The first speech I ever fell in love with made absolutely no sense to me. I was six years old, sitting at the kitchen table in my fuzzy pajama pants, slowly eating cereal. On TV, Barack Obama was giving a speech. I didn’t understand a single word, but I couldn’t look away. The way he spoke, confident, warm, magnetic, was almost magical and I was absolutely enthralled. That moment made me realize that language, delivered with purpose, could move people. That words, spoken the right way, could build bridges. Obama once said, “For all the cruelty and hardship of our world, we are not mere prisoners of fate—our actions matter.” That quote became my number one moral. It made me want to be someone whose actions, and words, would matter. That’s why I want to go into healthcare advocacy, to use my voice and knowledge to help people live better, healthier lives through the policies we create and the systems we improve. But back then, I didn’t quite know how to use my voice. I had thoughts, ideas, and passions but I didn’t know how to express them in a way that made people care. That’s what drew me to speech and debate. I’ve always believed that giving a good speech is fifty percent what you say and fifty percent how you say it. I had the content, and I just needed to learn how to deliver it. I joined my school’s team as a freshman and stayed on all four years. Eventually, I became co-captain. In that role, I started recruiting new members, leading practices, helping teammates prep for tournaments, and building a community around growth. Debate turned into more than just a club, it was my family. One of the most important moments of speech and debate came when I had to argue the opposite side of a topic I cared deeply about. At first, it felt wrong. But the more I researched, the more I understood the complexity of the issue. That round taught me that growth doesn’t come from defending your side, it actually comes from trying to understand someone else’s. That shift in perspective changed the way I move through the world. Speech and debate helped me grow more confident, but also more curious. I started paying more attention to what was happening around me, to the policies shaping people’s lives, and to the voices that weren’t always heard. I learned how to read a room and keep people engaged. Most importantly, debate made me realize I wanted to take what I’d learned and use it to make real change. It’s what led me to healthcare advocacy, where I hope to help bridge gaps in access and understanding. I’ve seen firsthand, through both debate research and personal experience, how broken healthcare systems hurt vulnerable communities. I want to be part of rebuilding those systems. Barack Obama sparked that dream in me as a kid. Debate gave me the tools to pursue it. And now, as I take the next steps toward higher education I believe that words can move people, and people can change the world.

The boy handing me my dessert had kind eyes and a timid smile reminiscent of my younger brother, yet on that sweltering Tuesday in Gudur, India, their realities were starkly different. While my brother learned multiplication in an air-conditioned classroom, this boy stood under a makeshift shack, selling popsicles to survive. I remember standing there, confused—almost in disbelief. What was he doing working instead of learning? That moment stirred something in me: the realization that education, so central to my world, was a distant dream for many. For every student like me with the privilege of opportunity, countless others lack the means to realize their potential. I was fortunate; my father defied the odds to succeed in America, but his peers in Gudur were not as lucky. These early realizations drove me to join the Spandana Foundation, a nonprofit focused on bridging educational and healthcare disparities in rural India. I started at age 12 cutting coupons for food fundraisers; today, I help coordinate school logistics and lead fundraising efforts that generate over $50,000 annually to support projects like Pratibha (scholarships) and Vidyalaya (infrastructure improvement) in 13 schools. One student I met through Spandana dreams of becoming a healthcare advocate like me—and thanks to our scholarship program, she’s now attending college. That kind of transformation is why I continue this work. In the long term, I hope to expand our reach to more schools and communities. I also recognize that language barriers prevent many students from engaging globally. To address this, I plan to lead a teaching exchange program, where American students travel to India to teach English and build intercultural connections firsthand. My experiences at the Rutgers Laboratory for Social Behavior and Neuromodulation have equipped me with analytical tools to study how social inequities form. At NYU, I hope to deepen that knowledge through neurolinguistics research, combining science and advocacy to design scalable, inclusive language interventions. What began as confusion in front of a popsicle stand has grown into a calling. I want to be the bridge that turns opportunity into access, and potential into possibility.

