When I first walked into Mr. Loftus’s English class, I was sure it was going to be one of those boring classes I just had to get through. He stood at the front of the room, glasses on, using words I didn’t even think were used in everyday conversations. To be honest, I thought he was kind of a nerd—no hate though, just love 🫶🏿. But looking back now, I realize that Mr. Loftus was exactly the kind of teacher I needed in my life at that time. He didn’t just teach English; he opened my mind to a whole new way of thinking, writing, and even speaking. Mr. Loftus was one of the most open-minded and intellectually curious teacher I've ever met. He had this way of looking at life that made everything seem deeper and more meaningful. Whether we were discussing literature, real-world issues, or just how our days were going, he always had something thoughtful and thought-provoking to say. He never talked down to us—he talked with us. And the craziest part was that you could tell he actually cared. You could tell he wanted all of us to succeed, whether that meant passing the class or just finding our own voice in the world. I made sure to tell him how thankful I was. One of the biggest ways he influenced me was through his vocabulary. The man used big words a lot, but never in a way that felt forced or fake. It was just how he naturally spoke. At first, I would catch myself rolling my eyes, but then I started catching myself doing the same thing—using bigger, more precise words, both in writing and in conversation. Without even realizing it at first, I started to speak and write more clearly and confidently. My writing improved so much because of him, and now writing is something I truly love. He’s actually the reason I still write today. But it wasn’t just about English. Mr. Loftus taught me how to express myself without fear. I used to be afraid of messing up when I spoke, but he showed us that making mistakes was part of learning. He created a classroom where it felt safe to speak up and share your ideas, even if they weren’t perfect. That confidence has stayed with me in other parts of my life too. Mr. Loftus didn’t just teach me English—he taught me how to be a better version of myself. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

A moment that I recall is when I was in my biology class. We were watching a documentary about the Flint water crisis, and I remember being absolutely appalled, and not just by the lead in the water, but by what it was doing to kids’ brains. One neurologist in the documentary said something that stuck with me: “Neurotoxicity from lead exposure doesn’t go away. It rewires a child’s future.” That sentence haunted me. I kept thinking: what happens to a child who can’t focus in school because their brain was poisoned before they even had a chance? What happens when their struggles are dismissed as behavioral issues rather than symptoms of environmental harm? That was the moment I realized environmental issues aren’t just about melting glaciers or endangered species or something. They’re also about our minds, our futures, and our communities. This experience sparked my passion for both neuroscience and environmental justice. I want to become a neuropharmacologist, specializing in how environmental toxins affect the brain and how we can develop treatments to reverse or reduce that damage. Most people don’t realize just how many pollutants are neurotoxic. It’s not just lead. There’s mercury in fish, pesticides in produce, microplastics in our bodies, and industrial chemicals in the air we breathe every day. These toxins can cause everything from memory loss to mood disorders to developmental delays, especially in children. And the most vulnerable communities, those with fewer resources, less political power, and limited access to healthcare are hit the hardest. My academic path is grounded in neuroscience, chemistry, and environmental health. I plan to major in neuroscience with a minor in public health or environmental studies. Through coursework and research, I want to investigate how certain environmental toxins affect neurotransmitter systems, cognitive function, and brain development. I’m particularly interested in how chronic low-level exposure, something millions of people live with every day, can lead to long-term changes in the brain’s structure and chemistry. As a neuropharmacologist, I hope and intend to work on treatments that not only manage symptoms, but also target the neurological effects at the source. But science alone isn’t enough. I also want to be part of the solution in my community. Around my high school, I volunteered with a local nonprofit focused on environmental health and awareness. I helped organize water testing drives and created social media content with my best friend Ari to educate people about safe drinking water, air filters, and lead exposure before she moved away. In college, I plan to continue this kind of outreach especially in underserved areas where environmental harm is common but often invisible. I want to teach young people about the connection between brain health and the environment in a way that feels accessible, not overwhelming. Long-term, I hope to step into a leadership role that blends research, advocacy, and policy. Whether that’s working in public health, contributing to government regulations on toxic substances, or starting my own initiative focused on environmental brain health, I want to make sure that science reaches the people who need it most. I believe deeply in the power of evidence-based advocacy: using hard data to make human stories impossible to ignore. What gives me hope is the growing recognition that the health of our planet is tied directly to our own. More and more people are seeing that clean water, clean air, and safe food aren’t luxuries, they’re human rights. I want to help create a world where environmental justice includes brain health. A world where no child’s future is compromised by the toxins around them. A world where healing the planet also means healing our minds. That’s the change I want to help create, and not just in a lab, but in the lives of real people.

