved us. My mom carried the same instinct, showing up for people with quiet steadiness: driving relatives to appointments, always knowing who needed something before they asked. Growing up in the Bay Area as a first-generation Filipino-American, I was raised by women who taught me that care arrives quietly—another serving slipped onto your plate, a soft kumain ka na ba?—everyone else nourished before they sat down themselves. Those rituals were never just habits. They were acts of preservation. Filipino culture survived centuries of colonization and yet something essential endured—not through monuments, but through the everyday: recipes passed down without being written, values carried quietly across generations and oceans. Resistance doesn't have to be loud. Sometimes it looks like refusing to let go of who you are. Sometimes it looks like feeding your family. When I developed chronic illness, I learned firsthand how easily patients can be dismissed—and I recognized something familiar in that feeling. My mom responded the way her mother had responded to every hardship: with persistence and an unshakeable refusal to give up. Those hard years clarified what I already knew I wanted to do. This fall, I'll study molecular and cellular biology at UC San Diego on the pre-med track, with the goal of becoming a physician-scientist focused on under-recognized illnesses that disproportionately affect women. I know what it means to fight to be believed, and I intend to carry that fight into medicine. My Lola and my mom never called what they did caregiving. They just showed up, carrying forward something much older than themselves—a tradition of resilience that survived colonization, immigration, and everything in between. Healing is an act of community, compassion, and resistance. My Lola taught me that. So did my people.