I have never thought of myself as a selfless person. I have volunteered at a food bank, helped at Habitat for Humanity ReStore, and spent time at the LEGO Store, but the truth is that those places helped me as much as I helped them. After my 2023 accident left me in a six-month coma with a severe traumatic brain injury, volunteering gave me opportunities to be independent, useful, and part of my community while I was still recovering. One experience during rehabilitation changed the way I think about helping others. My roommate was named Sean. His parents and therapists were not sure how much he could understand or whether he even knew when someone was in the room. He rarely responded to anything. He was supposed to be discharged to another facility, but his parents wanted to take him home and were struggling to figure out how they could care for him. When I moved into his room, the nurses would close the curtain between us. My family was usually there, and we were not exactly a quiet bunch. I had a tablet and spent hours watching movies, cartoons, and The Flash. My mom told me something simple: “Talk to him like he can hear you, because he can.” So I did. I talked to Sean. I told him what I was watching. I talked through what was happening in our room. Eventually, I noticed his eyes moving toward me when I came into the room. Over the weeks we shared a room, he began responding more and more to the activity around him. His parents began to believe there was hope. They eventually took him home. Sean started playing guitar and was able to get out of bed for periods of time. He passed away about six months later. His family invited me to his memorial service because they believed that the time I spent talking to him and simply treating him like he was still there made a difference during the last part of his life. I will never know exactly how much Sean understood or what caused his progress, but I know what I gave him: I gave him my time. I treated him like a person when it was easy to assume there was no one listening. That experience has stayed with me. It is why I continue to volunteer at the food bank and Habitat for Humanity ReStore. These places have helped me rebuild my independence, but they have also taught me that helping people does not always mean fixing their problems. Sometimes it means giving someone your time, your attention, your encouragement, or simply the dignity of being seen. My recovery has taught me that we rarely rebuild our lives alone. People showed up for me when I could not do things for myself. I want to keep showing up for others. To me, that is what community means—and it is the kind of legacy I hope to build.

Building Beyond the Written-Off When I woke from a six-month coma after my 2023 accident, I did not remember much of what had happened to me. I had a severe traumatic brain injury, multiple surgeries, and more metal in my body than I could understand. As I was waking up, I had night terrors that I was a cyborg. Looking back, that seems almost strange, but at the time, I was trying to understand a body and a world that no longer felt familiar. I had to relearn how to walk, speak, think, and do things I had never considered difficult. For a long time, I could not put on my own shoes or dress myself. One of the hardest parts of rehabilitation was learning to stand. Because I could not support my own weight, therapists used a standing system that lifted me with straps around my legs, back, and feet and held me against a set of bars. I understand why the equipment was necessary, but being suspended in it made me feel more like a puppet than a person. That experience stayed with me. Rehabilitation equipment helped me regain abilities I had lost, but it also showed me how much room there is to make these tools more comfortable, adaptable, and empowering. I began thinking about what I would design differently if I had the opportunity. That is what I want to build. I hope to create Next Steps Mobility, an engineering company focused on affordable, adaptive equipment for people recovering from traumatic brain injuries, spinal injuries, and other physical impairments. I am especially interested in developing modular gait-assist devices that can adapt as a person's abilities improve, rather than forcing patients to work around equipment designed for a single stage of recovery. I also want to help make these tools available to people who cannot afford them. My long-term goal is to work with rehabilitation centers and community organizations so that a person's financial situation or insurance coverage does not determine whether they have access to equipment that could help them move forward. Returning to Drexel University to finish my mechanical engineering degree is the first step in building that future. Three years after my accident, I still struggle with balance, writing, and sometimes processing information. My parents were not sure I would ever walk again when I left rehabilitation. Now I am returning to Drexel as a senior. I am still rebuilding myself, but I am also building something bigger. I want to use what I have learned as a patient to become the engineer who designs better tools for the next person trying to stand, walk, and reclaim their independence. I know what it means to be given a second chance. Now I want to help build better next steps for others.

