One-bedroom apartment, three girls around the same age and the same big desires, but two tired parents. That’s the best way I could describe my background and how I’m growing up. I'm Ana Morales, the daughter of two Honduran immigrants who left their community, friends, family, and everything that shaped them as people to achieve the “Sueño Americano,” better known as the American Dream. They restarted their lives because they loved us so much that they would starve themselves or bathe outside. After all, it was cheaper than hot running water, while we sat and played with bubbles in the bathtub, unconsciously knowing the freezing hose temperatures my parents endured for us. But the biggest and saddest thing I witnessed growing up was the little to no healthcare that not only my parents didn’t receive, but my sisters and I didn’t either. In our little brown eyes, the hospital, a doctor, and medicine from the pharmacy were treasures, a privilege that many could hold in their own hands, but we could not. The hospital was “only for real emergencies,” which to us meant we would never go. The secret recipe for all ailments was the glorious, amazing, one-of-a-kind vapor rub. This was our holy grail. It didn’t matter what was going on with your health: paper cut? Vapor rub. Throwing up? Vapor rub. A fever of 110? Vapor rub. This was my healthcare. As the years went on and I gained more knowledge, I began to see that the truth was nothing but a placebo effect. It was the only thing my parents could afford, and their faith in it blinded me for a time. Even now, our financial struggles continue. My family lives on a modest income. I attend a Title I public school. I qualify for free and reduced lunch, and college expenses are a looming concern. As a first-generation college student, I carry not just the pressure of succeeding, but the responsibility of becoming the first in my family to walk across a college graduation stage. Despite it all, I’ve never let our financial circumstances define my limits. Instead, they’ve fueled my purpose. I’m committed to pursuing medicine not just to heal individuals, but to address health disparities in underserved communities like mine. As I grew older, I realized this “treatment” was not medicine but a symbol of the financial barriers my family faced and continues to face. This experience exposed the harsh reality of healthcare inequality and inspired my passion for medicine. It’s not just how I have overcome these challenges, but how I’ve learned to live with them even 16 years later. It’s not something I have to be embarrassed about or fear, but something that motivates me in my love for medicine and how STEM can play a huge part in breaking down these barriers. Science forms the foundation of medicine, allowing us to understand the human body, the mind, and the diseases that impact both. Technology enhances modern care through tools like MRIs, CT scans, and robotic surgery, which make diagnosis and treatment more accurate and accessible. Engineering comes into play through the creation of medical devices and prosthetics, carefully designed to meet specific patient needs. And mathematics supports it all, providing the data and statistics that drive research, guide clinical trials, and help us understand patterns in public health. More specifically, I will contribute my burning passion for medicine by becoming a neuro-oncologist. According to the National Library of Medicine, fewer than 300 board-certified neuro-oncologists are currently practicing in the United States. This subspecialty is not only small but critically needed, especially with the number of adults being diagnosed with brain cancer is projected to rise by 1.5% by the year 2030. That increase means more than 30,000 Americans will be diagnosed with a deadly condition for which effective treatments remain limited. Despite how far medicine has come and how STEM continues to guide and foster its future, I don’t just plan to be part of it; I will be among the 2% of Latinas who carry the heavy but honorable weight of having “Dr.” in front of their name, changing the perspective of medicine. Being one of the few Latinas in medicine is not just a goal–it’s a promise to every little girl who grew up like me. It means representation, it means advocacy, and it means rewriting the story so the next generation doesn’t have to rely on VapoRub but can rely on accessible, quality care. I look forward to being in patients’ rooms, caring for them, as well as behind the scenes in labs, where I discover new and much-needed medical procedures. In the future, I hope to focus on understanding the causes of brain cancer and developing innovative, effective treatments for this challenging disease. I’ve already begun my journey, volunteering in the oncology department at my local hospital, being part of my school's biomedical academy, attending a UCLA pre-med summer program on a full scholarship, and taking advanced science classes offered by my school, all of which have further fueled my passion and provided valuable exposure to medicine and research. These experiences have grounded my dream in real-world service, showing me firsthand the gaps in healthcare and the impact even one dedicated person can make. I plan to take charge, ask questions, and seek answers to continue making contributions to the fields of science, mathematics, technology, and engineering. I started with VapoRub and a dream; now, I’m building the future I once needed. One day, I won’t just treat patients, I’ll represent the hope my younger self was waiting for.

