One thing I have always enjoyed about Love Island is how the challenges reveal more than just attraction. The best challenges show communication, trust, and how well couples work together under pressure. If I could create a brand-new challenge, I would call it The Island Escape. In this challenge, each couple would be placed in separate sections of a large obstacle course. One partner would be able to see the entire course from a raised platform, while the other partner would be on the course itself wearing vision-blocking goggles. The partner on the platform would have to guide their teammate through different obstacles using only verbal instructions. The course would include puzzles, balance beams, hidden clues, and memory stations. At each checkpoint, contestants would collect pieces of a code. Once they reach the end, they must work together to arrange the code correctly and unlock a treasure chest. The first couple to open their chest wins the challenge. What makes this challenge unique is that it tests several important qualities at once. Contestants must communicate clearly, listen carefully, stay patient, and trust each other. A couple that argues or struggles to work together would likely fall behind, while couples with strong teamwork would have a major advantage. To make the challenge even more exciting, there would be surprise twists throughout the course. For example, partners could earn bonus clues by correctly answering questions about each other, such as favorite hobbies, dream vacations, or personal goals. These moments would allow viewers to see how well the couples truly know one another. At the end of the challenge, the winning couple would receive a special date and immunity from the next elimination. Beyond the prize, however, the challenge would reveal which relationships are built on genuine trust and communication. That is why I believe The Island Escape would be a fun, competitive, and meaningful addition to Love Island. It would create entertaining moments for viewers while helping contestants learn more about their partners.

I became a fan of Wicked because of the story behind Elphaba and how the musical challenges the way society labels people. In the new film, Elphaba is portrayed as being considered “evil” not because of her actions but because of her green skin, her ideals, and her refusal to conform to the corrupt institutions of Oz. She speaks out against the political system, defends the oppressed, and questions authority, but the powers in charge label her as dangerous to discredit her beliefs. That framing resonated with me because it mirrors experiences, I have faced as a first-generation Vietnamese American in the United States. In my high school of 600 students, only sixteen of us were Asian. Just being visibly different was enough for others to make assumptions about my character, my abilities, and my intentions. I remember the microaggressions and overt discrimination, like teachers questioning my participation or peers joking about my background. Those challenges became even more pronounced during the COVID-19 pandemic, when I was targeted for looking Chinese, even though I am not. The hatred was not about who I was as a person, it was about appearance and identity, just as Elphaba was judged and vilified for the color of her skin and her willingness to challenge authority. Watching her story unfold made me feel seen. It validated the idea that standing by your beliefs, even when others misunderstand you, is not only necessary but honorable. I connected deeply with the way Wicked uses music, staging, and story to communicate Elphaba’s inner world. When she sings Defying Gravity, it is an incredibly powerful melody for encapsulating her resilience as a character. The long notes, the shifts between soft and strong passages, and the way the lighting isolates her on the stage create a visual and auditory representation of fighting against the forces that try to hold you down. In scenes where she debates the authorities or defends marginalized creatures, I noticed the subtle gestures, the precise timing in her delivery, and the shifts in facial expression that make the audience feel her frustration and determination. Every element of the performance reinforces that conviction and courage matter more than approval from those in power. Wicked inspired me to approach my own life with the same persistence. I started using my experiences of being misjudged and marginalized as motivation to help others who face similar situations. I tutor younger students in my community, especially Asian students who feel isolated, and I organize workshops that teach them how to assert themselves and communicate confidently in situations where they might be misunderstood. I also apply the lessons of timing, pacing, and clear communication from the musical to my creative work in story writing, making sure that every choice I make enhances the story I am trying to tell and conveys my perspective effectively. I love Wicked because it demonstrates that being labeled “different” or “wrong” does not diminish your value or your ability to create impact. It shows how perseverance, courage, and integrity can turn personal disadvantage into strength. For me, it is both a story of empowerment and a model for how to uplift others who face discrimination. Elphaba’s journey reminds me that staying true to your beliefs, even under intense scrutiny, has the power not only to change your own path but also to inspire others to challenge injustice.

