My two years as a Medical Assistant at a family medicine clinic exposed me to many patient experiences. The pediatrician I worked with was also a pediatric pulmonologist, so I cared for many children with chronic respiratory conditions, but one Hispanic family’s situation has stayed with me. Their youngest child was suffering from respiratory issues after prolonged mold exposure in their apartment. Although the rest of the family recovered after moving out, the child continued to struggle. During triage, the mother revealed that the children’s father had passed away from a respiratory condition caused by the same mold exposure. I blinked in disbelief, and when I looked at my Spanish interpreter, she nodded to confirm what I had just heard. At that moment, I felt the weight of medicine’s limitations. We could help manage the child’s asthma, but we couldn’t undo the past or bring her father back. Their tragedy was preventable; had the health risks been addressed sooner, the child could have grown up with her dad by her side. The father’s condition had gone untreated for too long, likely worsened by their language barrier and delayed intervention. This family’s situation deepened my understanding of healthcare disparities but also reinforced the need for early intervention, patient education, and addressing barriers that often leave the most vulnerable populations at risk. As healthcare providers, I feel strongly that we must go beyond treating symptoms and work to prevent avoidable losses by improving healthcare access, communication, and education. What ultimately inspired me to pursue pediatric medicine was witnessing how deeply a child’s health shapes the course of an entire family’s life. Children depend on adults to recognize when something is wrong, advocate for them, and ensure they receive the care they need. When those systems fail, the consequences can follow them for years, yet timely intervention also offers the greatest opportunity to change a child’s future. I was inspired by the resilience I saw in my young patients and by the privilege pediatricians have to earn the trust of both children and their families during some of their most vulnerable moments. I want to be the physician who not only treats illness but also empowers parents through education, advocates for safer environments and preventative measures, and helps children grow into healthy adults. Knowing that even small interventions early in life can have lifelong effects is what draws me to pediatric medicine. It is a specialty where compassion, prevention, and advocacy come together, allowing physicians to care not only for the child in front of them but also for their future communities.

Growing up in an Asian immigrant household, I witnessed the complex ways cultural background shapes how people approach healthcare. My family blended traditional Chinese remedies with Western medicine, often hesitating to seek formal care unless absolutely necessary — a pattern I would later recognize across many of the communities I served. These early observations didn't just inform my worldview; they ignited a commitment to bridging the gaps that leave so many people feeling unseen in the places meant to heal them. Healthcare hesitancy is deeply prevalent in my community. I remember my mom relying on home remedies for a wrist injury I sustained at school, until my dad insisted on an X-ray, finally revealing a buckle fracture. That experience has stayed with me to this day. Later, working at Peach Clinic, I watched a family delay critical diagnostics for their daughter's thyroid nodule — which ultimately turned out to be cancerous. These moments reinforced something I had felt for some time but was hard to put into definitive words: that distrust of the medical system is not irrational, but often rooted in cultural distance, language barriers, and a history of not feeling understood. Addressing that gap became central to how I show up in every setting, clinical or otherwise. As the first in my family to pursue a professional degree, I carry a deep sense of responsibility toward those who share my background. That responsibility took on new meaning when I became the only Mandarin-speaking medical assistant at a pediatric and primary care office. Patients who had previously struggled to communicate would light up when I spoke their native language. My translations were never perfect, but in their eyes, I was their advocate — the person who could finally convey their story in a foreign clinical setting. That trust was not something I took lightly. It pushed me to study medical terminology in Mandarin, to practice speaking in simpler terms, and to continuously refine my ability to serve as a true bridge between patients and their care. This same thread of cultural competency ran through my experience shadowing Dr. Chang, a Mandarin-speaking optometrist whose fluency transformed the dynamic for elderly Chinese patients who might otherwise have avoided care altogether. Watching him build genuine rapport showed me what patient-centered care looks like in practice. Not only did he have the clinical skills to help each of his patients, but he also could communicate that through shared language and cultural understanding. When his patients realized I understood them too, their gratitude was immediate and palpable. It solidified my belief that inclusion in healthcare isn't just a values statement; it is a clinical necessity. Beyond individual interactions, I have come to understand inclusion as something that must be actively built within communities. The hesitancy I've seen, from my own family to the patients I've cared for, doesn't dissolve on its own. It requires sustained trust, education, and the presence of providers who reflect and respect the people they serve. I have tried to be that presence wherever I can, whether through translation, through advocacy, or simply through showing up with empathy and patience. That is why I am in healthcare: to be the kind of physician who meets patients where they are, helping them navigate healthcare with dignity, understanding, and without the fear that their background will be misunderstood or dismissed. My goal is to uplift the communities that raised me and to create space for others, especially those who have felt overlooked, to be seen, heard, and cared for with compassion.

