Our women aren’t naïve. Our women are self-taught teachers. Who built schools out of the rubble and remains of the past. Who made their own rules despite what they were asked. Our women aren’t weak. Our women are powerful in conscience and in mind. Who when flags were banned, marched with slices of watermelon in hand, not caring to look behind. I started writing poems to remember what I wasn’t taught in school. To speak back to the silence. To give voice to the women who didn’t always get the chance to speak in classrooms like mine. Poetry became my way of studying—my way of asking questions that didn’t have easy answers. It became my form of protest. My form of prayer. My way of telling the truth when the world chose to ignore it. When I started middle school, my ADHD placed me in special education. I was told to keep my goals “realistic.” But my education has always felt sacred. My education has always been a way to honor the women who made my existence possible. The women in Palestine who work so much harder for what many take for granted. They build makeshift classrooms from stone and scrap wood. They study by the dim light of a generator, memorizing lessons during bombings. They fight for education like it’s survival—because for them, it is. With their strength in mind, poetry helped me find my voice. It taught me the importance of taking advantage of every educational opportunity. I began writing late at night, when everything felt loud except for the page. At first, it was for myself, but then it became more. As I worked my way up into honors and advanced classes, each step forward felt like honoring their fight. But my path hasn’t been easy. Balancing three jobs to pay for tutors and school resources, I’ve learned firsthand what it means to face financial hardship while striving for academic excellence. Navigating ADHD and a learning disability meant I had to advocate for myself constantly, fighting against lowered expectations and skepticism. My passion for STEM—particularly environmental engineering—grew from this struggle. I see STEM not just as a field of study but as a tool to address urgent challenges facing underserved communities like mine. I want to develop sustainable solutions that make clean energy and safe environments accessible to all, especially those who have been overlooked by traditional systems. So when my history teacher projected a slide reading, “Women’s Rights in the Middle East,” in big, bold letters above a black-and-white picture of a woman with a burka, my body tensed. He meant well, I think. That is, until he began to speak about how women “over there” were denied basic freedoms, how they couldn’t speak for themselves, and how women “over there” were voiceless. Powerless. Oppressed. My classmates exchanged empathetic looks. I looked down at my notebook. Then back at the screen. And then I thought of the Palestinian woman who ran a medical clinic during a blockade—treating patients by candlelight, her voice steady when everything around her was falling apart. I thought of the woman who cooked for thirty with no electricity—who laughed while doing it, like joy itself was an act of resistance. The teacher kept talking, but I didn’t hear much. Only the title stayed burned into the board: “Women’s Rights in the Middle East.” I raised my hand. “Maybe she’s not voiceless,” I said. “Maybe no one’s ever asked her to speak.” The room went quiet. No one said anything. No one looked at me. I didn’t say anything else either. I just sat there, holding the weight of what had been said—and what hadn’t. That silence stayed with me. It followed me into every book I opened, every poem I wrote, every article I annotated, every conversation I couldn’t let go of. It taught me that education isn’t just about learning what’s offered—it’s about questioning what’s missing. And sometimes, it’s about knowing when not to finish the story, because the ending hasn’t been written yet. I still write poetry. I still ask hard questions. But most of all, I carry stories with me that deserve to be told with integrity. When I walk into a classroom, I walk in with them. The women who built without blueprints. Taught without textbooks. Marched without flags. I carry their voices into every space I enter not just to remember them, but to make sure they’re never forgotten again. And wherever I go next, I won’t just take up space. I’ll reshape it. For stories like mine. For the ones still waiting to be heard. I am determined to reshape spaces in STEM that have historically excluded women of color. I believe in the power of representation and mentorship to inspire the next generation of scientists and engineers. By pursuing higher education and a career in STEM, I aim to build bridges between technology and justice, ensuring innovation benefits those who need it most. This scholarship would help me continue on this path by easing financial burdens and allowing me to focus on my studies and growth. It would be an honor to carry Eric Larson’s legacy forward—championing equality and opportunity in the sciences, and contributing to a future where diverse voices lead the way in innovation. Education for me is more than knowledge—it is resistance, resilience, and responsibility. It is a way to honor those who fought silently and fiercely before me, and a commitment to lift up those who will come after.

