I remember walking those hospital halls so clearly. The white tiled floor, the permeating smell of antiseptic that had become something of a comfort over the past several months. The last time I saw my father alive, it was through the crack of an open door leading to his hospital room. His eyes were half-closed, his skin stretched too tight over his shaved head, his life sustained by an intricate system of tubes and wires in the battle against a rare, aggressive cancer. I never knew how precious and how tenuous health could be until it was gone. Several years later, I found myself back in the halls of a hospital. I once again walked past clean white walls, this time struggling to move forward from the devastation of my dad’s death. My hopelessness and desperation without him in my life drove me to seek control through starvation, compulsive exercise, and self-harm. I felt increasingly detached from the people around me, and for the longest time I was trapped by my own walls. Anorexia had taken over my life, and I didn’t want to see beyond my own suffering. Then, when I began high school, I chose to enter the halls of a local hospital as a volunteer, looking to connect to something greater than myself. My experiences as a child filled me with a fascination for the medical field and the idea that life could be safeguarded by science. I walked from room to room, clinging to my clipboard and to the overwhelming desire to support the patients and family members whose pain I could recognize as my own. By returning to this hospital space, I found a way to reclaim and move past my grief through helping others. I held hands with people who were dying, offered the warmth of blankets or someone to keep them company, and most of all, I listened. This is what I heard: at the inner-city hospital, in addition to the pains of their illness, many suffered from not being able to access care. I knew then that not only did I want to practice medicine, I wanted to change it. I brought that newfound drive and passion to creating change in my school, to protesting in the streets, and to advocating for new legislation at the local and state levels. After more than a year of volunteering, I got accepted into a competitive summer program to shadow and learn from health professionals directly. The hospital halls that had become familiar to me as a volunteer I now walked side-by-side with doctors on rounds, nurses delivering medications, therapists helping patients re-learn how to walk. I asked questions and absorbed every new facet of medicine that I was exposed to. For the first time, beyond the compassion I could offer as a volunteer, I understood and was challenged by the intersection of science with humanity in medicine. In the summer of my junior year, I felt compelled to revisit the hospital halls where my dad had passed away. Though the tiles were the same bright white and the smell had the same astringency, I saw everything with new eyes. I stood now with the resilience I had learned in facing my grief. After struggling with my mental health, I emerged with a new strength and empathy by being there for others in a way I couldn’t have before. Now I could identify the IV machines and oxygen lines that had extended my dad’s life long enough for us to say goodbye, my knowledge a product of the time I chose to spend in hospitals, building my sense of purpose in the field. As I watched the doctors and nurses on the floor, I recognized that my grief had transformed into determination. That determination has propelled me to cherish my life and uplift the lives of those around me through medicine, an outlook I will bring with me into university, into medical school, and beyond. Anorexia will always remain as something of a shadow over my life, but I know now how important it is to cultivate joy and connection, rather than using food and exercise to isolate myself. Every day, I continue to push myself to eat regardless of whether I feel I have earned it, allowing me to channel my energy from eating into building community and fighting to create the world I envision. Recovery is a lifelong battle, but thanks to the people and the joy I have surrounded myself with, I think I’ll be okay: I won’t let anorexia eat me.