Why did I decide to pursue a career in healthcare? Because Latino patients deserve doctors who truly understand their experiences. Growing up, I saw how traditional remedies like sana sana colita de rana or Vicks VapoRub were staples in Hispanic households, sometimes dismissed by conventional medicine but deeply meaningful to families. I was never embarrassed by these traditions. Instead, they inspired me to bridge the gap between cultural care and modern healthcare. That all changed in late elementary school, when some kids didn’t understand the background behind these remedies. I remember in fourth grade, a full-blooded “all-American” boy told me straight to my face, “My father is a doctor and would never use such nonsense that sounds as stupid as yours.” Though it might have sounded strange to people outside my culture, anyone would feel the same hurt from those words. They haunted me for years, so much so that I sometimes stayed sick rather than let my parents try their “nonsense” remedies on me. That broke my parents’ hearts. They even had to dip into their savings to take me to a real doctor because, at one point, they felt embarrassed and wanted us to feel like part of the “normal” Americans who could afford proper healthcare. That moment was pivotal. I had looked up to that boy so much, who knows if he was lying to feel better or telling the truth to hurt me, because I feared I would never be as close to his father’s status. I worried I would drag my parents down into a dark ditch just to feel what I felt. Years have passed, but that memory still lives in me, not as a haunting, but as a source of pride. It made me see and understand things others might overlook, fueling my determination to become a doctor who bridges cultural gaps in healthcare. Only 6% of doctors in the U.S. are Latinas, and I want to change that. Specifically, I aim to become a neuro-oncologist. According to the National Library of Medicine, fewer than 300 board-certified neuro-oncologists practice in the U.S. This field is small but critically needed, especially as brain cancer diagnoses are projected to rise by 1.5% by 2030 more than 30,000 new cases annually, and with limited effective treatments. Being one of the few Latinas in this field is not just a goal, it’s a promise to every little girl who grew up like me. I look forward to caring for patients in their rooms and working behind the scenes in labs to discover new treatments. My focus will be on understanding brain cancer’s causes and developing innovative therapies for this challenging disease. I’ve already begun my journey volunteering in the oncology department at my local hospital, joining my school’s biomedical academy, attending a UCLA pre-med summer program on a full scholarship, and taking advanced science classes. These experiences have grounded my dream in real-world service and shown me firsthand the gaps in healthcare and the impact one dedicated person can make. I started with a vision and VicksVapoRub; today, I'm building the future my child self envisioned. One day, I will not just heal patients I'll be the promise my child self envisioned. I don't have to just prepare for the future I've already begun utilizing the tools we have at hand today

"Papá, ¿por qué la gente prefiere seguir una dieta carnívora en lugar de limitarse a consumir frutas y verduras normales? ¿Es poco saludable?" (English translation: Dad, why do people prefer a carnivorous diet instead of eating normal fruits and vegetables? Is it unhealthy?) I asked my father this question after seeing someone on TikTok talk about a carnivorous diet. I was confused because, in my mind, eating only meat couldn’t be healthy. Instead of Googling it, I went to my dad. He had undergone an extensive journey to lose weight, during which I watched him dedicate hours to researching vitamins, pills, and supplements, even buying health books to deepen his understanding. While he may not have realized it, I saw how much his curiosity was feeding not only his body but also his mind. Despite having no formal medical training, my father had an innate understanding of the human body. His answers always amazed me. He knew about the digestive system, how food choices affect overall health, and the connections between the body’s systems. I often thought to myself that in another life, he could have been a doctor, wearing a white coat with the name “Dr. Morales.” His answers were complex, and though I didn’t fully grasp them at the time, I was still inspired. It was the way he approached learning that captivated me. I realized that knowledge isn’t limited to textbooks or formal education—it can come from anywhere, as long as we stay curious and committed to learning. My father, a construction worker with no medical background, became my role model. He may not have been a doctor, but he sounded like one to me. Watching him navigate health complexities and always seek reliable information made me believe that medicine isn’t just about memorizing facts. It’s about a lifelong commitment to understanding, something my father demonstrated every day. As a first-generation American, I carry the weight of my parents' sacrifices. My parents worked tirelessly to give me opportunities they never had, often pushing me to achieve more than they could. My father, who had no formal education and still faces language barriers, and my mother, who only made it to her junior year of high