I’ve always been the kind of person who tries to fix things—jobs, situations, lives. Maybe it started when I was twelve, trying to find a job for my mom on Indeed. I typed in “less than 5 miles,” “white collar,” and “no degree required.” A PharmD listing popped up. Even then, I knew how many years of schooling that would take—more than she could spare. I slammed my laptop shut in frustration, abandoning my quest to find a job that ticked off all my boxes. As the cicadas hummed outside my window, vivid memories of the events from earlier that day flashed through my head. I sat cross-legged on the cold, hard kitchen floor, relentlessly firing question after question at my mother, a favorite pastime of mine. However, it was one question in particular that began my journey: What did you want to be when you grew up? “Aerospace engineer,” she said. It wasn’t the word engineer that struck me—it was the passion and regret in her voice. Married too young and forced out of college too soon, my mom had given up not just her degree but her dreams. In the quiet of many nights after, I searched obsessively for careers she could still pursue. One day, I found a listing in Monroe—only to discover it was in Florida, not New Jersey. My mother initially chastised me for “wasting my time”, yet after an eternity of my incessant nagging, she gave me a small smile and promised she would recommit to her dreams. Eventually, she landed a job at a company: Simple Interact. Yet, this moment wasn’t so simple: Because she was utterly new to employment, I spent hours helping her navigate her job and its many facets. My mother had always managed everything at home. But suddenly, I was the one offering to make dinner; I was the one vacuuming every night; and I was the one doing all the laundry. Surprisingly, I found myself enjoying it. I found a sense of purpose and responsibility, two beautiful virtues I’d never associated with myself before. This desire to empower others led me to Ivy Rehabilitation, where I supported occupational therapists in their work with children. During my time there, I noticed one child who repeatedly wandered off, regardless of what activity I presented. I rattled off a list of solutions in my head. New toys? A different playroom? New friends? Group therapy? Group therapy. That was it. He enjoyed playing with other kids, so why not incorporate them into his treatment? A flicker of anxiety washed over me as I voiced my idea to the therapist, but as she probed about the logistics and practicality of the idea, I was instilled with purpose. Once I gained her approval, it was my responsibility to see it through. Watching the children’s progress in communication and team-building skills, I was not only proud of their progress but also of having done something meaningful outside my home. These experiences helped me define my career aspiration: to become a healthcare advocate who serves not only with skill, but with purpose. I want to use my background in science and communication to improve access to care, advocate for underserved communities, and create environments where people feel seen and supported—especially children, immigrants, and working-class families like mine. Whether I’m helping my mom find her voice in the workforce or helping a child feel heard in therapy, I’ve learned that real change begins with listening, caring, and stepping up. That’s the kind of impact I hope to keep making.