Where Will I Be in Ten Years? Building the Company I Wished Existed Ten years from now, I will be running my own mechanical engineering firm—working title Next Steps Mobility—designing and manufacturing adaptive mobility technology for individuals recovering from traumatic brain injury (TBI), spinal trauma, and mobility impairments. In February 2023, a motorcycle accident put me in a six-month coma and left me with a severe TBI, forcing me to systematically rebuild my life and motor functions from scratch. Through months of physical therapy, I realized that most assistive equipment on the market is clinical, static, and designed primarily for insurance compliance rather than active human rehabilitation or dignity. As an engineering student who has personally experienced the grueling reality of relearning to walk, speak, and navigate the physical world, I possess a rare combination of technical training, physical intuition, and lived empathy. I am uniquely positioned to build the human-centered mobility solutions this industry desperately lacks.   Actionable 10-Year Plan Years 1–2: Academic Foundation & Prototyping (Drexel University) -Complete my BS/MS in Mechanical Engineering at Drexel University, specializing in biomechanics, materials science, and human-centered design. -Design and test an initial low-cost, adjustable gait-rehabilitation prototype in Drexel’s maker spaces, directly addressing the physical limitations I encountered during my own recovery. -Translate ongoing volunteer work—including hosting interactive LEGO events for individuals with special needs and supporting Habitat for Humanity ReStore—into active, hands-on user research to better understand ergonomic diversity, accessibility barriers, and user needs. Years 3–5: Industry Track Record & IP Strategy -Work at an established medical device engineering firm to master quality management systems (ISO 13485), FDA regulatory pathways, and manufacturing execution. -File a provisional patent on the gait-assist mechanism developed during my degree program. -Establish clinical testing partnerships with physical therapy clinics and regional rehabilitation hospitals. Years 6–10: Founding & Scaling Next Steps Mobility -Launch Next Steps Mobility as a commercial mechanical engineering firm dedicated to affordable adaptive technology. -Commercialize our flagship product: a modular gait-assist device specifically priced and built for patients who lack comprehensive insurance coverage or financial resources. -Partner with rehab facilities to create subsidized unit programs, ensuring low-income patients receive access to high-grade rehabilitation equipment. -Recruit engineers with lived experience with physical disability, creating an engineering culture rooted in authentic problem-solving. Relearning how to walk and process information taught me how to break a complex, overwhelming system down to its absolute fundamentals and rebuild it until it works. Serving my community through local food banks and adaptive community programs reminded me that healing isn't just physical; it comes from restoring a person's purpose, dignity, and independence. Ten years from now, I won't just hold an engineering degree; I will run a firm that exists because I needed it to, engineering the very tools that give others their lives back.

Growing up, leadership and community service weren’t abstract concepts to me. They were just part of weekly life. Tagging along with my parents to local projects taught me early on that making a difference rarely requires a title or a grand gesture. More often, it’s about showing up consistently, noticing where someone is struggling, and getting to work. That principle took on a whole new meaning three years ago when a severe accident left me with a traumatic brain injury (TBI). Coming out of a coma and having to rebuild my life from scratch. Relearning how to walk, speak, and process basic information, was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. But as soon as I was physically capable, returning to community service at our local food bank, Habitat for Humanity ReStore, and running LEGO events for individuals with special needs was what truly restored my sense of purpose. Healing taught me firsthand how profound an impact accessible support systems, patient communication, and thoughtful design can have on a person's independence and dignity. My vision for the future sits right at the intersection of mechanical engineering and community impact. Mechanical engineering is all about understanding how complex systems change, adapt, and handle stress under dynamic conditions. Having had to rebuild my own internal systems step by step, I bring a unique physical intuition and deep empathy to engineering design. I want to use my degree to develop practical, accessible mobility technologies, adaptive equipment, and functional infrastructure designed specifically for individuals recovering from trauma or living with disabilities. The people who inspire me most aren't far-off figures in textbooks; they are my parents, who showed me the power of quiet service, and the individuals with special needs and fellow patients I’ve worked alongside during my recovery and volunteering. They face daily, real-world obstacles with resilience and patience. Seeing how small improvements in their environment or tools can completely transform their day fuels my determination to build solutions that matter. Ultimately, I want to create a future where technical design is guided by lived experience and human compassion. Finishing my degree isn't just a personal milestone, it’s the vehicle that will allow me to turn my resilience into tools that empower others. I plan to continue serving my community both on the ground through direct volunteering and from the design bench, ensuring that the engineering solutions of tomorrow are built to uplift everyone, especially those who need them most.