As a lifelong resident of Georgia, I hope to continue my education and eventually practice in the state, as I feel most connected to the communities here. Growing up in Gwinnett County, the most ethnically diverse county in Georgia according to the 2020 Census, I was surrounded by people from many different backgrounds. My perspective on community and healthcare has been shaped by the impactful teachers, community leaders, and neighbors who have poured into my life and nurtured my growth. I am driven to give back to the place I call home and to the people and communities that have invested so much in me. Watching my community flourish and uplift each other gives me a sense of pride that I do not feel anywhere else. For over two years before entering medical school, I worked as a medical assistant and scribe in Cumming, GA, where I had the privilege of providing care to patients under pediatricians, family nurse practitioners, and an internal medicine doctor. These experiences have only deepened my desire to practice medicine in Georgia and serve the diverse populations here. My ultimate goal is to become a compassionate pediatrician who can build trusting relationships with patients and families from all backgrounds. At the Medical College of Georgia (MCG), the values of inclusivity and compassion align perfectly with my personal and professional goals. I believe that MCG’s medical education will equip me with the skills, knowledge, and opportunities necessary to give back to the communities that have shaped me. By staying in Georgia, I hope to play a meaningful role in promoting the health and well-being of the communities I see as family.

My two years as a Medical Assistant at a family medicine clinic exposed me to many patient experiences. Because the pediatrician was also a pediatric pulmonologist, we treated many pulmonary patients, but one Hispanic family’s situation has stayed with me. Their youngest child was suffering from respiratory issues after prolonged mold exposure in their apartment. Although the rest of the family recovered after moving out, the child continued to struggle. During triage, the mother revealed that the children’s father had passed away from a respiratory condition caused by the same mold exposure. I blinked in disbelief, and when I looked at my Spanish interpreter, she nodded to confirm what I had just heard. At that moment, I felt the weight of medicine’s limitations. We could help manage the child’s asthma, but we couldn’t undo the past or bring her father back. Their tragedy was preventable; had the health risks been addressed sooner, the child could have grown up with her dad by her side. The father’s condition had gone untreated for too long, likely worsened by their language barrier and delayed intervention. This family’s situation deepened my understanding of healthcare disparities but also reinforced the need for early intervention, patient education, and addressing health disparities that often leave the most vulnerable populations at risk. As healthcare providers, I learned that we must go beyond treating symptoms and work to prevent such preventable losses by addressing inequities in healthcare access and literacy. This experience fundamentally shifted how I understand my role in medicine. I once viewed patient care as something that began with symptoms and ended with treatment, but this family revealed how profoundly health is shaped by so many hidden factors beyond the clinic walls. Language barriers, housing insecurity, and delayed access to care transformed an environmental hazard into a fatal outcome that medicine alone could not reverse. As a future physician, it is our job to be advocates, healers, listeners, and so much more. We are given a certain level of respect and authority that empowers us to do more for our patients and the community around us, so it is our duty to serve and give back with our voice, actions, and care. I will never take the trust in me as a future medical professional for granted. Every day, I am grateful for my family, teachers, neighbors, friends and strangers whose support and kindness made me into who I am today.

I measure my legacy not in wealth or recognition, but in survival, resilience, and the determination to create opportunity where none once existed. I come from a family shaped by war, famine, and displacement. These experiences are not distant history to me; they are the foundation of my existence. The earliest story my father remembers is of my great-grandmother fleeing famine and war in China with her mother. Forced into an impossible decision, her mother could save only one child. She chose my great-grandmother, a choice that permanently severed our family line in China. Though the pain of that loss echoes through generations, so does the strength it took to survive. On my mother’s side, my great-grandmother fled the Japanese invasion during World War II, hiding on a pineapple farm in Malaysia with her infant daughter—my grandmother. To keep her silent and alive, they fed her pineapples continuously, knowing discovery would mean death or enslavement. They later escaped to Singapore, where they rebuilt their lives from nothing. My parents carried this legacy forward through courage and sacrifice of their own. My father left Malaysia alone at thirteen in pursuit of education and opportunity in Singapore. Years later, my parents immigrated to the United States during the tech boom of the 1990s, leaving behind family, familiarity, and security. In America, they faced the uncertainty of starting over, relying only on each other. Their willingness to take risks and endure hardship gave me a childhood filled with stability, education, and possibility. My upbringing instilled in me a deep sense of responsibility. I understand that my opportunities were born from struggle, and I do not take them lightly. The cycle I aim to continue is one of perseverance, ambition, and resilience. At the same time, I hope to break the cycle of survival out of necessity by building a future defined not by fear or displacement, but by choice, purpose, and contribution. I stand on the shoulders of those who came before me, and it is my turn to flip our survival mode into service. As I pursue a career in medicine, with the goal of becoming a pediatrician, I see this path as a continuation of my family’s legacy—one rooted in protection, care, and sacrifice for the next generation. My ancestors risked everything so their children could live; my parents crossed borders so I could have opportunity. Through medical school, this dream is no longer abstract but steadily becoming reality, and with it comes a deep sense of purpose. I hope to care for children and families during their most vulnerable moments, offering the same compassion and security my family once sought in times of crisis. By dedicating my life to healing, advocacy, and education, I aim to break the cycle of survival driven by fear and replace it with one defined by stability, access, and hope. In doing so, I honor my past while building a future that serves others.

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.