I gripped my racket tighter, the humidity of the air thick around me. The second set was slipping away, and the pressure of the Monroe Falcons Invitational was suffocating. My opponent—a senior who had crushed me in straight sets last season—stood poised on the other side of the net, completely unshaken. I, on the other hand, was barely keeping my composure. Growing up, I never considered myself an athlete. I was the kid who dreaded gym class, who faked stomachaches to avoid mile-run day. But something about tennis pulled me in. Maybe it was the precision of the serves, the rhythm of a well-executed rally, or the fact that for the first time, my success wasn’t dictated by an entire team—I was in control of every point. At 14, I picked up a racket and started hitting against my garage door, the dull thuds echoing through my neighborhood. A year later, I barely made my high school team. Two years after that, I found myself on the varsity roster, fighting for a title at the Monroe Falcons Invitational. Tennis, however, has never been just about wins and losses. If anything, it’s been about how I handle the space between them. At the USTA Monroe Township Open last summer, I was eliminated in the second round. I had spent months training, waking up at dawn to run drills at Thompson Park, sacrificing weekends to practice serves that still lacked consistency. Yet, in the face of my loss, my coach told me something that stuck: “You didn’t lose because you weren’t good enough. You lost because you haven’t learned how to win yet.” I didn’t understand it at the time. But over the next few months, I started to see what he meant. Winning wasn’t just about having the best backhand or the fastest footwork. It was about resilience—the ability to reset after every lost point, to take control of my mindset, to focus on the shot in front of me rather than the mistakes behind me. That shift in perspective bled into the rest of my life. When I bombed my AP Physics midterm, I didn’t spiral like I would have before tennis. I studied my mistakes, adjusted my approach, and aced the final. When my summer internship application got rejected, I didn’t take it as a failure—I sought feedback, revised my essays, and secured a spot in a research program instead. And on that Monroe Falcons court, down 2-5 in the second set, I finally understood what my coach meant. I wasn’t just playing to avoid losing. I was playing to win. I ended up winning that match in a third-set tiebreak, but more importantly, I walked off the court as a different player—and a different person. Tennis has taught me discipline, mental toughness, and the power of perseverance. It’s taught me that improvement isn’t always linear, that setbacks are just setups for comebacks, and that sometimes, the biggest victories happen when no one is watching. As I prepare for college, I know tennis will remain a part of my life—not just as a sport, but as a reminder of the mindset that got me here. Whether I’m facing a grueling college workload, a job rejection, or an unexpected challenge, I’ll approach it like I approach every match: focused, determined, and ready to fight for the next point. Because the game isn’t over until you decide it is.

The first time I listened to Casual by Chappell Roan, I was by myself in my room, scrolling through my phone mindlessly, half listening to whatever playlist was playing in the background. And then, out of nowhere, her voice cut through all of it. "If this is casual, why do I feel so much?" It was one of those songs that got you in mid-breath, like someone had reached into your chest and wrapped their hand around a feeling you hadn't even found words for yet. I sat up, my focus suddenly intent. The song wasn't something to listen to—it was something to feel. I've never been the type of person who overthinks, but I dissect conversations even after they're over. I weigh my feelings before letting them rise to the surface, making certain that I'm not revealing too much, needing too much. I've talked myself out of it, more times than I can count, that I don't care so much as I do. Because if I did, that would be equivalent to admitting that I am weak. And weakness? Terrifying. But Chappell Roan spares none of us from it. She lays all on the table—the wanting, the frustration, the pain of wanting something material but acting as if you do not. "Guess I'll keep pretendin' I'm not attached, like it don't hurt so bad." That line stuck. Not just because it was eloquently stated, but because I'd lived it. I recalled all the times I'd been cool when I'd really wanted to tell the truth. The times I'd bitten my tongue rather than speak. The way I'd trained myself to be "fine" with less than I wanted. I let the song play repeatedly, allowing myself to sink further into the emotions that I usually tried to push out of the way. And for the first time, instead of being ashamed at loving too hard, I permitted myself to sit with it. I permitted myself to admit that maybe it is alright to feel so much. Maybe it is alright to want more. I thought of my mother, the way she told her dreams in the past tense instead of in the future. I thought about the moments that she let herself dream of something more—to more than what came to her. I thought about how many times we as humans talk to ourselves about being content with the settling. Being content with being as if. To pretend we're good with something when, secretly, we want more. And that's the magic of Casual. It's not about a relationship—it's about everything we tweak to fit into what's supposed to be. It's about the lies we tell ourselves to make things easier. It's about the way pretending not to care always lets us down. I drifted off to sleep that evening with the song still playing in my headphones, circling like a gentle reminder. A reminder that caring—actually, really caring—isn't weakness. It's proof something matters. And maybe, instead of running from that, it's time to lean into it. Because if Casual had instilled in me anything, it's that despite how hard we try to bottle them up, feelings always end up making their way to the surface. And maybe that is not something we should be afraid of. Maybe that is what makes us human.