I saw loneliness almost everywhere I turned at my high school. At my Title 1 school after the pandemic, many students struggled with their mental health and a lack of support, leading to outbreaks of fighting, bullying, and excessive drug use on the campus. My first year, this overwhelming depression and detachment came to a head when a student I knew died by suicide, while my close childhood friend was hospitalized in the ICU after attempting to do the same. In response, I sought out a way to foster community and prevent other students from succumbing to despair or lashing out in ways that harmed themselves and others. I researched local resources, including information on how to reach out for support in the event of bullying, and drew up blueprints for an art exhibit highlighting anonymous student submissions alongside resources for mental health. I discussed my goals with school staff and was awarded over $1,000 of funding to make the program possible. But, talking with other students, I realized that these efforts failed to fully engage people around the topic of mental health, particularly in addressing healthy forms of expression that did not create a school environment ripe for bullying. So, in addition to the campus exhibit, I designed and set up a series of weekly after school art workshops where students could spend time using painting, songwriting, and other art mediums to express intense emotions and connect to the school community, then submit what they made to the exhibit to help others feel less alone. For the next few years, I watched the initiatives I set in place grow. The workshops expanded from less than 10 students attending each week to over 30 students --- more than there was space to seat them --- while the art exhibit became populated with student work and stories. As they participated in the workshops, students would begin to relax, brighten, and share. There, I saw the impact that creating this small space had in improving students’ mental health and connection to each other at the school. By offering this program, students had access to the support and outlets they needed to prevent as well as deal with incidences of bullying. Through my work to build this program on campus, I learned how to advocate for myself and for other students, how to bring people together, and how to respond to an issue in my community using creativity and determination. I will continue to take these lessons with me to make my future school campuses a little less lonely, a little more welcoming, and a little more beautiful. With this scholarship, I hope to make my dreams in college to uplift the well-being of all students more affordable for my family and for myself, as I intend to seek multiple higher education degrees after high school, including a bachelor's, master's, and medical degree. Coming from a single-parent household, it is incredibly important to me to not endanger my family's financial stability with the price of an undergraduate education. Thus, I will use the award from the Matthew E. Minor Memorial Scholarship to ease the burden of college costs, enabling me to do more good for the prevention of bullying and support for students' mental health at the school I choose to attend.

I remember walking those hospital halls so clearly. The white tiled floor, the permeating smell of antiseptic that had become something of a comfort over the past several months. The last time I saw my father alive, it was through the crack of the door leading to his hospital room. His eyes were half-closed, skin stretched too tight over his shaved head, his life sustained by an intricate system of tubes and wires in the battle against a rare, aggressive cancer. I never knew how precious and tenuous health could be until it was gone. Several years later, I found myself back in the halls of a hospital. I once again walked past clean white walls, struggling to move forward from the devastation of my dad’s death. My hopelessness and desperation without him drove me to starvation, compulsive exercise, and self-harm. I felt increasingly detached from the people around me, trapped by my own walls. Then, when I began high school, I chose to enter the halls of a local hospital as a volunteer, looking to connect to something greater than myself. My experiences as a child filled me with fascination for the medical field and the idea that life could be safeguarded by science. I walked from room to room, clinging to my clipboard and the overwhelming desire to support patients and family members whose pain I could recognize as my own. By returning to this hospital space, I found a way to reclaim and move past my grief through helping others. I held hands with people who were dying, offered the warmth of blankets or someone to keep them company, and most of all, I listened. This is what I heard: at the inner-city hospital, in addition to the pains of their illness, many suffered from not being able to access care. I knew then that not only did I want to practice medicine, I wanted to change it. I brought that newfound drive to my school, to protests in the streets, and to advocating for new legislation. After more than a year of volunteering, I was accepted into a competitive summer program to learn from health professionals directly. The hospital halls that became familiar to me as a volunteer I now walked side-by-side with doctors on rounds, nurses delivering medications, therapists helping patients re-learn how to walk. I asked questions and absorbed every new facet of medicine I was exposed to. For the first time, beyond the compassion I could offer as a volunteer, I understood and was challenged by the intersection of science with humanity in medicine. The summer of my junior year, I felt compelled to revisit the hospital halls where my dad passed away. Though the tiles were the same bright white and the smell had the same astringency, I saw everything with new eyes. I stood now with the resilience I learned in facing my grief. After struggling with my mental health, I emerged with new strength and empathy by being there for others in a way I couldn’t have before. Now I could identify the IV machines and oxygen lines that extended my dad’s life long enough for us to say goodbye, my knowledge a product of the time I chose to spend in hospitals, building my sense of purpose in the field. As I watched the doctors and nurses, I recognized that my grief had transformed into determination. That determination has propelled me to cherish my life and uplift the lives of those around me through medicine, an outlook I will bring with me into university, into medical school, and beyond.