Growing up, community service wasn't something I did to check a box for a resume; it was just part of life. I learned early on that building a strong neighborhood isn't about big speeches or grand gestures; it's about showing up consistently and helping out where people need it most. Before my accident in 2023, most of my volunteering focused on working with younger kids. As a martial arts instructor, I taught kids physical skills, but more importantly, I helped them build confidence and self-discipline. I still remember the first time a shy seven-year-old finally worked up the nerve to spar in front of the class, that kind of quiet growth is what kept me coming back. During the summers, I helped run local soccer clinics to give kids a fun, safe place to stay active and learn how to work as a team, even when that meant untangling arguments over who got to be goalie. One of my favorite traditions was helping my church run the December "Gift Bus." We drove out into underprivileged neighborhoods so kids could pick out their own holiday gifts instead of just receiving something wrapped and handed to them. Seeing their faces light up when they got to choose taught me how much personal connection matters when you're supporting a community. It's not just about giving, it's about giving people a say. In February 2023, my perspective on service shifted completely. A severe car accident left me in a six-month coma with a traumatic brain injury, and I had to rebuild my entire life step by step. Relearning how to walk, how to talk, how to process basic information all over again. Rebuilding my own life from nearly nothing made me realize just how critical accessible support systems and patient, hands-on help really are. I wasn't just grateful for the people who helped me; I understood, for the first time, exactly what that help cost them and what it meant. As soon as I was physically capable, getting back to serving others became a core part of my recovery. I went back to volunteering at our local food bank, helped out at the Habitat for Humanity ReStore, and assisted with interactive LEGO events for individuals with special needs. Working with participants at the LEGO events taught me patience and adaptiveness in a way nothing else had. Some kids needed me to build alongside them step by step, others just needed space to figure it out on their own. Real community support means noticing the difference and meeting people exactly where they are, not where you assume they should be. Now, as I prepare to finish my degree in Mechanical Engineering at Drexel, my goal is to connect that personal experience with my technical training. I want to design practical, accessible mobility technologies and adaptive tools for people recovering from trauma or living with physical challenges — the kind of tools I wished existed during my own recovery. Whether it's mentoring a young athlete, driving a bus full of holiday gifts, or engineering something that gives someone back their independence, my focus stays the same: using what I know to build stronger, more supportive communities where everyone has the chance to thrive.

Before February 2023, I never thought about calculus as anything more than a class I needed to survive. It was formulas, homework sets, and late nights trying to remember whether I was supposed to take the derivative or the integral. Then I had a severe TBI, and everything about how I think, process, and relate to math changed. Now that I'm getting ready to go back and finish my ME degree, calculus means something completely different to me. It's not just a requirement anymore. It's the thing that's going to let me get back to doing what I actually want to do with my life. Mechanical engineering doesn't deal with things that sit still. Machines move, structures flex under load, engines heat up and cool down, cars vibrate at highway speed. None of that is static, and that's exactly why calculus matters so much in this field. Differential equations let engineers model how something changes before it's ever built. When I think about the kind of work I want to do, figuring out how stress moves through an engine part, or how a wing handles vibration in flight, none of that happens without calculus. It's the difference between guessing if something will hold up and actually knowing. Integrals matter just as much, maybe more, because so much of engineering is about things accumulating over time. A plane burns fuel continuously, and that changes its weight and performance the whole flight. Heat moves through metal. Fluid moves through pipes. You can't just eyeball that stuff; you have to integrate it. That's how engineers make sure a design isn't just functional, but safe and efficient too. It’s not just mechanical engineering either. Every branch of STEM relies on calculus to model dynamic systems, but for me, seeing how those math models translate into physical, moving machinery is what made it click. Since my injury, I've had to relearn how to process information, and honestly, that's given me a different kind of respect for what calculus actually teaches. It's not just plugging numbers into formulas. It's breaking a huge, overwhelming problem into pieces you can actually work through one at a time. In calculus, you break a continuous curve into infinitesimal pieces to understand the whole. That’s literally how I had to rebuild my daily routine post-injury, one step and one piece of data at a time. Relearning how to think clearly after a brain injury and relearning calculus aren't as different as you'd expect; both are about rebuilding a process step by step until it works again. Calculus has a reputation for being brutal, and I'm not going to pretend it isn't hard. But for anyone going into STEM, especially mechanical engineering, it's not just another box to check. It's the foundation everything else gets built on. For me, getting back to that foundation isn't just about finishing a degree; it's about getting back to who I was before, and figuring out who I'm going to be because of everything I've been through since.