I display the same spirit Stelios embodied—entrepreneurial drive, innovation, intellectual engagement, and deep curiosity—through the way I approach challenges, learning, and advocacy. These qualities don’t exist in separate compartments of my life; they intersect and show up in how I engage with my community, pursue academic excellence, and imagine bold solutions to real-world problems. My entrepreneurial spirit emerges from a desire to create something meaningful out of what others may overlook. When I joined the leadership board for “Vessels to the Voice,” a youth-led nonprofit that uses art to highlight global issues, I didn’t just participate—I reimagined how we could reach more people. As Outreach Manager, I created new partnerships with local schools and organizations and initiated collaborative events that brought art, activism, and education into shared spaces. I wasn’t building a business, but I was building impact. I believe entrepreneurship isn’t just about profit; it’s about purpose. I see gaps—in equity, in education, in environmental justice—and I feel called to step in and do something about them. Innovation, for me, is rooted in rethinking what already exists. As someone passionate about environmental engineering, I don’t just want to study sustainable energy—I want to reimagine it. I’ve been captivated by the concept of artificial photosynthesis, a process that mimics plants to convert sunlight, water, and carbon dioxide into clean energy. I see this as more than just a scientific curiosity; I see it as a tool for justice. Imagine deploying this technology in under-resourced communities that have been overlooked by traditional energy infrastructure. That kind of innovation—fueled by both science and empathy—is what I strive for. It’s not innovation for the sake of invention, but innovation that matters to people who are often forgotten. Academic excellence has never come easy to me. I have ADHD and used to be in a special education class for English, struggling to even complete assignments on time. But I refused to let that define me. Over time, I built systems of support, advocated for myself, and pushed beyond the labels placed on me. Now I’m in honors and high honors courses, not because learning got easier, but because I got stronger. I’ve learned to ask hard questions, to explore deeply, and to bring a critical eye to everything from environmental policy to post-9/11 Arab American representation in media. For me, academic excellence isn’t just about grades—it’s about persistence, curiosity, and the willingness to engage with complexity. That scholarly engagement shows up in the way I connect classroom learning to real-world change. In history, I don’t just memorize dates—I study patterns of power. In chemistry, I don’t just focus on formulas—I think about how they relate to clean water and air. I write research papers that blend my identity with global justice issues and use poetry to process complex emotions about faith, Palestine, and mental health. I’ve learned that scholarship isn’t limited to textbooks; it lives in the questions we carry and the connections we make. Above all, I am driven by a fundamental curiosity about the world. I want to know why systems break, why certain voices are silenced, and how we can reimagine structures that serve everyone. That curiosity makes me sit in discomfort, dig deeper, and keep searching when answers don’t come easily. It makes me a better advocate, writer, student, and leader. Stelios wasn’t just successful because he was smart—he was bold, curious, and committed to making ideas real. I strive to do the same. Whether through environmental innovation, social impact, or academic growth, I carry the same hunger to understand the world and the courage to change it.

The first time I saw the water breathe, I was twelve, standing ankle-deep in foam and seaweed at a beach cleanup. I watched plastic curl in with every wave like unwanted memories. A seagull limped past me, tangled in a net of fishing wire. I bent down, tried to untangle it, and failed. But something untangled in me. It was the first time I realized the environment wasn’t just something we were “supposed” to care about — it was personal. That shoreline didn’t just carry trash; it carried stories. It remembered everything we tried to forget — every policy written for profit, every pipeline rerouted through marginalized communities, every neighborhood told their water “meets the minimum standard.” That day, I started asking different questions: not just what’s polluting the water, but why do some communities always seem to be swimming in it alone? Since then, my passion has grown from the ground up — literally. I began volunteering with beach cleanups and water quality initiatives and attending summer programs focused on environmental engineering. One summer, I spent a week redesigning ride-on toy cars for kids with disabilities through a project called Go Baby Go. At first glance, it had little to do with the environment. But I began to see the connection: engineering isn’t just about solving problems — it’s about who you solve them for. That became my compass. I’m now pursuing environmental engineering not only because I love the science, but because I believe clean water and clean air are rights, not privileges. I want to design filtration systems for places where the tap runs brown and people are told to boil their water every night. I want to work on renewable energy projects that reduce emissions without displacing vulnerable communities. I want to bring infrastructure to communities that have been intentionally left behind. And I don’t just want to work in a lab or behind blueprints — I want to listen. To the stories of people whose health and homes have been sacrificed in the name of progress. To the rhythms of neighborhoods often excluded from environmental conversations. To the students who look like me and wonder if they can change the world, even when the world doesn’t seem to listen back. I find hope in the small things — in compost bins at school that people now use without thinking, in younger students joining our Environmental Club to take action, in every time someone says, “this isn’t fair,” and someone else says, “then let’s fix it.” The long-term change I want to make isn’t just technical — it’s cultural. I want to help shift our collective mindset from extraction to reciprocity, from individualism to interconnection. I see myself working at the intersection of design, community education, and environmental justice, bridging the gap between science and the people it should serve. I never did save that seagull. But I carry the memory like a blueprint — not of failure, but of a beginning. It reminds me that even when you can’t fix everything, you can choose where to begin. And I’m beginning where the water breaks.