My father’s death cost $564,465. At eight years old, I saw the bill that followed six months of failed treatments for a rare, aggressive cancer that claimed his life. I couldn’t understand then how anything could cost that much, but later I came to learn the true price of losing someone. My dad’s death cost me my sense of self, security, and connection to the people around me. My hopelessness and desperation without him in my life drove me to starvation, compulsive exercise, and self-harm. I felt increasingly detached from my friends and peers, so I turned to school as both my haven and my distraction. I was compelled to pursue perfection in my academic work, but I never felt truly satisfied with who I was because my dad wasn’t there to see it. Bit by bit, I strove to build back the pieces of who I was that had been shattered by his loss. After the pandemic, I took up writing poetry and journaling to process my feelings, returning to therapy because I wanted to get better. I joined clubs at school to foster the community I had been missing, and where I couldn’t find that community, I built it by establishing spaces like my school's classical book club and mental health advocacy club. Still, I couldn’t forget the idea that my dad’s death could have cost my family everything. While our insurance and fundraising mitigated the bill, for many families the financial cost of care is devastating. So I channeled my hard-learned resilience, awareness, and drive to cherish life into a newfound academic focus: medicine and healthcare advocacy. I volunteered at hospitals in San Diego, interned at public health departments, and worked with health professionals across the nation to found a chapter of students fighting for local healthcare equity. The challenge of overcoming the cost of grief led me to realize that life is worth infinitely more than a dollar value. Through my academic work in medicine and public health, I want to protect and uplift the lives of others, because I have seen how much life can mean.

I remember walking those hospital halls so clearly. The white tiled floor, the permeating smell of antiseptic that had become something of a comfort over the past several months. The last time I saw my father alive, it was through the crack of the door leading to his hospital room. His eyes were half-closed, skin stretched too tight over his shaved head, his life sustained by an intricate system of tubes and wires in the battle against a rare, aggressive cancer. I never knew how precious and tenuous health could be until it was gone. Several years later, I found myself back in the halls of a hospital. I once again walked past clean white walls, struggling to move forward from the devastation of my dad’s death. My hopelessness and desperation without him drove me to starvation, compulsive exercise, and self-harm. I felt increasingly detached from the people around me, trapped by my own walls. Then, when I began high school, I chose to enter the halls of a local hospital as a volunteer, inspired to connect to something greater than myself. My experiences as a child filled me with fascination for the medical field and the idea that life could be safeguarded by science. I walked from room to room, clinging to my clipboard and the overwhelming desire to support patients and family members whose pain I could recognize as my own. By returning to this hospital space, I found a way to reclaim and move past my grief through helping others. I held hands with people who were dying, offered the warmth of blankets or someone to keep them company, and most of all, I listened. This is what I heard: at the inner-city hospital, in addition to the pains of their illness, many suffered from not being able to access care. I knew then that not only did I want to practice medicine, I wanted to change it. I brought that newfound drive to my school, to protests in the streets, and to advocating for new legislation. After more than a year of volunteering, I was accepted into a competitive summer program to learn from health professionals directly. The hospital halls that became familiar to me as a volunteer I now walked side-by-side with doctors on rounds, nurses delivering medications, therapists helping patients re-learn how to walk. I asked questions and absorbed every new facet of medicine I was exposed to. For the first time, beyond the compassion I could offer as a volunteer, I understood and was challenged by the intersection of science with humanity in medicine. The summer of my junior year, I felt compelled to revisit the hospital halls where my dad passed away. Though the tiles were the same bright white and the smell had the same astringency, I saw everything with new eyes. I stood now with the resilience I learned in facing my grief. After struggling with my mental health, I emerged with new strength and empathy by being there for others in a way I couldn’t have before. Now I could identify the IV machines and oxygen lines that extended my dad’s life long enough for us to say goodbye, my knowledge product of the time I was inspired to spend in hospitals, building my sense of purpose in the field. As I watched the doctors and nurses, I recognized that my grief had transformed into determination. That determination has propelled me to cherish my life and uplift the lives of those around me through medicine, an outlook I will bring with me into university, into medical school, and beyond.