school, taught me more through their life experiences than any textbook could. Though they didn’t have degrees, their wisdom shaped my worldview. My father’s health journey wasn’t just a personal goal—it symbolized his resilience and taught me the importance of perseverance in everything I do. Growing up with this mentorship, I learned that success isn’t defined by formal credentials. It’s defined by the drive to improve, to question, and to never stop learning. My parents were my greatest mentors, their wisdom rooted in experience, not classroom lessons. Their resilience and determination continue to inspire me to push through obstacles in my own life. As the first in my family to hopefully attend college, I know the road ahead won’t be easy. But, inspired by my father’s curiosity and perseverance, I am determined to turn my passion for medicine into action. I aim to honor my parents’ legacy—one shaped by sacrifice, resilience, and an unwavering belief in the power of learning. It is this legacy that will propel me in my pursuit of medicine and my commitment to giving back to my community, the underrepresented Latinos in medicine. Just as my father and mother gave so selflessly to me, one day I’ll be the one wearing the white coat with the name “Dr. Morales-Araujo.”

"It's a good day to save lives." – Grey's Anatomy This line speaks to my ambition every day: to make a real difference in healthcare. The KC MedBridge scholarship would allow me to take the next step in turning that ambition into action. I would use the funds to ease the financial burden of college and invest in experiences that directly shape my future in medicine. With this scholarship, I could pursue shadowing opportunities with oncologists, where I can witness firsthand how doctors impact lives. The funds would also help me attend medical conferences and workshops that will connect me with professionals and provide new perspectives. Most importantly, it would allow me to continue volunteering in the oncology department at my local hospital. This experience fuels my passion for medicine and drives me to find a cure for cancer. This scholarship isn't just an opportunity for me to pay for college—it's a chance to take meaningful steps toward my goal of becoming a doctor who can make a difference.

"Your order has been confirmed: 300–1800g/pair, 34A–F Cup Silicone Breast Forms, Self-Adhesive, Fake Breasts. Ordered August 21, 2020." When this notification appeared on my cracked iPhone screen, I was confused. At 11 years old, the words "prosthetic breasts" made me wonder: who ordered these, but more importantly, for whom? When the package arrived, I watched my parents open it, as I always did. They weren’t fond of my constant questioning, but my curiosity got the best of me: “Whose is that for?” They exchanged a glance, hesitant to answer, until my mother said, “It’s for your aunt in Honduras who has breast cancer. She lost her breasts and doesn’t feel feminine anymore, so we ordered these for her.” I was satisfied that I got an answer, but I wasn't satisfied by the fact that I couldn't comprehend the full weight of it at that age. All I knew was that cancer steals and doesn’t give back. Just three months later, my aunt passed away. The toll it took on our family, especially my father, was immense. Separated by nearly 2,000 miles and legal barriers, my father couldn’t be by her side. The prosthetics, though meaningful, were fleeting—a brief attempt to restore what cancer had stolen. That gift became a symbol of a battle fought and lost. At 11, I learned that cancer is a thief with no sympathy—the hardest lesson to learn. Five years later, my passion for medicine began to take shape. I decided to volunteer at my local hospital, thinking it would provide the real-world experience I needed. During my interview, the advisor asked, “Do you have any preferences for where you’d like to be placed?” Wanting any position, I said no. “Great, well, I’ll put you in 4 Towers,” he said. I had no idea what that meant, but I accepted. On my first day, exactly five years after my aunt’s passing, I walked into the department—and it wasn’t just any department. I was placed in oncology, the cancer department. Surrounded by patients fighting the same battle my aunt had fought, I realized how deeply that experience had shaped my aspirations. It wasn’t just about volunteering anymore—it was about committing myself to the fight against cancer, to helping others in the way I wished I could have helped my aunt. Then I go right back into the crevices of my mind as I remember, because at eight years old, I wrote on my “I Have a Dream” paper that I would find a cure for cancer. I was standing exactly where my younger self had unknowingly hoped to be. My passion has only grown stronger since that moment. This journey—my aunt’s battle, my family’s pain, and my own experiences—has ignited a fire within me. It has inspired me to be part of the next generation of research, spending hours in a lab that continues the fight to find a cure for cancer. I am committed to not only contributing to this search but to building a path for those who come after me. I want them to know that they are not alone in this fight. And I hope that one day, the next person who hears “You have cancer” will have a different story to tell—one where the cure is already within reach. I will be there, fighting for that future, just as my aunt fought until the end.