Growing up, I was fascinated by science. I loved learning about how things worked, from the chemistry behind everyday reactions to the engineering behind bridges and buildings. But as I got older, I started to notice something: the people being celebrated in my textbooks, the faces behind the biggest scientific discoveries, rarely looked like me. Middle Eastern contributions to STEM were often overlooked, reinforcing the idea that people like me didn’t belong in science. Figures like Al-Khwarizmi, the original creator of algebra, and Al-Razi, a Persian physician and chemist, made groundbreaking contributions to mathematics, medicine, and chemistry, yet their accomplishments are often disregarded. Without representation, it was difficult to imagine myself in a lab, an engineering firm, or an environmental research team. That changed when I participated in Go Baby Go, an engineering project focused on modifying ride-on toy cars for children with mobility challenges. I worked to adapt the controls, ensuring the cars fit the needs of each child. Seeing the direct impact of engineering—the way it gave children newfound independence—was a turning point for me. It made me realize that STEM wasn’t just about theories or calculations; it was about creating tangible solutions that change lives. This project showed me that engineering was not a distant concept—they were tool for empowerment. But even in that moment of inspiration, I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was one of the only Middle Eastern students in the room. The more I got involved in STEM-related programs, the more I saw how underrepresented people like me were. At first, I ignored it. But as the weeks passed, the feeling of not belonging lingered. It wasn’t just about being one of the few; it was about proving to myself that I was good enough to be there. Every time I struggled with a problem, a voice in my head questioned if I really belonged. I found myself second-guessing everything—whether I should raise my hand, whether my ideas were valid, whether I had to work twice as hard to be taken seriously Despite this, I kept pushing forward. I sought out opportunities that reinforced my love for environmental engineering, from summer programs to real-world initiatives like beach cleanups and water quality projects. The more I learned, the more I realized how essential diverse perspectives are in science. Environmental issues don’t affect everyone equally—marginalized communities are often hit the hardest—so having engineers from different backgrounds isn’t just important, it’s necessary. STEM isn’t just about innovation; it’s about problem-solving for real people, and that requires voices from all communities. That’s what solidified my passion. I want to challenge the narrative that people like me don’t belong in STEM, not just for myself but for every young person who feels like their identity disqualifies them from being part of these important conversations. I want to be part of a future where representation isn’t an afterthought, where students don’t have to wonder if they fit in because they see themselves reflected in the field. Science is about discovery, innovation, and progress—and that should be open to everyone. By pursuing environmental engineering, I hope to not only contribute to a more sustainable world but also to be part of the movement that changes who gets to be seen as a scientist, an engineer, or an innovator. Because if I had seen someone like me in STEM when I was younger, maybe I wouldn’t have spent so much time wondering if I belonged. Maybe the next generation won’t have to. Instead, they’ll see themselves in their textbooks, their classrooms, and the leaders shaping the future of science and engineering.

If you could have everyone in the world read just one book, I would choose Little Women. I would choose this because it demonstrates the importance of female voices in the world, and tells young female readers that they can do anything. Whether it's becoming a writer to simply just raising kids and having a family. I think now especially many young women have the idea that they have to be an independent woman who doesn't need a man and that being a housewife is anti-feminist. However, this book provides an alternate perspective. We see this clearly demonstrated in Meg who doesn’t want to work, she wants to get married and have a family. Although she knows she is capable of much more than that, she doesn’t want to do it because she wants to have kids and take care of her husband. All four March sisters have different ideas of how they want to live their lives and this book shows that all these ways of living are equally important. We see this in the book when Jo regrets turning Laurie down, she hates the idea pushed on women by society that they "are only good for marriage." But she is conflicted because she feels lonely and is desperately craving love. I have talked to many fans of this book and they all hate how she ends up marrying, but I personally love it. It shows the reader that women can be independent, and focused on their careers, but they don't have to do it alone and they can still find love.