The 2016 CMA Awards performance of Better Man with Little Big Town’s band is the Taylor Swift performance I find the most moving. As the lights dimmed on the Bridgestone Arena stage in Nashville, the entire atmosphere was calibrated to focus on her. The stage was minimal, with a warm amber spotlight highlighting her while the band formed a semi-circle behind her. The audience filled the stands, but camera angles and lighting created the effect of an intimate venue, letting the emotion of the song take center stage. Stripping the production of elaborate visuals put attention squarely on the song, her vocal delivery, and the band’s acoustic arrangement. Musically, the arrangement was simplified from the album version. The rhythm relied heavily on a steady acoustic guitar and soft piano chords, with subtle percussion accentuating the beats without overpowering her voice. The tempo was measured, slightly slower than the studio version, which gave her space to emphasize key phrases. She leaned into the storytelling of the lyrics, allowing small pauses between lines to create tension and highlight the emotional weight of phrases like “I know I hurt you, I know I caused pain”. Her vocal control was precise; she held notes with softness that made the vulnerability in the song tangible. There were moments where she broke slightly into a higher register at the chorus, conveying urgency and heartbreak, which contrasted with the softer verses and drew attention to the song’s emotional peaks. Close-ups captured the slight furrow in her brow, the small shift in her posture, and the subtle movements of her fingers on the guitar strings. Wide shots showed the band’s synchronized movements and the minimal set design, creating a cohesive visual focus. The lighting changed subtly over the course of the performance, starting with amber and gradually moving to soft blue as the song progressed, reinforcing the narrative of reflection and regret in the lyrics. The choice of lighting created a visual arc that mirrored the emotional arc, highlighting her presence without ever being distracting. In the chorus, she slightly shifted her stance to face the audience more directly, opening her posture while keeping her strumming steady. Her right hand accentuated the rhythm with small, precise gestures that emphasized the beat changes in the chorus, while her left hand’s fingering highlighted chord transitions. At one point, she tilted her head back slightly as she sang “I know I caused pain”, and the camera captured a close-up of her eyes narrowing in concentration. The soft blue lighting behind her gradually intensified at the chorus, providing a visual cue to the song’s emotional rise. The audience responded with quiet attentiveness, holding applause until the final line. You could hear small gasps at particularly emotional phrases, but the restrained reaction amplified the intensity rather than breaking it. By the bridge, Taylor slightly slowed her strumming, letting the silence between the notes hang for a beat longer than expected, and this highlighted the lyric “I hope you find someone someday”. The minimal stage setup meant that every subtle movement, her adjusting her posture, tilting the guitar, shifting her gaze, making it easy to follow her emotional journey. Every note, gesture, and pause felt calculated to guide the listener through the narrative, showing her ability to make a stripped-down arrangement feel fully dynamic and emotionally charged. Overall, this performance stands out because of its deliberate simplicity, thoughtful musical arrangement, and the emotional weight Taylor brought to every note. It taught me the value of preparation, experimentation, and intentionality in a way that I continue to apply in my own creative pursuits.

In her early music Sabrina Carpenter stayed inside a very predictable acoustic pop structure. “Can’t Blame a Girl for Trying” and the rest of that EP were built around simple guitar chords, bright melodies, and lyrics written so every line could fit on a Disney Radio playlist. The bridges were short, the production was clean, and the vocals stayed in her mid range without any real texture or edge. Everything felt polished in a way that made sense for someone at the start of her career but it also made her sound interchangeable with every other young pop artist at that time. However, the moment I became an actual fan came a few years later when I heard her song Juno, which sounded nothing like that. She let the production get messy in a good way with stacked vocals, heavier percussion, and sudden pauses that feel almost percussive. She used more aggressive phrasing and pushed her voice higher and sharper than anything she had done in her early EP. The writing was punchier and she let the song move in quick jumps instead of the neat, predictable patterns she used before. What impressed me most was that long progression from early work that sometimes landed flat to later music that revealed a willingness to experiment. There were projects in her early career that did not take off the way she probably hoped. Some of her earlier singles after her show ended did not gain much attention and a few of her acting roles did not stand out. Instead of letting those moments define her, she kept testing different styles. She tried softer pop, more upbeat material, emotional ballads, and then more experimental tracks. She used the visibility she gained from television, but she did not rely on it. She continued to push her sound and performances until she reached a level that matched her ambition. Watching her do that had a direct impact on me. I was beginning to explore art and video editing as hobbies at the time. I would make short edits, test new formats, and play with different themes, but I often felt discouraged when something did not come out the way I imagined. Seeing someone I followed since childhood take early misses and turn them into long term growth made a difference. She treated each attempt as a step forward. It showed me that experimenting is not a sign of confusion but a requirement for growth. Her career made it clear that the only way someone builds a unique style is through risk and patience. Because of that, I learned not to expect immediate success in my own creative work. When an edit did not work, I tried again. When a concept felt weak, I changed it instead of dropping it. Her progression from early safe pop songs to more confident and experimental work gave me permission to explore my own ideas without fear of looking inexperienced. It shaped how I see improvement in general. It is not a straight line and it should not be. Overall, my connection to Sabrina Carpenter comes from watching her adapt and experiment across both television and music. I witnessed her transition from a young actor learning the basics to an artist who kept testing new approaches until her work reflected who she wanted to be. That steady commitment to development influenced my own approach to art and video editing. Her career taught me that progress comes from taking risks, learning from each attempt, and continuing to move forward until the work begins to feel true.