I remember walking those hospital halls so clearly. The white tiled floor, the permeating smell of antiseptic that had become something of a comfort over the past several months. The last time I saw my father alive, it was through the crack of the door leading to his hospital room. His eyes were half-closed, skin stretched too tight over his shaved head, his life sustained by an intricate system of tubes and wires in the battle against a rare, aggressive cancer. I never knew how precious and tenuous health could be until it was gone. Several years later, I found myself back in the halls of a hospital. I once again walked past clean white walls, struggling to move forward from the devastation of my dad’s death. My hopelessness and desperation without him drove me to starvation, compulsive exercise, and self-harm. I felt increasingly detached from the people around me, trapped by my own walls. Then, when I began high school, I chose to enter the halls of a local hospital as a volunteer, looking to connect to something greater than myself. My experiences as a child filled me with fascination for the medical field and the idea that life could be safeguarded by science. I walked from room to room, clinging to my clipboard and the overwhelming desire to support patients and family members whose pain I could recognize as my own. By returning to this hospital space, I found a way to reclaim and move past my grief through helping others. I held hands with people who were dying, offered the warmth of blankets or someone to keep them company, and most of all, I listened. This is what I heard: at the inner-city hospital, in addition to the pains of their illness, many suffered from not being able to access care. I knew then that not only did I want to practice medicine, I wanted to change it. I brought that newfound drive to my school, to protests in the streets, and to advocating for new legislation. After more than a year of volunteering, I was accepted into a competitive summer program to learn from health professionals directly. The hospital halls that became familiar to me as a volunteer I now walked side-by-side with doctors on rounds, nurses delivering medications, therapists helping patients re-learn how to walk. I asked questions and absorbed every new facet of medicine I was exposed to. For the first time, beyond the compassion I could offer as a volunteer, I understood and was challenged by the intersection of science with humanity in medicine. The summer of my junior year, I felt compelled to revisit the hospital halls where my dad passed away. Though the tiles were the same bright white and the smell had the same astringency, I saw everything with new eyes. I stood now with the resilience I learned in facing my grief. After struggling with my mental health, I emerged with new strength and empathy by being there for others in a way I couldn’t have before. Now I could identify the IV machines and oxygen lines that extended my dad’s life long enough for us to say goodbye, my knowledge a product of the time I chose to spend in hospitals, building my sense of purpose in the field. As I watched the doctors and nurses, I recognized that my grief had transformed into determination. That determination has propelled me to cherish my life and uplift the lives of those around me through medicine, an outlook I will bring with me into university, into medical school, and beyond.

I remember walking those hospital halls so clearly. The white tiled floor, the permeating smell of antiseptic that had become something of a comfort over the past several months. The last time I saw my father alive, it was through the crack of the door leading to his hospital room. His eyes were half-closed, skin stretched too tight over his shaved head, his life sustained by an intricate system of tubes and wires in the battle against a rare, aggressive cancer. I never knew how precious and tenuous health could be until it was gone. Several years later, I found myself back in the halls of a hospital. I once again walked past clean white walls, struggling to move forward from the devastation of my dad’s death. My hopelessness and desperation without him drove me to starvation, compulsive exercise, and self-harm. I felt increasingly detached from the people around me, trapped by my own walls. Then, when I began high school, I chose to enter the halls of a local hospital as a volunteer, looking to connect to something greater than myself. My experiences as a child filled me with fascination for the medical field and the idea that life could be safeguarded by science. I walked from room to room, clinging to my clipboard and the overwhelming desire to support patients and family members whose pain I could recognize as my own. By returning to this hospital space, I found a way to reclaim and move past my grief through helping others. I held hands with people who were dying, offered the warmth of blankets or someone to keep them company, and most of all, I listened. This is what I heard: at the inner-city hospital, in addition to the pains of their illness, many suffered from not being able to access care. I knew then that not only did I want to practice medicine, I wanted to change it. I brought that newfound drive to my school, to protests in the streets, and to advocating for new legislation. After more than a year of volunteering, I was accepted into a competitive summer program to learn from health professionals directly. The hospital halls that became familiar to me as a volunteer I now walked side-by-side with doctors on rounds, nurses delivering medications, therapists helping patients re-learn how to walk. I asked questions and absorbed every new facet of medicine I was exposed to. For the first time, beyond the compassion I could offer as a volunteer, I understood and was challenged by the intersection of science with humanity in medicine. The summer of my junior year, I felt compelled to revisit the hospital halls where my dad passed away. Though the tiles were the same bright white and the smell had the same astringency, I saw everything with new eyes. I stood now with the resilience I learned in facing my grief. After struggling with my mental health, I emerged with new strength and empathy by being there for others in a way I couldn’t have before. Now I could identify the IV machines and oxygen lines that extended my dad’s life long enough for us to say goodbye, my knowledge a product of the time I chose to spend in hospitals, building my sense of purpose in the field. As I watched the doctors and nurses, I recognized that my grief had transformed into determination. That determination has propelled me to cherish my life and uplift the lives of those around me through medicine, an outlook I will bring with me into university, into medical school, and beyond.

