Hope alone is just a flicker; real miracles happen when you light the flame yourself. In a softly lit room, my mother strikes a match on the red strip of the matchbox. A flame appears, and she carefully moves towards the candle. It is wrapped in cylinder glass adorned with the image of La Virgen de Guadalupe. My mother stands before the glow of the flame for a few moments, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. We held these candles as a belief system, one my mother created when she came to the US from Mexico. Growing up, I prayed and made wishes with my mother as a shared practice. Each time I lit a match, I longed for better days. At the end of eighth grade, my mother’s phone rang, and her face dropped as she announced, "I have cancer." The doctor told us she would only need chemotherapy, but she was ushered into countless treatments. As I felt my world collapsing, I turned to candles and prayed. However, the candles were exhausted. As the months passed, the doctors told us the previous treatments weren’t enough. When we got home, I headed into the kitchen and threw my candle out. The wishes I had entrusted with were unfulfilled. Days turned into weeks, and every doctor delivered the same empty words: "There is nothing more we can do." Refusing to accept this, I dove into research about cancer. I cooked, cleaned, took on jobs to pay bills, and comforted my mother. I no longer stood as an observer but as an advocate. I took out my computer and began to write. I poured out my anguish at seeing my mother sick, my fear during her surgeries, and my confusion when she was diagnosed. As I reread it, I realized I could create a resource for others teens who endured this journey. I added sections on expressing our emotions, the services I used, and the people I sought out for guidance. I later shared it with cancer organizations such as Cancer Hope Network and the White Plains Hospital, hoping to support others navigating this challenging path. These organizations have helped me turn my booklet into a guide for teens like me whose parents have cancer. Slowly, my mother began to heal. For the last time, I lit a candle of hope as a reminder to persevere and take action for other teens facing this adversity. My experience with my mother’s illness taught me that small, consistent steps create lasting change. This lesson has shaped how I contribute to my community and inspired me to tackle broader challenges. At my school, I lead efforts to promote Fair Trade awareness and foster conversations on inclusion through my school’s multiethnic club. These experiences allowed me to combine empathy with action, building on the lessons I learned during my mother’s treatment. Looking ahead, I aspire to address the goals of the United Nations. Health inequities, such as access to clean water and medical care, are injustices I am determined to address. I envision working in public health, advocating for sustainable solutions that empower underserved communities and advocating for access to healthcare. My ultimate goal is to reach the halls of the United Nations. The small flame I lit during my mother’s illness has grown into a force driving my commitment to service. Whether supporting teens facing family health crises or addressing global health disparities, I aim to bring light and hope where they are needed most.

The term "outsider" is defined as "a person who has been rejected by society or a social group." For years, I was an outsider to my own family, always too young and naive to take a stance.  I have only ever seen life through a window.  Through this window, I once saw an idyllic scene: my parents happily together, my sisters playing on the lawn outside our big, three-story white house. But reality shattered this illusion. As my parents separated, I decorated the window with roses and tulips, trying to make my view more pleasant. But as clothes were thrown and arguments erupted, my father drove away without a backward glance or even a goodbye. For 4,383 days, he has been absent from my life, and the flowers on my window began to wither. My mother struggled to balance studying for her master's degree, learning English, and managing two jobs. She struggled to feel a part of American culture. Workers would continuously ask her to repeat what she said because they could not understand her. She was asking where the “towers” instead of “towels” were. Little did they know, this was our english, the window fogged up with the steam of her stress. I wanted to help, but I was only a child. When my sister was sent to boarding school, the window became increasingly opaque. She left home, repressing too many emotions for too long, and did not return to visit for 1,461 days. Her departure, left me feeling helpless. Nonetheless, her photograph was hung next to my father's. Despite my attempts to clear the fog, the window remained obscured.  My mother and I lived alone, I could only see faint shadows moving behind the glass. So, I cooked, studied, and stayed within my independent bubble.  I did not understand why my mother was unhappy. I did not understand the emotions my sister repressed. I did not understand how my father could have spent years without me in his life. Nonetheless, I had grown accustomed to this detached perspective, finding some comfort in maintaining the glass and tending to the fading flowers. “I have Cancer,” my mother said. I felt as if my world had stopped. The window, once a barrier, began to shatter as the reality of her illness broke through. I tried to hold the pieces together, but the glass fell apart. As my mother underwent chemotherapy, I felt helpless. Still, I knew that it would soon end as the doctor told us she only needed radiation. As I observed the doctor, the next few words that came out of his mouth, "You will need radiation," were a betrayal. In a moment of desperation, I threw the broken roses and tulips and wrecked the photographs. I cried out, "This is not fair. He said you would only need chemotherapy. You are all I have left." My mother was startled, but she embraced me in a hug. For the first time, I looked around and realized that I was no longer behind a window.   Today, I am no longer an outsider. I sit alongside my mother on the couch, cook dinner each night, manage our household, and handle the bills. But most of all, I communicate during conflicts or confusion. The window that once separated me from my family's struggles has transformed into a lens through which I see the world more clearly. Through this lens, I created a bilingual guide for teens whose parents have cancer. My advice to others is that these challenges may be tough, but you have the voice to make a difference.

I wanted to start this essay by sharing one of my favorite quotes, "We can not do everything at once, but we can do something at once," I believe in making a difference step by step. I plan to major in human services at Boston University. I've earned my Girl Scout Silver Award and am completing my Gold Award. I lead the Fair Trade club at my school and serve as a grade representative for environmental initiatives. A few years ago, I was sitting in class, and we were given an assignment to focus on a specific sustainability goal of the United Nations. I began studying Clean Water and Sanitation. It is astounding to learn about the injustices in the world we ignore. After we wrapped up our presentations and finished the project, every one of my classmates seemed to move on quickly. They left their projects forgotten in the classroom. But I could not stop thinking about the people in the world who do not have access to water. My mother was diagnosed with cancer not too long after. Another goal: "Good health and well-being." I realized there were so many problems in this world that we could not fix but that we, the younger generation, could help. I have been a Girl Scout for 11 years now. I have learned to take action and speak up when others do not. Each Girl Scout has an opportunity to complete their Gold and Silver Awards. A Silver Award is the first step. I partnered with the nonprofit Home Run Against Drugs to create a literacy center for underprivileged kids. I spent months painting a mural of books and characters. Then, I built a bench. I supplied books and coloring books. It is essential to foster literacy and creativity at a young age. Next, I decided to expand my horizons with my gold award. When my mother had cancer, we were struggling with finances and a lack of knowledge. So, as of right now, I am working with other kids who have parents with cancer to build a nonprofit. I hope to give resources to people who have struggled similarly to me during this harsh time. We will fundraise together and provide cancer kits for patients. I am also creating a webpage and informational section. I still have many things to learn. I need to build more connections. I need more resources and voices to make a change. But with this, I can inspire others as well. College is both an honor and a privilege to attend. It should be a privilege given to everyone; however, in most cases, it is not. Because of financial problems, students are not allowed to attend college. I hope to be able to. My passion will not stop when I arrive at college; with guidance, I can make a more substantial impact in this world. Once I get there, I plan to expand my research into water contamination and help others worldwide.