I entered oncology nursing in a way that I did not expect. During my clinical rotations at the University of Texas Medical Branch I spent several months working inside state prison units. I was assigned to help manage chronic care visits for patients with complex medical histories. Many of the men I cared for had cancers that were either diagnosed late or had progressed because they avoided reporting symptoms. The combination of limited resources and delayed access to care meant I often met patients at advanced stages of their disease. Those encounters changed the direction of my career. I saw how cancer affected every part of a person’s life and how much they relied on nurses to interpret information, coordinate care, and prepare them for difficult decisions. By the end of that rotation I knew I wanted to work in oncology full time. I now work as an oncology nurse at Memorial Medical Center on the hematology and oncology floor. My work includes administering chemotherapy, monitoring for tumor lysis, managing transfusions, coordinating with radiation oncology, and preparing patients for procedures such as bone marrow biopsies. I spend a significant portion of each shift teaching patients how to manage nausea, mucositis, severe fatigue, and the day to day challenges of eating and sleeping during treatment. One patient from my rotations still shapes the way I practice. He was a middle aged man with metastatic colon cancer who had ignored rectal bleeding for almost a year because leaving his work assignment would have reduced his income. By the time he reported symptoms, his cancer had spread to his liver. During one visit he told me he never understood the language used during his provider appointments and asked if I could explain his CT results in a way he could actually use. I took a sheet of printer paper and drew a simple outline of the colon, then marked the primary tumor and the areas where it had spread. He folded the paper and carried it in his pocket. That encounter made it clear that patients do not need long technical explanations. They need straightforward information that helps them understand what is happening right now and what actions they should take next. Since then I rely on quick visual aids, clear steps, and teach back checks to make sure patients leave with a plan they can follow outside the hospital. The emotional side of oncology is constant. Many of our patients fear losing independence more than they fear the disease itself. I try to address that by giving them specific ways they can stay involved in their own care. This includes helping them track symptoms that require immediate attention and showing them how to organize medications with a simple notebook method. Families often want to help but do not know how. As a result, I give them tasks such as keeping a hydration log or helping the patient follow a structured rest schedule to reduce fatigue crashes. Ultimately, the reward is seeing patients regain a sense of control. It is hearing them say that the plan finally makes sense or that they feel less afraid because someone took time to walk them through the next step. Loan repayment support would give me the financial room to continue oncology without needing extra shifts that drain my energy. It would allow me to spend more time with my family as I already go beyond my scheduled hours to pay off my debt. I want to stay in this field for my entire career and financial stability would allow me to focus fully on patient care.