From a young age, I’ve always been driven by curiosity and compassion, two of the many qualities that now shape my dream of becoming a surgeon and studying neuropharmacology. I’m pursuing a career in healthcare not only to heal but also to push the boundaries of medicine through research and innovation. My dual passion for surgery and neuropharmacology stems from witnessing how neurological disorders affect different families and communities, especially those underserved and underrepresented in our healthcare system. I want to change that. I want to be part of the solution for my people and more. Becoming a surgeon has always been more than just figuring out how to master a technique; it’s about making critical, life-changing decisions under pressure while preserving empathy and human dignity. Studying neuropharmacology will allow me to understand how the brain and drugs interact knowledge that can transform treatment approaches for conditions like epilepsy, depression, Alzheimer’s, and more. Together, these paths will help me to offer comprehensive care and contribute to groundbreaking research that could shift the medical landscape forever. However, achieving this vision requires more than personal ambition, it demands addressing the inequities that still exist in our healthcare system. Racial diversity in medicine isn’t just an ideal; it’s a necessity. Studies show that patients often have better outcomes when treated by physicians who share their racial or cultural background. Diverse teams in research and clinical practice bring a wide range of perspectives, leading to more accurate diagnoses, culturally sensitive care, and innovative solutions for problems that disproportionately affect marginalized populations. As a future healthcare provider of color, I know that my presence matters a lot. It tells young people who look like me that they do belong in spaces traditionally closed off to them. It shows patients that their stories, pain, and hope are seen and validated. And it brings an essential voice to the table—one that can advocate for equity in treatment, education, and research. For me, my future will not stop at the operating room or the research lab. I want to be able to mentor students who feel unsure about whether they belong in science. I want to speak at high schools in underrepresented neighborhoods and tell young people that the medical field is for them too. I want to write, to educate, to advocate. Because representation is not only about ones presence, but it’s also about their purpose. It’s about building a future where young people of color aren’t just patients in the system, but leaders, creators, and healers within it.

No, I was not in the foster care system, nor was I ever in foster care. However, my mother spent much of her childhood in and out of the system, and over the years, she has shared many of her personal experiences with me. Listening to her stories, I have learned about the emotional and physical struggles children in foster care often face, from feeling abandoned and displaced to struggling with the lack of stability and support. These stories have deeply impacted me, and as I reflect on them, my heart goes out to those who find themselves in the system. Although I have not experienced it personally, I understand that growing up in foster care can have lasting effects, and I feel a strong desire to help children who have been through similar situations. Through my observations, I have also witnessed how individuals from marginalized or underserved backgrounds, such as children in foster care, often encounter barriers in accessing proper healthcare. The medical system, in many ways, has not been equipped to serve these vulnerable populations adequately. Children in foster care may experience disruptions in their care, leading to missed medical appointments, inconsistent health records, and a lack of emotional and psychological support. Furthermore, due to socioeconomic and systemic inequalities, these children may not always have the resources or advocacy they need to receive the care they deserve. This is something I find deeply troubling, and I am motivated to make a change. My goal is to become a doctor who not only provides high-quality medical care, but who also advocates for underserved communities, especially children who have been in the foster care system. I want to be the doctor who listens, who sees the whole person, and who understands that health is not just physical but emotional and mental as well. I aspire to work within a system that provides compassionate care for those who are often overlooked or neglected. By providing medical services, raising awareness about the healthcare disparities faced by these children, and advocating for better resources, I hope to bridge some of the gaps in the system. Becoming a doctor will allow me to directly impact my community, helping those who have been neglected or abandoned by the system, and ensuring they have access to the healthcare they need to thrive. I want to dedicate my career to making sure that no child, especially one who has experienced foster care, ever feels like they are not worthy of care or support.