I remember walking those hospital halls so clearly. The white tiled floor, the permeating smell of antiseptic that had become something of a comfort over the past several months. The last time I saw my father alive, it was through the crack of an open door leading to his hospital room. His eyes were half-closed, his skin stretched too tight over his shaved head, his life sustained by an intricate system of tubes and wires in the battle against a rare, aggressive cancer. I never knew how precious and how tenuous health could be until it was gone. Several years later, I found myself back in the halls of a hospital. I once again walked past clean white walls, this time struggling to move forward from the devastation of my dad’s death. My hopelessness and desperation without him in my life drove me to seek control through starvation, compulsive exercise, and self-harm. I felt increasingly detached from the people around me, and for the longest time I was trapped by my own walls. Anorexia had taken over my life, and I didn’t want to see beyond my own suffering. Then, when I began high school, I chose to enter the halls of a local hospital as a volunteer, looking to connect to something greater than myself. My experiences as a child filled me with a fascination for the medical field and the idea that life could be safeguarded by science. I walked from room to room, clinging to my clipboard and to the overwhelming desire to support the patients and family members whose pain I could recognize as my own. By returning to this hospital space, I found a way to reclaim and move past my grief through helping others. I held hands with people who were dying, offered the warmth of blankets or someone to keep them company, and most of all, I listened. This is what I heard: at the inner-city hospital, in addition to the pains of their illness, many suffered from not being able to access care. I knew then that not only did I want to practice medicine, I wanted to change it. I brought that newfound drive and passion to creating change in my school, to protesting in the streets, and to advocating for new legislation at the local and state levels. After more than a year of volunteering, I got accepted into a competitive summer program to shadow and learn from health professionals directly. The hospital halls that had become familiar to me as a volunteer I now walked side-by-side with doctors on rounds, nurses delivering medications, therapists helping patients re-learn how to walk. I asked questions and absorbed every new facet of medicine that I was exposed to. For the first time, beyond the compassion I could offer as a volunteer, I understood and was challenged by the intersection of science with humanity in medicine. In the summer of my junior year, I felt compelled to revisit the hospital halls where my dad had passed away. Though the tiles were the same bright white and the smell had the same astringency, I saw everything with new eyes. I stood now with the resilience I had learned in facing my grief. After struggling with my mental health, I emerged with a new strength and empathy by being there for others in a way I couldn’t have before. Now I could identify the IV machines and oxygen lines that had extended my dad’s life long enough for us to say goodbye, my knowledge a product of the time I chose to spend in hospitals, building my sense of purpose in the field. As I watched the doctors and nurses on the floor, I recognized that my grief had transformed into determination. That determination has propelled me to cherish my life and uplift the lives of those around me through medicine, an outlook I will bring with me into university, into medical school, and beyond. Anorexia will always remain as something of a shadow over my life, but I know now how important it is to cultivate joy and connection, rather than using food and exercise to isolate myself. Every day, I continue to push myself to eat regardless of whether I feel I have earned it, allowing me to channel my energy from eating into building community and fighting to create the world I envision. Recovery is a lifelong battle, but thanks to the people and the joy I have surrounded myself with, I think I’ll be okay: I won’t let anorexia eat me.