My introduction to the pain of cancer started in my junior year of high school when my Physics 2 teacher was diagnosed with HER2-positive breast cancer. We were close enough that I visited her outside of school, and I sat with her during one of her treatments as she received chemotherapy. I watched her deal with nausea, neuropathy in her hands, hair loss, and the constant fatigue that followed every session. Seeing someone I respected go through that and still worry about getting lesson plans ready for her students shaped the way I viewed cancer. It made me want to research breast cancer and understand how treatment could be improved so that patients do not have to suffer to the point where they question whether they can continue. Due to this experience, I joined the Cancer Prevention and Control Research Program at the Livestrong Cancer Institute in Austin. My role in the project focused on analyzing patient-reported side-effect data to identify patterns associated with early metastatic progression. Presenting those findings to the team helped shape the plan for testing new screening markers. Most importantly, I learned that progress in cancer research requires patience and realistic thinking. From the available literature, a complete cure may still be years or even decades away, but there are many areas within breast cancer treatment where we can reduce suffering right now. My current goal in research, alongside a cure, is to improve the comfort and experience of patients receiving treatment. I learned very quickly that chemotherapy and radiation are not only physically demanding, but also mentally exhausting. Some patients do not respond well to certain therapies. Others struggle with long trips to the clinic, long treatment times, nausea, hair loss, mouth wounds, and severe fatigue. I saw a young patient who did not want more treatment because she did not believe she could handle another year of the same pain. That moment stuck with me. It made me realize that curing cancer is only one goal. Improving the journey through treatment is another goal that deserves equal urgency. My interest is in the development of therapies that are more targeted and less destructive to healthy cells. For example, I want to study improvements in immunotherapy that teach the body to fight cancer with fewer side effects. During my research experience, I have also seen how supportive care such as nutritional support, physical therapy, and mental health services can help patients stick with treatment. In the long term, I want to contribute to the creation of accessible and affordable cancer treatments. A new cure is only valuable if patients can actually receive it. Through Partners in Health and similar advocacy efforts, I have learned how policy and pricing can determine who gets treatment and who does not. If we invest millions into research and create life-saving therapies, but the cost blocks families from access, then we have failed the communities that need help the most. Ultimately, I chose to pursue research toward a breast cancer cure because of the people it affects. The women I have met taught me that research is not just data; it is a direct way to give someone more time with their family. I want to build a career focused on advancing treatment strategies that improve both outcomes and quality of life. Finding a cure is important, but helping patients feel stronger and more hopeful through treatment is something we can improve right now. My career goal is to advance both outcomes and quality of life so patients never have to choose between more time and less suffering.

The first time I met with my psychiatrist, Dr. Barnes, I sat stiff on the edge of the couch, convinced I was beyond saving. Carrying the weight of maternal abuse and isolation after my parents' divorce, I found in his patience and care the spark that ignited my early interest in medicine. Overwhelmed by our fractured family, my mother directed her anger toward me, warning that I would "grow up to abuse 'my' wife and apologize every day for it." Her words echoed in my mind, yet I refused to let them define my future. Even as she isolated me from friends and family, I sought healing, first through my psychiatrist and later through my pursuit of medicine. Dr. Barnes played a pivotal role in saving my life by convincing me it was not my fault. His time, patience, and reassurance gave me a deep appreciation for the power of compassionate care to transform a person's well-being. Although the experience initially discouraged me from starting a family, my goal to become a physician materialized. The healing process eventually reignited my love for my family and for the family I hope to build. It also transformed how I see the world, teaching me that healing comes not from isolation but through relationships that make us feel safe, valued, and understood. Motivated by these experiences, I explored volunteer opportunities that would allow me to establish personal connections with patients and develop my ability to care for each facet of a person's being. This pursuit led me to hospice care, where I spent hours sharing quiet, personal conversations with individuals nearing the end of their lives. I came to understand that many patients do not share their trauma until they feel trust and safety. Just as Dr. Barnes treated me, I aimed to offer genuine human connection in an environment often defined by silence, routine procedures, and clinical formality. In one case, I worked with "Mrs. Young," an 80-year-old woman with impaired speech due to Parkinson's disease. Using a combination of finger taps and softly mumbled words, she expressed her fear of dying and sadness as she looked at photos of herself and her late husband. Noticing her vulnerability, I gently sat at eye level, met her gaze, and held her hand while listening without interruption. With a quiet smile and calm presence, I saw her shoulders relax, and her fear ease as we shared those brief but meaningful conversations. Though I was not required to provide emotional support, I knew that without it, Mrs. Young would have spent her final weeks in isolation and sorrow. As her condition worsened, I longed to be part of the team, easing her suffering through care, not just presence. These bonds extended beyond Mrs. Young. I experienced similar connections with other patients, such as "Welina," who was living with congestive heart failure. During her final weeks, she expressed grief over the passing of her husband and longing for children. The regret of not having had children weighed heavily on her. During