Growing up, I was immersed in Zen Buddhism, the religion I was born into. My parents were deeply involved in our local monastery, attending events, leading summer camps, and supporting financially. Starting around age 10, I attended meditation classes, and by age 12, I was volunteering at the monastery. While I fulfilled these roles dutifully, I resented the lack of autonomy in the decision to participate. I felt like I was performing my obligations as an obedient daughter and eldest sister rather than engaging with a belief system that resonated with me. When I began asking questions to understand Buddhism better, I was often met with dismissal or even anger from my mom, who interpreted my curiosity as criticism of the religion she was devoted to. I turned to books for answers to my many questions, and they provoked even more thought. I was drawn to the koans and their practical lessons, and the Q&A sessions with dharma masters that sparked Socratic dialogue. However, it wasn’t until I became a more invested teaching assistant for children’s meditation classes and started attending adult classes that my perspective truly shifted. Leading others, especially the children who reminded me of my younger self, gave me a sense of purpose and fulfillment. I began to see how the years of lessons I once tried to avoid had quietly shaped me into an empathetic and reflective person. The values instilled during those classes—commitment, respect, compassion, mindfulness, and more—had become integral to who I was, even though I hadn’t realized it at the time. My view of the monastery being suffocating began to dissolve as I experienced my beliefs shifting. Another realization dawned on me gradually as I deepened my involvement in the monastery: the community of practitioners I had grown up with felt like a second family. They supported my family and me during difficult times, and we, in turn, supported them. This network of mutual care and encouragement has shown me the emotional and psychological value of being part of a community grounded in shared values and compassion. Now, I attend classes by choice and have even introduced friends to join me, sharing the positive impact meditation and mindfulness have had on my way of thinking. What started as resentment toward an obligation has become a deep appreciation for a philosophy and a community that have shaped my character, perspective, and connections with others. This journey taught me that being wrong about something doesn’t make the experience a waste; it can be a stepping stone toward growth, understanding, and gratitude. My relationship with Buddhism has also inspired my decision to pursue medicine. The Bodhisattva ideal—to alleviate suffering wherever possible—resonates deeply with me, and I believe that becoming a physician is one of the most direct ways I can live out this intention. Medicine, like Buddhism, requires deep listening, compassion, patience, and a willingness to be present with others in pain. I see the path of healing as both a science and a spiritual practice. After graduation, I hope to give back by supporting the next generation of Buddhist students. I want to establish annual scholarships for young Buddhists pursuing higher education and to be a mentor for those who want to integrate their spiritual values into careers that serve others. Just as I was guided and supported by my mentors, I hope to become a source of guidance for those who are still finding their way.

To me, community is not just about shared spaces; it’s about shared humanity, shared stories, and the quiet but powerful ways we care for one another. At Dharma Jewel Monastery (DJM), a Buddhist temple in Atlanta, I have found a second home that shaped my values and gave me a deeper sense of purpose. It's where I learned that kindness doesn’t always need words and that connection can thrive in even the quietest of places. DJM is a Zen Buddhist temple that offers meditation classes, monthly ceremonies, and a space for people of all backgrounds to explore mindfulness and spiritual growth. Since 2013, I have served as an acolyte, assisting the masters and volunteer teams with ceremonial preparations. My role might seem small—lighting incense, offering water, directing guests, preparing cushions—but each act is about creating an environment where others can feel supported and at peace. That’s the kind of care I hope to bring to every community I am part of. What has shaped me even more deeply, though, is my work as a teacher’s assistant (TA) for the Little Jewel Meditation class, where I help bridge communication between the traditional Taiwanese dharma masters and the young children ages 4 to 14. Many of these kids, like me, come from immigrant families and often navigate the tension between their heritage and the Western world where they grow up. I translate Mandarin into more colloquial English and vice versa, making sure the cultural context is not lost. One of my students was a young boy who had trouble engaging with the class, partly due to the pace of the stories. He was disinterested in the lessons and instead played with distracting toys, but he would engage with the enrichment activities each week. So I introduced an incentive system, similar to a school setting, where students could earn small tokens of recognition for participation. It refreshed the atmosphere of the storytime, encouraging engagement and learning. Slowly, he began raising his hand, laughing at the stories, and asking questions. Now, at the end of every class, he runs up to his parents to tell them about how much fun he had! That small transformation taught me how impactful even gentle efforts at connection can be. It reminded me that community isn’t built in grand gestures—it’s formed through trust, kindness, and meeting people where they are. I didn’t just help her feel more comfortable in class; she reminded me of why this work matters.

