When people think about health, they often think about organs like the heart or lungs. But skin, the largest organ of the body, is just as important. It protects us, reflects our internal health, and affects our confidence and identity. Yet in many communities, especially among people of color, skin health is ignored or misunderstood. I want to change that. This scholarship would reduce the financial pressure of college, allowing me to focus more deeply on my studies and on building a career centered on holistic skin health and healing. My interest in dermatology began during a conversation with my mother. She told me that growing up, she struggled with her skin but never knew how to take care of it. She was never offered guidance, and the few times she sought help, she was dismissed or misunderstood by doctors. She never saw dermatologists who looked like her or who specialized in Black skin. That moment changed the way I saw medicine and inspired me to learn more. What I found was alarming. Skin conditions in people of color are often underrepresented in medical education. Misdiagnoses are common. Many people go untreated, not because they do not care, but because they lack access or trust in the healthcare system. I realized that being a dermatologist could mean much more than treating acne or eczema. It could mean giving people the knowledge and care they have always deserved. For me, holistic health means treating the full person. It means understanding how emotional well-being, lifestyle, environment, and access all influence someone’s skin. I believe healing should not only address symptoms but also provide education, prevention, and dignity. That belief led me to start a nonprofit dedicated to increasing access to skincare education and dermatological resources in underserved communities. I began organizing hygiene drives at local churches and schools. We handed out skin-safe products and shared simple information about how to care for different skin types. I also partnered with dermatologists who could speak directly to people who rarely have access to that kind of professional care. These experiences have shown me how powerful community-centered health education can be. Through the Saturday Scholars Program at Washington University in St. Louis School of Medicine, I deepened my knowledge of health equity and connected with mentors like Dr. Will Ross, who helped guide my outreach. This support has made me more confident in my path and more determined to make lasting change. This scholarship would make a major difference. I am balancing school, caregiving responsibilities, and nonprofit work. Financial support would give me more time and energy to focus on my education and expand the work I have already started. It would also be a reminder that people believe in students like me who are trying to make a difference from the ground up. In the future, I want to become a dermatologist who specializes in holistic, culturally competent care. I hope to open a clinic that not only treats patients but also educates them. I want people to leave feeling respected and informed, especially those who have never felt heard in medical spaces before. I also hope to mentor young students of color who want to go into medicine but do not always see themselves represented. This scholarship would not just support my future. It would support the future of everyone I hope to serve.

Our sink was barely working. You first washed it, waited for it to fill, then waited again for it to drain. But I was impatient and in the groove of things. I knew the water was at the top, but I kept going, desperate to be done. One last big dish, a cookie sheet. Finish this, I thought, then wait for the water to drain. But while rinsing, the water spilled over, destroying all of my hard work. I knew this would happen. That moment reminded me of how I had been living. Caught in the rhythm of school, caregiving, and responsibility, I kept going without pause, forgetting why I started. The clogged sink became a metaphor for my life. Freshman year, my grandmother moved in after losing both her husband and sister just hours apart. She has dementia, and I stepped into the role of caregiver while navigating high school, aiming for a strong GPA to get into a good college, and a good medical school, to become a doctor. But I burned out. Tasks lost meaning, days blurred, and even simple things began to feel overwhelming. I needed to find clarity, stop going through the motions, and rediscover why I wanted to become a doctor in the first place. That answer came during a quiet conversation with my mother. She mentioned how she wished she had taken better care of her skin while growing up, but did not know how. She talked about how skincare, and even dermatology itself, are often inaccessible in marginalized communities. That got me thinking. Why is healthcare treated like a luxury instead of a right? And more importantly, what can I do to change that? That conversation reshaped my goals. I did not just want to become a doctor. I wanted to become a physician who bridges gaps, breaks cycles, and builds access, particularly in dermatological care for underserved communities. That became my why. I started a nonprofit to provide education and access to dermatological care in the very communities my mom was talking about. It started small. I reached out to everyone I knew. My aunt, a social worker, helped with the paperwork. I was selected to participate in Washington University in St. Louis Medical School’s Saturday Scholars Program, where I connected with Dr. Will Ross, who helped me meet professionals passionate about health equity. With community support, I began organizing hygiene drives at local churches and fundraising events that brought dermatologists to speak directly to people who rarely have access to them. My long-term goal is to attend medical school, specialize in dermatology, and use my education to create large-scale solutions that make skin health accessible, especially to people of color who are often misdiagnosed or ignored in medical literature and practice. But even more broadly, I want to be a Black woman in medicine who makes it easier for others to see themselves in the field. Racial diversity in healthcare is not optional, it is essential. When patients see doctors who look like them and who understand their backgrounds and cultures, care becomes more personal and more effective. Representation builds trust. And trust saves lives. I still have a lot on my plate, school, caregiving, and coordinating a nonprofit, but I now move with purpose. Even if my sink is clogged, I keep working toward clean dishes, toward a future where everyone, regardless of their background, has access to quality care. Because I believe health is a right. And I want to be one of the doctors who helps make that true.