our visits, I drew upon my mental health experiences to become a source of support. I gently guided her through cherished memories of her late husband, including joyful moments of her first trip to the zoo, where she gleefully rode an elephant. Often, she expressed gratitude for helping her relive those memories, and I felt a deep sense of fulfillment knowing I could make the final stage of her life more peaceful. After Welina’s passing, I felt compelled to organize the final memorial event for hospice. Standing beside the families who mourned their loved ones, I began to understand the meaning of family in a way I never had before. Family was no longer only a source of pain and fear from my childhood. It became a symbol of connection, support, and belonging. That realization helped me reconnect with my own mother in a way I had never expected. Although our relationship has been painful, I hope that when she reaches the end of her life she will be surrounded by people who love and appreciate her. Through hospice, I learned that no one should face their final moments alone, not even those who struggled to love well during their lifetime. Working with this patient population, I often reflected on the adversity I endured as a child. Having once needed that support myself, I am driven to offer others the same care and guidance that helped me reclaim my sense of self. It also changed how I understand the world. I used to think people stayed silent about their struggles because they did not care. Hospice showed me that most people stay silent because they have never had anyone make them feel safe enough to speak. It taught me that loneliness is not created by being alone, but by feeling unseen. Simple acts such as sitting at eye level, listening without interruption, or remembering someone’s stories can protect a person more than anything else. My goals now are grounded in that understanding. I want to build a life where I show up for people with the same care that helped me rebuild myself, and where family means love rather than fear. I want to offer others the kind of presence that makes them feel less alone, whether through friendship, caregiving, or community. My journey with mental health did not only help me survive the past. It shaped the future I am working toward, one defined by the belief that no one deserves to go through their hardest moments unseen.

My introduction to operations management began informally through my experience helping build a pediatric epilepsy clinic in the border city of El Paso, Texas. One of our earliest obstacles was increasing the number of patients we could see in a single day while ensuring the clinic remained financially viable. Streamlining preparation time became critical to expanding our clinical capacity. Even after improving efficiency, we soon reached maximum volume and had to coordinate expansion into additional rooms within the building complex we rented. To further improve workflow, we transitioned from the Athena electronic health record system to the Charm system to accelerate referrals and clinical documentation. Through these experiences, I developed an understanding of bottlenecks, capacity planning, process improvement, and quality control in healthcare operations long before I had the academic language to describe it. One major project that pushed me toward the field of operations management involved addressing challenges with electroencephalogram (EEG) exams, which were essential for diagnosing patients but required up to two hours to complete despite the actual machine running for only thirty minutes. To combat this issue, I began developing a device prototype aimed at reducing preparation time from more than an hour to under thirty minutes. This project became my entry point into operations management as I analyzed workflow inefficiencies, identified constraints, and developed solutions to optimize throughput without compromising patient care. I later expanded this experience through the entrepreneurship program at the McCombs School of Business in Austin, Texas, where I learned the logistics and supply chain strategy required to bring a medical device from concept to production. This included sourcing materials, coordinating with offshore manufacturers in China, and establishing connections with medical-grade plastic suppliers such as Nypro Healthcare. Through this process, I gained hands-on knowledge in procurement, cost management, production cycles, and value-driven operational decision making. These experiences became the foundation of my interest in operations management. For these reasons, I am particularly interested in the MD/PhD programs with an operations management focus at the University of California San Francisco, Johns Hopkins, The Pennsylvania State University, Yale, Texas A&M University, and the University of Michigan. These schools provide the resources necessary to learn both the manufacturing and logistical aspects of operational management, including access to FDA regulatory guidance that is critical for understanding early decisions in product development and avoiding unnecessary costs. For example, in my current EEG device project, I had to iterate the prototype using materials compatible with prior FDA approvals. Understanding these considerations is a key part of operational management in healthcare, and it is highly beneficial that these institutions offer structured support and access to regulatory expertise. In addition, they have a strong focus on underserved populations, which I believe is crucial for understanding how to manage a clinic or private practice in resource-limited settings and provide care for lower-income patients. As I approach medical school, I understand that pursuing an MD/PhD will require a six- to eight-year in-person program on campus to complete both degrees. I also recognize that excelling in this path requires mastery of the full PhD process: developing a research proposal, conducting rigorous studies, analyzing data, iterating solutions, and publishing findings. Beyond the PhD, a career in medicine while applying operations management skills demands using research insights to address large-scale issues, from improving hospital efficiency and implementing cost-saving measures without compromising quality, to designing private practices and healthcare ventures that fill critical gaps in care. These experiences will enhance my ability to identify unmet needs in clinical settings and act upon them by developing devices, programs, or business models that bring meaningful innovations directly to patients.