My name is Cayla Nequiba Jones, and I dream of entering the medical field as a surgeon, with a special interest in neuropharmacology. What excites me most about this path is the opportunity to heal—both physically and emotionally—and to be a voice for those who are often overlooked or unheard in medical spaces. I’ve always been drawn to science and the human body, but my passion deepened after witnessing how women—especially young women and women of color—are often dismissed when seeking medical care. Too often, their symptoms are minimized or attributed to “just their period,” without deeper investigation. I’ve seen the fear, the embarrassment, and the silence that follows when someone feels their pain isn’t being taken seriously. That silence is what I want to break. As a future surgeon and researcher, I want to advocate for patients who’ve been brushed aside, to take their concerns seriously, and to encourage a culture in medicine that listens—really listens. By studying neuropharmacology alongside surgery, I hope to better understand how medication impacts the brain and body, and how to improve treatments for conditions that are often misunderstood or misdiagnosed—especially in women. Helping women without a voice means using my voice in spaces where theirs has been denied. It means advocating for more inclusive research, questioning outdated assumptions, and challenging the biases that still exist in modern medicine. It means sitting with patients when they’re scared, asking the extra questions, and not accepting easy answers when the truth is more complex. And outside of the clinic, it means uplifting young girls and women who dream of entering the medical field but don’t yet believe they belong in it. To me, women’s empowerment isn’t just about speaking for others, it’s about making sure they are heard and respected on their own terms. Whether it’s in an exam room, on a surgical team, or through research that brings new understanding to women’s health, I want to be part of rewriting the narrative for women who’ve been told their voices don’t matter. Because they do. And I plan to spend my career proving that. Supporting women’s empowerment is not just a side mission—it’s built into the kind of doctor I want to become. I plan to mentor young women pursuing careers in STEM and medicine, especially those from underrepresented backgrounds. I want them to know that their voice, their curiosity, and their compassion belong in every operating room, every lab, and every leadership position in healthcare. This career path excites me because it combines science, service, and advocacy. And with every patient I treat, every young woman I encourage, I hope to leave a legacy of empathy, excellence, and change.

Living with ADHD has been one of the biggest challenges in my academic journey, especially throughout elementary and high school. For a long time, I didn’t understand why I struggled so much to focus in class—even when I truly wanted to. No matter how hard I tried, my brain just wouldn’t cooperate. A lot of other people saw me as “unmotivated” or “lazy,” while I was just silently battling to stay present. Many of my teachers, and even some peers, didn’t and still don't fully understand ADHD. They assumed I was choosing not to pay attention or that I simply just didn’t care about my education and future. It was a lot for me as a young child who was soft spoken, so I never actually tried correcting them despite my diagnosis. I started to believe that maybe they were right—that maybe I was just a “bad kid.” But I wasn’t. I was a kid with an invisible disability trying to survive in a system that didn’t know how to support me. What motivates me now is the growth I’ve seen in myself. A few years ago, I couldn’t imagine standing where I am today—at the edge of graduation, hopeful, and proud. I’ve worked hard to understand myself and push through the barriers that once felt impossible. I continue my education not just to better myself, but because I know there are thousands of students like me—students who’ve been mislabeled, misunderstood, and overlooked. I want to be a reminder that they’re not alone, and that their challenges don’t define their potential. So many people often assume that disabilities are always visible. But not all struggles can be seen with the eyes. Just because something isn’t obvious doesn’t mean it isn’t real. I’ve learned to advocate for myself, and now I hope to advocate for others too. Another big motivator for me, is the idea of becoming someone I would have looked up to when I was younger. I couldn’t picture myself graduating, let alone applying for scholarships like I'm doing now. I was told I wasn’t focused enough, wasn’t motivated enough, that I wouldn’t go far because of my inability to keep up. But I’ve proven to others and above all, myself that I can. Every step forward is a reminder that I’m not that “bad kid” that everyone kept seeing me as. I’m a determined, thoughtful, and capable student with big dreams and the drive to reach them. I want to study medicine and neuropharmacology, not just because I’m fascinated by the brain, but because I want to be part of a system that understands people like me and more. I want to treat patients holistically, with compassion and awareness of how invisible disabilities can impact every part of someone’s life. I want students who feel unseen or misunderstood to know that they are not broken like others might think they are. They're just waiting to be understood.