I don't think there's one single thing that makes me deserve this scholarship more than anyone else competing for it. What I can offer is proof, real, lived proof, that I know how to rebuild from nothing and keep going. A little over 3 years ago, I was in a coma. When I came out of it, I had to relearn almost everything most people take for granted. I couldn't add or subtract simple numbers. I had to relearn how to eat, walk, talk, and everything. I had to learn how to trust my own body again. In a lot of ways, it felt like being born a second time. Everything was new. Everything had to be relearned from scratch, including things I'd known how to do since I was a small child. That kind of recovery teaches you things you can't learn any other way. It teaches you patience, because progress is slow and some days there isn't any at all. It teaches you humility, because you go from being fully independent to needing help with things you never thought twice about before. And it teaches you real discipline, because relearning to add numbers or walk across a room takes the same kind of daily, unglamorous effort as anything else worth doing. I didn't come into that recovery with nothing to draw on, though. Before the accident, I spent ten years training in mixed martial arts, worked at least part-time since I was 14, played high school soccer, and kept a 4.0 GPA the whole way through. That background built a mindset in me long before the injury. A mindset built on discipline, showing up, and refusing to quit when things get hard. When I had to relearn how to function after the coma, that same mindset is what carried me through it. I just had to apply it to smaller, more basic goals: today, relearn how to swallow. Tomorrow, relearn how to walk to the bathroom and back. As soon as I was physically able, I went back to volunteering. I started at our local food bank, stocking shelves and packing food for families facing food insecurity, and it gave me back a sense of purpose I wasn't sure I'd ever feel again. From there, I kept building, helping run LEGO events for individuals with special needs, volunteering at Habitat for Humanity ReStore, and even just distracting little kids in the store for a few minutes so their moms can shop in peace. None of it is flashy. But relearning how to give back, the same way I relearned how to add and subtract, meant everything to me. What sets me apart isn't one accomplishment. It's that I've had to rebuild myself completely, from the ground up, and I chose to rebuild into someone who still shows up for other people. That's the kind of drive and impact I'd bring to this scholarship, and to my future career in engineering.

Volunteering has just always been part of my life. I never organized an event myself, but I grew up tagging along with my parents to whatever community service project they were doing that week. Watching them, I picked up on something important: leadership doesn't always mean being the one in charge. A lot of the time it just means showing up, doing the work, and helping wherever you're needed. That lesson hit different after I went through a severe accident that left me with a traumatic brain injury. Recovery was slow and honestly pretty frustrating. There were days I wasn't sure I'd get back to feeling like myself again. So when I was finally strong enough to walk and carry things safely, one of the first places I wanted to go back to was our local food bank. Stocking shelves, sorting donated food, packing up supplies for families dealing with food insecurity. It turned into a lot more than just volunteer hours. It was the first thing that made me feel like me again. I was still healing, but every shift reminded me I could still be useful, still make a difference. And knowing that every box I packed was going to help someone else in my community who was struggling too, mattered a lot. As I got my confidence back, I started picking up more. I began helping out at a local retail store that runs LEGO-building events for people with special needs. Being around those participants taught me patience and empathy in a way nothing else had, and it pushed me to get better at communicating and connecting with people. I also volunteer at the Habitat for Humanity ReStore, supporting their mission of making housing more affordable in our area. One of my favorite parts, though, is something small that doesn't really show up on a resume. When moms come in shopping with their kids, I'll often step in and distract the kids for a few minutes, talking to them, keeping them entertained, just so mom can actually get through her shopping without having to chase a toddler down every aisle. It's such a little thing, but I can see how much it means to them. Sometimes leadership through service isn't some big gesture. It's just noticing what someone needs in that moment and doing it. Honestly, I sometimes wonder who's gotten more out of all this, the people I've helped, or me. Volunteering gave me purpose and motivation during one of the hardest stretches of my life. It taught me that healing isn't only physical. Part of it comes from feeling connected to something bigger than yourself. To me, leadership through service isn't about titles. It's about helping even when nobody's watching, showing up consistently, and understanding that small acts of kindness add up to something real. As I head back to college, I'm taking these lessons with me, and I plan to keep finding ways to give back while I work toward using my engineering degree to build practical solutions for communities down the road.