1) When one of my closest friends came to me about whether or not she should stay in the biomedical pathway, I knew this wasn’t just about school—it was about identity, pressure, and self-belief. She felt overwhelmed, doubting her ability to thrive in such a rigorous program. She kept comparing herself to others, thinking she didn’t belong, even though she was passionate about medicine. Instead of giving her a direct answer, I asked her, “Why did you start this journey?” She told me how she’d always wanted to help others, especially children, and how her dream was to become a pediatrician. I reminded her that everyone struggles—even the people who seem to have it all together. I shared my own insecurities and the times I’d felt like an impostor, especially when I started working alongside UCLA students in the Pediatric Research Organization. I told her about the mistakes I made, the terminology I didn’t understand at first, and how I had to push myself to ask questions, take initiative, and keep learning. But I also told her how worth it it all was—the way her face lit up when she talked about medicine, the way she helped others in class, and the way I saw her potential even when she couldn’t. I reminded her that the best doctors aren’t just the ones with the best grades, but the ones who care enough to listen, to encourage, and to uplift. She stayed in the program, and now she’s thriving. Guiding her helped me realize how powerful support can be. Sometimes, the best thing we can do for someone isn’t to give them the answer—it’s to remind them that they already have what it takes. 2) STEM has never scared me—but being underestimated in STEM has. It’s hard to forget the stares—the ones I got when I told people I wanted to be a cancer researcher. Not a nurse, not a technician, but a scientist actively working toward a cure. A “girl like me” doesn’t usually say that. That’s what they see: a young Latina from the Antelope Valley, soft-spoken and smiley, who probably wants to do something “nice” like nursing. But I’ve never wanted to follow the expected path. Being one of the only girls in my Science Olympiad team was my first glimpse of how deeply rooted those expectations can be. I walked into practices where I was surrounded by boys who rarely looked at me when discussing strategies or concepts. When we won medals, I sometimes got the “you know your stuff?” look. But I stayed. I kept showing up, kept winning, and kept proving that I belonged. Now, I coach middle schoolers—many of them girls who remind me of myself at that age. I show them how to prep for competitions, how to build confidence in their knowledge, and how to speak up even when they feel underestimated. I do it for them, but I also do it for younger me—the one who needed someone to say, “You belong here.” The biggest challenge I’ve faced in STEM hasn’t been the science—it’s been the assumptions. That I won’t make it. That I don’t know enough. My dreams are too big. But what I’ve learned is that your background doesn’t make you less capable. It makes you resilient. To any student who feels like they don’t belong in STEM: show up anyway. Speak even when your voice shakes. Surround yourself with people who lift you, and be that person for others, too. Your perspective matters, and your dreams are valid—no matter what anyone says. STEM needs more of us—more girls, more students of color, more voices ready to break barriers and ask the questions no one else is asking. So go ask them. Be curious. Be bold. Be loud about your goals. And don’t just take your seat at the table—but bring extra chairs.