As a lifelong resident of Georgia, I’ve always felt a deep connection to the people and places that shaped me. Growing up in Gwinnett County—Georgia’s most ethnically diverse county—meant I was surrounded by classmates, neighbors, and mentors from a wide variety of cultural, linguistic, and socioeconomic backgrounds. This environment taught me early on that effective communication, cultural understanding, and compassion are not optional in healthcare—they are essential. This lesson has always guided my educational and professional goals. I plan to become a pediatrician who can bridge the gap between clinical care and real-life understanding, ensuring that no child or family is left behind because of barriers they cannot control. Currently, I am pursuing a medical degree to practice in Georgia, where my roots run deepest. The people here—my teachers, mentors, and patients—have made a lasting investment in me, and I am committed to giving back by providing accessible, culturally competent care to underserved communities across the state. My long-term goal is to serve not just as a clinician, but also as a trusted advocate for families navigating the complexities of the healthcare system. I want to be the type of physician who remembers stories as well as symptoms, one who understands that healing doesn’t always begin or end in an exam room. Over the past two years, I’ve worked as a medical assistant and scribe in Cumming, GA, alongside pediatricians, family nurse practitioners, and internal medicine doctors. These roles gave me the privilege of working directly with patients and witnessing how impactful compassionate care can be. It’s also where I encountered some of my most formative experiences—writing medical letters for DFCS to advocate for substance-exposed infants, interpreting for Mandarin-speaking families through diagnoses, and supporting physicians who served patients long after clinic hours were over. Every task reminded me that medicine is both technical and deeply human. One patient in particular stands out. At Peach Clinic, we were treating a young girl for persistent respiratory issues. Her family had been exposed to black mold in their apartment for nine months, and the children’s father had passed away from a related condition. Even after they moved, the youngest child’s symptoms lingered. As her mother told us the full story in Spanish with an interpreter, I remember feeling helpless. Medicine could manage her asthma now, but it couldn’t undo the past. I was forced to confront the limits of clinical care and the devastating impact of preventable illness, especially when compounded by language barriers, poverty, and systemic neglect. This experience, along with many others, has strengthened my resolve to address the broader context of health disparities in my future practice. While volunteering at Shifa Clinic, a free clinic in Athens, I saw how uninsured patients would line up for hours just to be seen. On Saturdays, we distributed meals to people experiencing homelessness and shared information about the clinic, knowing it might be the only place they could access care. But even those efforts felt like short-term solutions to long-standing structural problems. Healthcare access, housing insecurity, and health literacy are deeply interconnected, and I plan to keep these intersections central to my work as a physician. Another impressionable experience came through my time at Health 4 Kids, where we worked with children from low-income families in after-school programs. There, I learned how deeply education and health are linked. Helping kids with homework or hygiene lessons was not just educational—it was preventative care. We weren’t just helping them read or wash their hands properly; we were building trust, stability, and confidence. I began to see that health is a lifelong process shaped not only by medicine but also by education, environment, and social opportunity. These experiences have shaped both my goals and my values. I want to practice medicine in Georgia not only because it is my home, but because I understand its challenges and have already seen how small, compassionate actions can make a lasting impact. I want to be a pediatrician who advocates for food security, housing safety, and early intervention—not just because they matter medically, but because I’ve seen firsthand how they change lives. Growing up in an Asian immigrant household also shaped how I view care. I witnessed firsthand the coexistence of traditional Chinese medicine with Western practices, and the quiet hesitancy my own family members had toward formal healthcare. I am still trying to navigate how to convince my mother to get her first mammogram done, and how to emphasize to my aunt the importance of taking her blood pressure medication consistently. For many in my community, healthcare was something to be delayed until absolutely necessary, not due to ignorance, but because of cost, mistrust, and cultural distance. This reality isn't unique to Asian communities. In my work and volunteering, I’ve seen similar hesitations across many underrepresented and low-income populations. These shared patterns of hesitancy reinforced my belief that physicians must be more than medical experts—they must be advocates, educators, and empathetic communicators. As the first in my family to graduate from college in the U.S., I carry the weight of my family’s sacrifices and dreams with me. I’ve been fortunate to have mentors and educators who saw potential in me, even before I fully saw it in myself. Their support has fueled my belief that no one achieves anything alone, and that I have a responsibility to use my education to lift others along on my journey. Receiving this scholarship would mean more than financial aid—it would be a recognition of the values I hold: commitment to service, compassion in action, and a belief in healthcare that sees the whole person. It would allow me to continue my education without adding further financial strain to my family and free up time and energy that I could instead pour into clinical experiences, community engagement, research, and leadership development. It would also affirm that my story—and the communities I represent—deserve to be heard and invested in. I believe I deserve this scholarship not because I’ve done more than anyone else, but because I am committed to doing the most I can with what I’ve been given. I have a great record of service, resilience, and integrity, and I intend to carry those qualities forward into my career in medicine. I want to be the doctor who shows up early, listens without judgment, and remembers the names and stories that may not be heard. I want to be a leader in community health, an advocate for underserved populations, and a mentor for the next generation of healthcare providers. Ultimately, this scholarship would help me take another step toward building the kind of future I believe in—one where healthcare is accessible, compassionate, and just. A future where every child, regardless of zip code or background, has the opportunity to grow up healthy and hopeful. A future I will work every day to make possible.