I remember peeking through the curtain before my dance recital, searching the audience before it was time to perform. I saw my mom immediately, smiling with her camera ready. But I was looking for my father too. He told me he was coming, so I believed he would be there. He wasn't. Then I saw my great-grandfather sitting in the front row, waiting to watch me dance. I was young, so I did not fully understand what that moment would eventually mean to me. I just knew I was hurt that one person was missing and grateful that another always showed up. I walked onto that stage and danced anyway. Looking back, much of my life has been learning to do exactly that: feel what hurts, appreciate what remains, and keep going. Growing up without my father consistently present left me with questions I spent years trying to answer. I watched him show up for my brother in ways I wished he would show up for me. When you are young, you do not understand that someone's absence does not determine your worth. You just wonder why you were not enough. My mother never allowed what was missing to become my entire story. She carried the responsibilities of two parents, sacrificed her own wants, and somehow continued giving me opportunities. My great-grandfather gave me another kind of love: quiet, consistent, and present. Losing him was one of the hardest experiences of my life. Through all of it, I learned that resilience is not pretending something does not hurt. It is allowing yourself to hurt without allowing that hurt to decide who you become. That lesson is part of why I am so serious about my future. I will study biology at Howard University on the pre-dental path with the goal of becoming a dentist specializing in orthodontics and cosmetic dentistry. Dentistry is personal to me because I know what it feels like to be insecure about my teeth. I used to cover my mouth when I laughed and hide my smile in pictures. Now, the insecurity I once wished I could erase has given me direction. One day, I want to open a dental practice where a child afraid to smile feels understood and where families do not feel that quality dental care is something they cannot afford. I want to turn something that once took away my confidence into a career that gives confidence to others. Receiving The Concrete Rose Scholarship would help me continue turning that purpose into reality. I am grateful for the opportunity to attend Howard, but I know becoming a dentist means years of tuition, books, science courses, materials, and eventually dental school. My mother has already carried so much to get me here. This scholarship would take some of that weight off her shoulders while allowing me to focus on becoming the student and future dentist I know I can be. I cannot repay every sacrifice she has made by simply saying thank you. I can repay her by making something meaningful out of every opportunity she fought to give me. A rose growing through concrete does not pretend the concrete was never there. It simply refuses to let a hard place stop it from becoming what it was meant to be. I cannot choose every circumstance I grow through, but I can choose what I grow into. With this scholarship, I hope to grow into a dentist, a provider, and someone who makes another person's path a little easier than mine.

One night I was sitting in front of my computer trying to understand something for school, and no matter how many times I read it, it just was not making sense. I remember getting frustrated because I knew I was capable of understanding it, I just needed someone to explain it in a different way. So I asked an AI tool to break it down for me like I was learning it for the first time. Finally, it clicked. I did not think much of it at first, but then I started wondering how it knew how to explain the same information differently just because I asked. That curiosity made me look at AI as more than something that could give me an answer. I started seeing it as something I could actually learn from and, one day, possibly use in the career I love. I will not say that I have created an app or coded my own machine learning model because I have not, at least not yet. Most of my experience with AI has come from being a student and actually using it. I have used it to help me study, understand difficult concepts, organize my thoughts, and ask questions when I am confused. Sometimes I even ask the same question three different ways until it finally makes sense to me. I think that is what made me interested in AI in the first place. I am naturally curious, and I like understanding the “why” behind things. As I study biology on the pre-dental path at Howard University, I want to learn more about the technology behind AI instead of only being someone who uses it. My dream is to become a dentist and eventually specialize in orthodontics and cosmetic dentistry. I know firsthand how much a smile can affect someone's confidence because I used to be insecure about my own teeth. That is why I am interested in how AI could be used in dentistry, especially with dental images, treatment planning, and catching problems that may be difficult to notice early. One day, I also want to own a dental practice that serves families who may not always be able to afford expensive care. If technology can help make treatment more efficient or help dentists catch problems before they become more serious and expensive, I want to understand how to use it. At the same time, I never want technology to take away the human part of healthcare. AI might be able to analyze an X-ray, but it cannot hold a nervous patient's hand or understand why someone is afraid to smile. That will always be our job. I am still at the beginning of learning about AI, and I am okay with saying that. I would rather be honest about where I am and show how serious I am about where I want to go. Receiving the AROC AI/ML Scholarship would help support my education and give me the opportunity to keep exploring the connection between technology, biology, and dentistry. I do not know exactly what AI will look like by the time I become a dentist, but I know I do not want to stand on the outside watching it change my field. I want to understand it, grow with it, and hopefully use it to make someone's care better. For me, that is where curiosity becomes purpose.