1) “¿Qué pesa más, un lápiz o las libras de basura que tengo que levantar todos los días?” “What’s heavier, a pencil or the pounds of garbage I have to pick up every day?” my dad asked me one day as I was feeling lazy, putting off my schoolwork. He works in construction, doing physically demanding labor so that my siblings and I can have better opportunities. His words hit me harder than I expected. They made me realize that the tasks I saw as burdens were nothing compared to the sacrifices he makes every day. To me, inspiration is the belief in something greater than ourselves—the idea that we can push past the limits we or others place on us. It’s about finding meaning in every effort, no matter how small. Every step forward, whether it’s studying for a test or doing something difficult, has weight. My dad’s question made me understand that even the smallest actions count, and sometimes, it’s the struggle that carries the most meaning. Growing up as a first-generation daughter, I often heard about the importance of education, but it wasn’t until that conversation with my dad that I understood just how much effort, sacrifice, and hard work went into securing a better future. My parents, both from Honduras, never had the chance to go to college, but they instilled in me a deep respect for education and the power it holds. They’ve shown me that inspiration doesn’t always come from grand gestures—it comes from the small moments where you choose to push forward, even when it seems hard. One day, while volunteering at the hospital, I had a conversation with a woman named Ms. E. She asked if I was a nurse, and when I explained that I was just a high school student, she looked at me with a warm smile and said, “You’re going to be successful wherever you go—I can see it in you.” Her words stuck with me. In that moment, she saw something in me that I couldn’t always see in myself. She didn’t know my struggles, my background, or my journey, but she believed in me. This is what inspiration means to me: It’s about believing in others when they don’t believe in themselves. I want to carry that forward into my future career in healthcare. I want to be that person who offers belief, encouragement, and hope to others, especially those who feel overlooked or who doubt their own potential. Whether I become a doctor, a researcher, or anything in between, I hope to inspire others by showing them that no matter where they come from or how difficult the journey seems, they are capable of achieving great things. 2) Growing up, I didn’t see many people who looked like me in healthcare, and that’s one of the driving forces behind my desire to inspire young girls of color to pursue careers in medicine. I’m in the process of creating a mentorship program called H.E.A.L. (Helping Every Aspiring Lady) to provide guidance, support, and resources to girls who want to enter the healthcare field. In this program, I plan to show them the study skills they’ll need to succeed in high-level classes, especially honors and AP classes. I want to give them practical advice on how to manage their time, take effective notes, and study smart so they can thrive academically. I’ll also advise them on choosing the right courses to prepare for a career in healthcare, and for those who might be debating whether to attend my current high school and join the Biomedical Academy, I’ll share my own experience and the benefits of that path. Alongside academics, I’ll teach them valuable skills for the medical field, such as how to read research papers and develop presentation skills—key components in both high school and the healthcare profession. I want them to know what drives people in the field and how to stay motivated. I’ll also show them how to find shadowing opportunities, volunteer positions, and ways to get involved in programs that will give them hands-on experience. This will provide them with the tools to succeed, just as I’ve tried to equip myself. One of the most impactful parts of the program will be bringing in female guest speakers. I plan to invite Biomed teachers and professionals working in medical fields to speak with the girls, sharing their stories and showing them that success in healthcare is possible for women like them. They’ll hear from people who have walked the path they want to follow, helping them to see that their dreams can become a reality. I’m passionate about making sure these girls know there is a place for them in healthcare. Through mentorship, skill-building workshops, and real-world advice, I want them to see that success isn’t just about grades—it’s about finding the right programs, building networks, and having the courage to follow their dreams. I’m excited to bring this program to life with the help of my friend, a driven Black woman who shares the same passion for inspiring others. Together, we will show these young girls that the medical field is not just for others—it’s for them, too. 3) When people learn that I want to become a doctor or cancer researcher instead of a nurse, I often see their surprise. They don't expect a first-generation Hispanic student to aim for such a demanding career. But for me, that’s the point—I want to show other young girls like me that there are no limits. This scholarship would allow me to focus on my studies without financial concerns and give me the opportunity to explore research opportunities and internships in cancer treatment, a field close to my heart after losing my aunt to breast cancer. This scholarship would not only help me on my journey but also allow me to give back to my community. As someone who’s felt the pressure of being the first in my family to pursue higher education, I know how isolating it can feel. I want to inspire girls like me to dream big, work hard, and believe in themselves. Encouraging them to take on challenging classes, or showing them the power of persistence, I want to be a mentor who helps them navigate their struggles, just as I’ve had to navigate my own. I also want to show them that our backgrounds, while shaping us, don’t define the heights we can reach. Ultimately, this scholarship would help me move closer to my goals while continuing to inspire those around me. It would give me the tools to prove that no dream is too big for someone who dares to chase it, and that anyone, no matter where they come from, can create a path to success.