I've always thought like an engineer, even before I had the words for it. As a kid, I was the one building elaborate holiday light displays and designing a zipline in my backyard, working out load limits with a tape measure and pure stubbornness. Long before college, I understood that building something real takes vision, planning, and the willingness to fail a few times before it works. I just never expected that mindset to become the thing that saved my life. Before February 10th, 2023, I was living the life I'd planned: working full-time in an engineering job while carrying a full course load, holding a 3.65 GPA. I liked being the guy who could handle anything if he planned it out well enough. Then a severe car accident left me with a traumatic brain injury and a six-month coma. When I woke up, I couldn't walk, talk, or use either arm; I actually lost function in my arms twice, since it returned and then disappeared again during recovery. Doctors weren't confident the second loss was coming back. Neither was I, some days. That's where the resilience part of this essay stops being an abstract quality and becomes something I had to build by hand. I couldn't out-plan a brain injury the way I'd planned a zipline. So I did the only thing I knew how to do: broke the impossible goal into smaller technical problems and solved them one at a time. Relearning to walk was a problem. Relearning to talk was a problem. Regaining control of my hands, finger by finger, was a problem. I treated each one like a build: test, fail, adjust, test again. I logged every small win the way I'd log data on any engineering project. Some days the "win" was moving one finger a fraction of an inch. I counted it anyway. That process didn't just get me through rehab. It's the reason my commitment to a STEM career is no longer theoretical. I don't want to just study engineering anymore; I've lived it, under the highest stakes I'll probably ever face. My passion for design used to come from curiosity: how things work, how to make them better. Now it comes from something more personal. I've spent three years on the other side of the design table, as the person whose independence depended entirely on whether a tool, a space, or a piece of technology was actually built with someone like me in mind. That experience reshaped what I want out of this career. I want to design solutions that hand people their independence back the kind of engineering that meets someone exactly where I was and gives them a way forward. I'm returning to Drexel to finish the Mechanical Engineering degree I started in 2019, not as unfinished business, but as a promise I made myself in a hospital bed. I've already proven, to myself if no one else, that there's no obstacle you can't out-work if you're willing to break it down and think like an engineer about it. I'm just getting started proving it to everyone else.

I've always thought like an engineer, even before I had the vocabulary for it. As a kid, I was the one building holiday light displays or a zipline in my backyard, figuring out load limits with a tape measure and pure stubbornness. Long before I set foot in a lecture hall, I understood that building something real takes vision, planning, and the willingness to fail a few times before it works. I just never expected that lesson to become the thing that saved my life. On February 10th, 2023, I was in a severe car accident that left me with a traumatic brain injury and in a coma for six months. When I woke up, I couldn't walk, talk, or use either arm, twice, actually, since I lost function a second time during recovery. Doctors weren't sure the second loss would come back. For a time, neither was I. Before the accident, I was working full-time in an engineering job while carrying a full course load and a 3.65 GPA. I was used to being the guy who could handle anything if he just planned it out well enough. Recovery didn't care about my plan. It broke it completely, and I had to build a new one from a hospital bed. So I did what I know how to do. I stopped thinking of relearning to walk, talk, and use my hands as a tragedy and started treating it like a design problem: break it into smaller pieces, test, adjust, repeat. Some days the only "win" was moving one finger. I logged it anyway, the way I'd log data on any project. That mindset didn't just get me through rehab. It's the reason I'm still here to write this essay. I'm not the same person who left for that drive in February 2023, and I don't want to be. I'm returning to Drexel to finish the Mechanical Engineering degree I started in 2019, but I'm not picking up where I left off; I'm coming back sharper. Three years of relearning how my own body and brain work have taught me more about persistence, adaptability, and problem-solving than any classroom could. I know what it's like to hit a wall you genuinely don't know how to get past, and to keep working the problem anyway. That's also where I want to take my career. Before the accident, my co-ops at Advance Testing and Estée Lauder showed me how engineering principles operate at scale inside real companies. My time volunteering at a food bank and at Habitat for Humanity reminded me that engineering, at its core, is about serving people. Now I understand that on a level I couldn't have before. I've lived on the other side of the design table, as the person whose independence depends on whether a product, a tool, or a space was actually built with someone like me in mind. I want to spend my career fixing that gap, turning engineering concepts into solutions that restore people's independence. I'm not asking for a scholarship because I fell behind. I'm asking because I fought my way back, and I intend to finish what I started. I've already proven to myself, if no one else, that there's no obstacle you can't out plan, out work, and out last if you're willing to think like an engineer about it.