I remember looking at a picture of myself and wishing I could change one thing: my smile. I had heard jokes about my teeth so many times that eventually I started believing there was something wrong with them. I learned how to smile without showing my teeth and how to cover my mouth whenever I laughed. What hurt the most was that I loved to laugh, but I was always thinking about how I looked while doing it. I never imagined that the part of myself I wanted to hide would eventually reveal what I wanted to do with my life. My insecurity became my interest, my interest became my passion, and that passion became dentistry. My goal is to become a dentist specializing in orthodontics and cosmetic dentistry, but I do not want my career to stop at creating beautiful smiles. I want to create confidence. Eventually, I plan to open a dental practice that makes quality care accessible to families who may not have the financial resources for expensive treatment. Too often, the smile someone wants is separated from them by a price they cannot afford. I want to help close that gap. I want the child embarrassed by crooked teeth, the teenager afraid to smile in pictures, and the parent who has spent years putting everyone else before themselves to know that they deserve to smile confidently too. I cannot change every insecurity someone carries, but as a dentist, I may be able to change the one staring back at them in the mirror. Racial diversity in healthcare matters because being cared for and feeling understood should go together. Black healthcare professionals bring perspectives and experiences into spaces where our communities have historically been underrepresented. But representation also has an impact before a patient ever enters the office. I think about the young Black girl who loves science but has never considered dentistry because she has never seen a Black woman wearing the white coat. I want to become someone she can see herself in. I want my presence to quietly tell her, “You belong here too.” Representation will not make me a great dentist on its own; my education, discipline, compassion, and commitment to my patients will. But representation may be what inspires someone else to believe they can become one. Studying biology at Howard University on the pre-dental path is the beginning of the future I have imagined for myself. I know becoming a dentist will require years of education, sacrifice, and persistence, and I am prepared for that journey because I know exactly who I want to serve when I reach the other side. Receiving the MedLuxe Representation Matters Scholarship would help me continue that journey and would mean more to me than financial assistance. It would be an investment in the dentist I am working to become and the communities I plan to serve. Years ago, I was the girl hiding her teeth from the camera. One day, I hope to be the dentist behind someone else's reason to finally smile for it.

I peeked through the curtain at my dance recital with my heart pounding. My mom was easy to spot, smiling and clapping with her camera raised. But the one person I waited for never came. My father had promised he would be there. For a moment, my excitement faded into disappointment. Then I saw my great grandfather sitting in the front row, hands resting on his cane, eyes warm and steady. The ache in my four year old chest softened. Love does not always come from where you expect it, but when it shows up, it is enough. I took a deep breath and glided across the stage. That moment became my first lesson in resilience. Growing up without my father left a wound that did not close easily. I watched him show up for my brother but not for me. Each broken promise chipped away at my confidence, and what he dismissed as a "small hobby" became the one thing that gave me strength: dance. Even in those moments, my mother remained unwavering. She carried the weight of two parents, working long hours and always showing up for mine. When her pay was cut at work, I watched the stress that followed. Despite the uncertainty, she continued supporting my dreams, attending performances, and encouraging me to keep going. Through her example, I learned that love is measured not by words, but by consistency, sacrifice, and action. As I grew older, the void my father left behind was filled by my great grandfather. He became my safe place. He celebrated my accomplishments, attended my performances, and reminded me of my worth when I struggled to see it myself. Losing him was one of the hardest moments of my life. At his funeral, staring at the man who had been my peace, I felt numb. Yet even then, I carried the lessons he had taught me. Through his quiet strength, I learned what it truly means to be resilient. In the months that followed, grief collided with pressure. School, dance, leadership responsibilities, and expectations began to weigh heavily on me. What once felt like freedom on stage started to feel like a burden. During that time, I found a new outlet through writing. On paper, I poured out everything I could not say aloud. I turned pain into paragraphs and reflection into strength. Writing became another way for me to heal and grow. As I healed, I realized resilience is not just about overcoming obstacles for yourself. It is also about helping others overcome theirs. Through mentoring younger dancers and serving my community, I learned that my experiences could encourage others. I know what it feels like to be overlooked, which is why I strive to make people feel seen. Maya Angelou once said, "I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it." My father's absence changed me, but it did not define me. My mother's sacrifices gave me strength. My great grandfather's love, and eventually his loss, taught me grace. As I prepare to attend Howard University, I plan to pursue a career in dentistry so I can help restore confidence in others the way dance restored confidence in me. My goal is to provide quality dental care to underserved communities and use my education to uplift others. I have learned that pain does not have to be the end of a story. Sometimes, it becomes the very thing that gives life purpose.