I remember walking those hospital halls so clearly. The white tiled floor, the permeating smell of antiseptic that had become something of a comfort over the past several months. The last time I saw my father alive, it was through the crack of an open door leading to his hospital room. His eyes were half-closed, his skin stretched too tight over his shaved head, his life sustained by an intricate system of tubes and wires in the battle against a rare, aggressive cancer. I never knew how precious and how tenuous health could be until it was gone. Several years later, I found myself back in the halls of a hospital. I once again walked past clean white walls, this time struggling to move forward from the devastation of my dad’s death. My hopelessness and desperation without him in my life drove me to starvation, compulsive exercise, and self-harm. I felt increasingly detached from the people around me, and for the longest time I was trapped by my own walls. I didn’t want to see beyond my own suffering. Then, when I began high school, I chose to enter the halls of a local hospital as a volunteer, looking to connect to something greater than myself. My experiences as a child filled me with a fascination for the medical field and the idea that life could be safeguarded by science. I walked from room to room, clinging to my clipboard and to the overwhelming desire to support the patients and family members whose pain I could recognize as my own. By returning to this hospital space, I found a way to reclaim and move past my grief through helping others. I held hands with people who were dying, offered the warmth of blankets or someone to keep them company, and most of all, I listened. This is what I heard: at the inner-city hospital, in addition to the pains of their illness, many suffered from not being able to access care. I knew then that not only did I want to practice medicine, I wanted to change it. I brought that newfound drive and passion to creating change in my school, to protesting in the streets, and to advocating for new legislation at the local and state levels. I knew that I wanted to combine medicine with public health. After more than a year of volunteering, I got accepted into a competitive summer program to shadow and learn from health professionals directly. The hospital halls that had become familiar to me as a volunteer I now walked side-by-side with doctors on rounds, nurses delivering medications, therapists helping patients re-learn how to walk. I asked questions and absorbed every new facet of medicine that I was exposed to. For the first time, beyond the compassion I could offer as a volunteer, I understood and was challenged by the intersection of science with humanity in medicine. In the summer of my junior year, I felt compelled to revisit the hospital halls where my dad had passed away. Though the tiles were the same bright white and the smell had the same astringency, I saw everything with new eyes. I stood now with the resilience I had learned in facing my grief. After struggling with my mental health, I emerged with a new strength and empathy by being there for others in a way I couldn’t have before. Now I could identify the IV machines and oxygen lines that had extended my dad’s life long enough for us to say goodbye, my knowledge a product of the time I chose to spend in hospitals, building my sense of purpose in the field. As I watched the doctors and nurses on the floor, I recognized that my grief had transformed into determination. That determination has propelled me to cherish my life and uplift the lives of those around me through medicine, an outlook I will bring with me into university for a major in public health, into medical school, and beyond.

I remember walking those hospital halls so clearly. The white tiled floor, the permeating smell of antiseptic that had become something of a comfort over the past several months. The last time I saw my father alive, it was through the crack of the door leading to his hospital room. His eyes were half-closed, skin stretched too tight over his shaved head, his life sustained by an intricate system of tubes and wires in the battle against a rare, aggressive cancer. I never knew how precious and tenuous health could be until it was gone. Several years later, I found myself back in the halls of a hospital. I once again walked past clean white walls, struggling to move forward from the devastation of my dad’s death. My hopelessness and desperation without him drove me to starvation, compulsive exercise, and self-harm. I felt increasingly detached from the people around me, trapped by my own walls. Then, when I began high school, I chose to enter the halls of a local hospital as a volunteer, looking to connect to something greater than myself. My experiences as a child filled me with fascination for the medical field and the idea that life could be safeguarded by science. I walked from room to room, clinging to my clipboard and the overwhelming desire to support patients and family members whose pain I could recognize as my own. By returning to this hospital space, I found a way to reclaim and move past my grief through helping others. I held hands with people who were dying, offered the warmth of blankets or someone to keep them company, and most of all, I listened. This is what I heard: at the inner-city hospital, in addition to the pains of their illness, many suffered from not being able to access care. I knew then that not only did I want to practice medicine, I wanted to change it. I brought that newfound drive to my school, to protests in the streets, and to advocating for new legislation. After more than a year of volunteering, I was accepted into a competitive summer program to learn from health professionals directly. The hospital halls that became familiar to me as a volunteer I now walked side-by-side with doctors on rounds, nurses delivering medications, therapists helping patients re-learn how to walk. I asked questions and absorbed every new facet of medicine I was exposed to. For the first time, beyond the compassion I could offer as a volunteer, I understood and was challenged by the intersection of science with humanity in medicine. The summer of my junior year, I felt compelled to revisit the hospital halls where my dad passed away. Though the tiles were the same bright white and the smell had the same astringency, I saw everything with new eyes. I stood now with the resilience I learned in facing my grief. After struggling with my mental health, I emerged with new strength and empathy by being there for others in a way I couldn’t have before. Now I could identify the IV machines and oxygen lines that extended my dad’s life long enough for us to say goodbye, my knowledge a product of the time I chose to spend in hospitals, building my sense of purpose in the field. As I watched the doctors and nurses, I recognized that my grief had transformed into determination. That determination has propelled me to cherish my life and uplift the lives of those around me through medicine, an outlook I will bring with me into university, into medical school, and beyond.