Our sink was barely working. You first washed it, waited for it to fill, then waited again for it to drain. But I was impatient and in the groove of things. I knew the water was at the top, but I kept going, desperate to be done. One last big dish, a cookie sheet. Finish this, I thought, then wait for the water to drain. But while rinsing, the water spilled over, destroying all of my hard work. I knew this would happen. That moment reminded me of how I had been living. Caught in the rhythm of school, caregiving, and responsibility, I kept going without pause, forgetting why I started. The clogged sink became a metaphor for my life. Freshman year, my grandmother moved in after losing both her husband and sister just hours apart. She has dementia, and I stepped into the role of caregiver while navigating high school, aiming for a strong GPA to get into a good college, and a good medical school, to become a doctor. But I burned out. Tasks lost meaning, days blurred, and even simple things began to feel overwhelming. I needed to find clarity, stop going through the motions, and rediscover why I wanted to become a doctor in the first place. That answer came during a quiet conversation with my mother. She mentioned how she wished she'd taken better care of her skin while growing up, but didn’t know how. She talked about how skincare, and even dermatology itself, are often inaccessible in marginalized communities. That got me thinking, Why? Why is healthcare treated like a luxury instead of a right? And more importantly, what can I do to change that? That conversation reshaped my goals. I didn’t just want to become a doctor. I wanted to become a physician who bridges gaps, breaks cycles, and builds access, particularly in dermatological care for underserved communities. That became my why. I started a nonprofit to provide education and access to dermatological care in the very communities my mom was talking about. It started small. I reached out to everyone I knew. My aunt, a social worker, helped with the paperwork. I was selected to participate in Washington University in St. Louis Medical School’s Saturday Scholars Program, where I connected with Dr. Will Ross, who helped me meet professionals passionate about health equity. With community support, I began organizing hygiene drives at local churches and fundraising events that brought dermatologists to speak directly to people who rarely have access to them. My long-term goal is to attend medical school, specialize in dermatology, and use my education to create large-scale solutions that make skin health accessible, especially to people of color who are often misdiagnosed or ignored in medical literature and practice. But even more broadly, I want to be a Black woman in medicine who makes it easier for others to see themselves in the field. Racial diversity in healthcare is not optional, it is essential. When patients see doctors who look like them, and who understand their backgrounds and culture, care becomes more personal and more effective. Representation builds trust. And trust saves lives. I still have a lot on my plate, school, caregiving, and coordinating a nonprofit, but I now move with purpose. Even if my sink is clogged, I keep working toward clean dishes, toward a future where everyone, regardless of their background, has access to quality care. Because I believe health is a right. And I want to be one of the doctors who helps make that true.

