I'm sixteen, sitting in an elementary school cafeteria with a child who refuses to sit. His book has crayon markings all on the inside covers, his reading log empty with only half of his name written at the top. I'd spent hours at my high school, taken a full bus ride to his school, only to be met with another situation that required full patience and persistence. I'm there tutoring every Monday and Wednesday, rain or shine. So is my kindergartener. He dances and tells me plenty of stories, but his schoolwork is of no interest to him. I'm tempted to stop coming, but something within me is more uncomfortable with leaving him when he clearly needs more support than with staying for a few extra hours after my own classes were over. I saw a piece of myself in him, when it came down to it. Despite being in completely different age groups, we seemed to be struggling similarly. My assignments and responsibilities felt endless; day after day of repetition with little reward. He seemed to feel the same, just without the ability to properly express it. Instead of sighing the day away as I did, he preferred to avoid his tasks, distracting himself with toys and pieces of songs he'd sing wrong while scribbling on his papers. So I continued to show up. I wanted to at least help someone even if I was struggling, to lessen the burden of another while hoping that it'd alleviate my own in another way. I didn't want to give up on him if he needed me. I let him tell his stories and also told my own. I listened and let him express his dissatisfaction. I did anything I could to make his work more fun. After a few weeks, a natural rhythm began to come with it. His work felt less tedious to him because he had someone to listen, and my days felt less repetitive because there was always something new to teach and listen to. My motivation was no longer to simply get through the day, but to try and actively make them better. Having him reach out to me and become more open slowly made me do the same with others in my life, despite me not realizing it at the start. This experience changed how I approached challenges in my own education. Progress and assignments and everything that came with them took up my patience and required consistency, but it didn't have to be tedious unless I made it that way. Along with that, it reinforced my desire to work in a field where patience and understanding are essential. Working with others and communicating has become a vital part of my life and something that keeps me going; it keeps me enthusiastic and hopeful for every day to bring something new while allowing me to start again. When working with individuals who struggle with loss, sickness, or grief, my ability to communicate and empathize is a skill that I will never take for granted. This experience showed me that making a difference doesn’t require perfect circumstances; it requires consistency, empathy, and the willingness to show up. As I continue my education and pursue a career in the medical field, I carry that lesson with me. I want to be someone who supports others not only when it is easy, but when it is most needed.

I'm seated on my living room couch drinking from a juice box, the TV in front of me loud as cartoon cats bicker and chase each other around. My grandma is in the room with me, and while it should be a comfort, it isn't to my six-year-old mind. She seems tense about something, continuously peeking between the blinds on the window behind her head. There's flashing lights outside, all red and blue, but they aren't for us. I'm young, but old enough to know that. Her anxious staring is confusing to me. Something's wrong and I can't place it. When my parents arrive home from work, they seem to realize it as well. My grandmother, a loving yet slightly dramatic woman, doesn't normally behave in such a way. It's unnerving. Weeks pass, and she no longer babysits. Everyone seems uncomfortable, like they know something I'm missing out on. When I see her in groups, she's repetitive. She no longer wants to learn English yet can't seem to remember her Spanish either. She begins to look at me more blankly when she comes by. She mentions her dog all the time, but blanks on everything else. It becomes increasingly confusing for me. Everything feels secretive and uncomfortable. The day comes where I'm finally able to ask, to point out what's been in front of me for months. "Alzheimer's," my mother tells me, a sorrowful look on her face. I don't understand. "She's losing her memories." That's my only clarification. As a young girl, I couldn't understand what "losing memories" meant. I only knew that something was taking my grandmother away from me piece by piece and that my family was feeling it as well. As I grew older, I began to understand her condition. Alzheimer's: a progressive neurological disorder with no cure. The realization stuck. Along with the realization, the curiosity did as well. Something was happening inside her mind, as if it was turning against her. Something so invisible was changing her completely. That curiosity was what drew me to Chemistry. It was a desperate desire to understand things that were out of my reach. I wish to understand the molecular and biological processes behind diseases like Alzheimer's. I want to learn how treatments can slow it down or prevent it. Working in the medical field is my dream because I've seen firsthand how health can change someone from the inside-out and alter family dynamics, and having an opportunity to work with patients and their support systems directly would be an honor. Growing up in a Hispanic family, there were also barriers that contributed to how difficult her condition was; watching her lose both her memory and her ability to communicate made me realize the vulnerability that comes with patients who struggle to be understood and advocate for themselves. Being bilingual, I work to improve my communication and language skills daily. Attending Stony Brook University as a chemistry major is the next step toward my goal of entering the medical field. Access to scholarships like these would lessen the financial burden on my family and allow me to dedicate myself completely to my studies. Even more importantly, it would bring me closer to becoming someone who can make a difference in a career that is deeply personal to me.