Our sink was barely working. You first washed it, waited for it to fill, then waited again for it to drain. But I was impatient and in the groove of things. I knew the water was at the top, but I kept going, desperate to be done. One last big dish, a cookie sheet. Finish this, I thought, then wait for the water to drain. But while rinsing, the water spilled over, destroying all of my hard work. I knew this would happen. That moment reminded me of how I had been living. Caught in the rhythm of school, caregiving, and responsibility, I kept going without pause, forgetting why I started. The clogged sink became a metaphor for my life. Freshman year, my grandmother moved in after losing both her husband and sister just hours apart. She has dementia, and I stepped into the role of caregiver while navigating high school, aiming for a strong GPA to get into a good college, and a good medical school, to become a doctor. But I burned out. Tasks lost meaning, days blurred, and even simple things began to feel overwhelming. I needed to find clarity, stop going through the motions, and rediscover why I wanted to become a doctor in the first place. That answer came during a quiet conversation with my mother. She mentioned how she wished she'd taken better care of her skin while growing up, but didn’t know how. She talked about how skincare, and even dermatology itself, are often inaccessible in marginalized communities. That got me thinking, Why? Why is healthcare treated like a luxury instead of a right? And more importantly, what can I do to change that? That conversation reshaped my goals. I didn’t just want to become a doctor. I wanted to become a physician who bridges gaps, breaks cycles, and builds access, particularly in dermatological care for underserved communities. That became my why. I started a nonprofit to provide education and access to dermatological care in the very communities my mom was talking about. It started small. I reached out to everyone I knew. My aunt, a social worker, helped with the paperwork. I was selected to participate in Washington University in St. Louis Medical School’s Saturday Scholars Program, where I connected with Dr. Will Ross, who helped me meet professionals passionate about health equity. With community support, I began organizing hygiene drives at local churches and fundraising events that brought dermatologists to speak directly to people who rarely have access to them. My long-term goal is to attend medical school, specialize in dermatology, and use my education to create large-scale solutions that make skin health accessible, especially to people of color who are often misdiagnosed or ignored in medical literature and practice. But even more broadly, I want to be a Black woman in medicine who makes it easier for others to see themselves in the field. Racial diversity in healthcare is not optional, it is essential. When patients see doctors who look like them, and who understand their backgrounds and culture, care becomes more personal and more effective. Representation builds trust. And trust saves lives. I still have a lot on my plate, school, caregiving, and coordinating a nonprofit, but I now move with purpose. Even if my sink is clogged, I keep working toward clean dishes, toward a future where everyone, regardless of their background, has access to quality care. Because I believe health is a right. And I want to be one of the doctors who helps make that true.

When I picked up a foil for the first time, I didn't know fencing would change the way I saw myself. At first, the sport just seemed interesting, something different. But over time, fencing became a powerful tool that helped me grow into a confident, focused, and resilient young woman in a world that often doubts the strengths of girls. Fencing is a male-dominated sport. Many of the top names, coaches, and champions are men. Walking into my first tournament, I noticed it immediately: boys filled the brackets, and all the coaches on the sidelines were male. I could feel unspoken doubt in the room, could I keep up? That doubt turned into something more harmful when I began to excel. During practice I was paired with a male to scrimmage, it was clear he didn't expect much from me. But when I landed touches and took the lead, something shifted. Out of frustration or maybe envy, he began to lunge aggressively and hit harder than necessary. One blow left a dark bruise on my left arm, far beyond what was considered normal or acceptable in the sport. It wasn't just about winning the bout, it felt like he was trying to put me back in my place. That moment hurt, physically and emotionally. But I didn't back down. I finished my match, stood my ground, and used the experience to fuel my drive. I learned that standing strong as a woman in a male-dominated space means facing that kind of resistance and choosing not to shrink because of it. Balancing school, fencing, and life has sharpened more than my blade work; it has taught me discipline. My days are a mix of early morning study sessions, hours in the fencing studio, and late nights reviewing biology notes or writing essays. I don’t have the luxury of skipping practice because of a hard test, or vice versa. I’ve learned to manage my time, prioritize what matters most, and show up fully, wherever I am. Fencing has also taught me how to handle pressure and control emotions. Every bout starts the same: you salute your opponent, mask down, en garde. You focus. You move forward. That mindset, calm, focused, and determined, has carried over into school and life. In the classroom, I speak up with more confidence. Outside of school, I’ve become more involved in service and leadership. I’m learning to use my voice not only for myself but to create space for others who feel unseen. Being a female athlete has given me a platform, and I want to use it to challenge stereotypes and show younger girls that they don’t have to shrink themselves to succeed. In fencing, you don’t win by brute force, you win by being smart, adaptable, and quick. That’s what being a strong woman means to me. It’s not about overpowering someone else. It’s about knowing your worth, training your mind and body, and refusing to be underestimated. Fencing didn’t just teach me how to compete, it taught me how to fight for myself. And now, I carry that strength with me in every room I walk into.

Diverse representation in the medical field is not just a matter of fairness—it is a necessity for improving healthcare outcomes, advancing medical research, and ensuring equitable access to care for all individuals. In a world where health disparities persist along racial, ethnic, gender, and socioeconomic lines, having a diverse workforce of healthcare professionals is critical to addressing these challenges and creating a more inclusive and effective healthcare system. One of the most significant benefits of diversity in the medical field is its impact on patient care. Patients are more likely to trust and feel comfortable with healthcare providers who share their cultural background or understand their unique experiences. This trust is essential for effective communication, accurate diagnosis, and adherence to treatment plans. For example, studies have shown that Black patients often receive better care from Black doctors, as they are more likely to feel understood and respected. A diverse medical workforce ensures that patients from all backgrounds receive culturally competent care, which can lead to improved health outcomes and reduced disparities. Diversity in the medical field also drives innovation in medical research and treatment. When researchers and clinicians from diverse backgrounds collaborate, they bring unique perspectives that can lead to breakthroughs in understanding and treating diseases. For instance, historically, medical research has often overlooked the specific health needs of women, people of color, and other underrepresented groups. This has resulted in gaps in knowledge and treatments that are less effective for these populations. By including diverse participants in clinical trials and ensuring that researchers from underrepresented groups are involved in the process, we can develop more inclusive and effective medical solutions. For example, the development of treatments for sickle cell anemia, a disease that disproportionately affects Black individuals, has benefited significantly from the contributions of Black researchers and clinicians. Moreover, a diverse medical workforce is better equipped to address health disparities and social determinants of health. Healthcare professionals from underrepresented communities often have firsthand experience with the barriers their communities face, such as lack of access to quality care, language barriers, or systemic racism. This insight enables them to advocate for policies and practices that promote health equity. For example, community health programs led by individuals who understand the cultural and social context of the populations they serve are often more successful in improving health outcomes. Diversity in leadership roles within healthcare organizations is also crucial for driving systemic change and ensuring that equity is prioritized at all levels. Another critical reason for promoting diversity in the medical field is its role in inspiring the next generation of healthcare professionals. Representation matters—when young people see individuals who look like them succeeding in medicine, they are more likely to pursue careers in the field. This is particularly important for addressing the shortage of healthcare professionals in underserved areas. By increasing diversity in the medical workforce, we can create a pipeline of talent that reflects the communities they serve, ensuring that everyone has access to quality care. Economically, diversity in the medical field benefits both individuals and society. Healthcare careers offer pathways to financial stability and upward mobility, and increasing access to these opportunities for underrepresented groups can help close wealth gaps. Additionally, a diverse medical workforce strengthens the healthcare system by bringing a wider range of skills, perspectives, and ideas. This leads to more innovative solutions, improved patient satisfaction, and better overall health outcomes. Diverse representation in the medical field is essential for creating a healthcare system that is equitable, effective, and inclusive. It improves patient care, drives medical innovation, addresses health disparities, and inspires future generations.

My hands-on experience with AI and machine learning has been both challenging and rewarding, particularly as I’ve worked on projects that aim to bridge gaps in healthcare accessibility. One of my most significant endeavors has been the development of an AI-powered chatbot designed to make dermatology more accessible, especially for African American teens. This project is part of a broader non-profit initiative I am leading, which focuses on educating young people about skin health, eliminating common misconceptions, and closing the gap between healthcare and affordability. The AI chatbot I am developing allows users to submit a photo of their skin or describe their symptoms, after which the system analyzes the input and provides insights into potential skin concerns. While the tool is not intended to replace professional dermatological care, it serves as a cost-effective and accessible first step for individuals who may not have immediate access to a dermatologist. The chatbot also educates users about their skin issues and offers practical, budget-friendly advice on how to manage them. This approach not only empowers users with knowledge but also encourages them to seek professional care when necessary. From a technical perspective, this project has involved training machine learning models to recognize common skin conditions based on image data and text descriptions. I’ve worked with tools like TensorFlow and PyTorch to build and refine these models, ensuring they are both accurate and inclusive. One of the challenges has been ensuring the AI is trained on diverse datasets that adequately represent African American skin tones, as this demographic is often underrepresented in medical research and AI training data. By addressing this gap, I aim to create a tool that is not only effective but also equitable. Looking ahead, I foresee making an impact in the field of AI and machine learning by continuing to develop solutions that prioritize accessibility and inclusivity. My non-profit initiative is just the beginning; I envision expanding the use of AI to address other healthcare disparities, particularly in underserved communities. For example, future iterations of the chatbot could include multilingual support, integration with telemedicine platforms, or even partnerships with local clinics to provide follow-up care recommendations. Ultimately, my goal is to leverage AI as a tool for social good, ensuring that cutting-edge technology is not just a luxury for the few but a resource that can improve lives on a broader scale. By combining my technical skills with a passion for healthcare equity, I hope to contribute to a future where AI-driven solutions play a pivotal role in making healthcare more accessible, affordable, and effective for everyone.