When I first began translating hospital conversations for my grandfather, I didn’t realize I was stepping into a gap that existed far beyond our family. I was 14, standing in a cold hospital room, trying to explain complex neurological procedures in Spanish while watching my grandfather’s confusion deepen. That moment revealed a much larger issue: healthcare is not just a science—it’s a system, and for many people who look like me or speak like us, that system is broken. I am working to address the social issue of healthcare inequity, particularly how it affects underserved and non-English-speaking communities. As an Afro-Latina first-generation college student from a low-income background, this is not just a problem I study—it's a problem I live. And it’s the driving force behind my pursuit of a neuroscience and economics degree at Pomona College. My advocacy began in small ways—translating medical documents, helping my mother navigate insurance, and volunteering to guide Spanish-speaking patients at local clinics. But it grew into something bigger when I joined the YES for CURE and Massachusetts General Hospital research programs, where I studied the quality of life in patients with IDH-mutant gliomas. I interviewed firefighters, Navy SEALs, and young parents whose lives had been paused—or ended early—by brain cancer. What struck me most wasn’t just the science, but how many patients felt unseen and unheard in the medical process. I began leading community workout groups to promote mental and physical health in my neighborhood. I started hosting informal “health literacy” sessions for other teens caring for sick relatives, combining what I was learning in research with real-world application. I also advocate through my school’s National Honor Society by sending scholarship resources to underclassmen and creating wellness-based events that prioritize student voices. My work is intersectional because the problem is. Healthcare inequity ties into racial disparities, language access, mental health stigma, and systemic underfunding of public health initiatives. Through both my public service work and my future STEAM career, I hope to dismantle these barriers. My long-term goal is to become a neuro-oncologist and later open a culturally conscious hospital in rural Dominican Republic—where patients are treated in their language, in their community, with dignity. Jeannine Schroeder’s legacy resonates deeply with me—her balance of art, action, and advocacy reminds me of the power of using your gifts for collective good. While I’m rooted in science, I believe empathy is its own form of art. I want to use every tool I gain—whether it’s a lab technique or a community outreach strategy—to make the world more just, more inclusive, and more beautiful for those often left behind. Because when you’re born into a broken system, you have two choices: survive it or transform it. I choose the latter.

Cancer first entered my life not as a diagnosis, but as a quiet fear—a shadow that loomed over our family when my grandfather’s health began to deteriorate. At first, it was little things: persistent fatigue, pain he didn’t have the words to describe. Then came the scans, the silence in waiting rooms, and finally the truth—cancer had found its way into someone I love dearly. As the oldest in a multigenerational Afro-Latinx household, I stepped into the role of caregiver, translator, and emotional anchor. I sat in on appointments, helped manage medications, and relayed complex medical information between doctors and my non-English-speaking family. I remember Googling every unfamiliar term, studying lab results late into the night—not because I was assigned to, but because I needed to understand. Cancer didn’t just change my grandfather’s life; it changed the way I saw mine. Watching him navigate chemotherapy, hospital stays, and moments of immense vulnerability taught me the meaning of resilience. He didn’t ask for pity; he asked for presence. So I gave it, every day—between school, work, and college applications. I learned how to advocate in medical spaces not built for families like mine, how to read fear in someone’s eyes when they lacked the words to say it, and how to offer comfort through silence when pain became unspeakable. These moments solidified my desire to become a neuro-oncologist. But more than that, they revealed the gaps in care—especially for patients of color, non-native English speakers, and low-income families. I realized that while cancer is universal, care is not always equitable. That’s what drives my studies at Pomona College, where I major in neuroscience and economics, seeking both the scientific and systemic knowledge needed to create change. Beyond the textbooks and research, cancer has taught me what it means to live. To hold tight to joy even in grief, to celebrate small wins like a good day or a clear scan. It’s taught me the power of showing up—not perfectly, but fully. And that lesson echoes through everything I do, whether it’s organizing peer support groups, working at Victoria’s Secret to help my family financially, or mentoring other first-generation students navigating healthcare careers. This scholarship would not just ease the financial strain of pursuing a degree while supporting my family—it would be an investment in someone who has lived the impact of cancer from the inside out. Someone who’s determined to not just survive hardship, but transform it into hope and healing for others. Cancer altered the course of my family’s life. But it also illuminated a path forward—one paved with empathy, action, and an unshakable belief in the power of care.

The first time I held a college textbook, it wasn’t mine. It belonged to a classmate who casually handed it to me during a group project. I remember holding it like it was sacred—heavy in my hands, filled with words that felt like keys to a door I’d spent years trying to unlock. That moment encapsulates what it means to be a first-generation, low-income college student: constantly navigating spaces that weren’t built for you but claiming them anyway. Growing up, I translated bills and medical records for my family before I even fully understood them myself. As the oldest daughter of Afro-Latinx immigrants, I was my family’s guide through the systems they couldn’t navigate due to language or access. When my brother nearly drowned on a family trip to the Dominican Republic, I helped resuscitate him alongside my mother. Later, when my sister was hit by a drunk driver, I cared for her while juggling school and work. Those experiences shaped my understanding of responsibility, urgency, and empathy—and made me realize how critical it is for people from marginalized communities to be in positions of knowledge and power. That’s why college matters so much to me. I’m studying neuroscience and economics at Pomona College, with the goal of becoming a neuro-oncologist. I’ve conducted research at Massachusetts General Hospital and Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, focusing on improving quality of life for brain cancer patients. But my dream goes beyond the lab. I want to build a hospital in rural Dominican Republic that merges medicine, mental health care, and cultural sensitivity—so families like mine don’t have to feel helpless when the systems fail them. Being a low-income student hasn’t just made college harder financially—it’s made me feel like I’m constantly catching up. While my peers might freely buy textbooks or access prep courses, I’ve worked retail jobs at Marshalls, TJ Maxx, and now Victoria’s Secret to help cover school expenses and support my family. Every dollar counts. I’ve become skilled at finding free PDFs, borrowing materials, and staying up late to get the most out of shared resources. But there’s a deep emotional cost to not being able to afford the very tools that could help me thrive. This scholarship would ease that burden and allow me to focus on what truly matters: learning. It would mean not choosing between books and groceries, not relying on borrowed copies or scraping together funds to access necessary readings. It would give me the freedom to invest fully in my education—because I know that every page I read brings me closer to a future where I can create change, not just for myself, but for every young girl watching me prove that it’s possible. College, for me, isn’t just a personal achievement—it’s a defiance of expectation, a rewriting of my family’s story, and a promise that I will turn everything I’ve endured into something powerful.

I’ve always believed that the human brain, like society, has vast networks waiting to be understood and nurtured. I chose to study neuroscience because I want to explore those networks not just in the mind, but also in medicine, economics, and the communities we build. As a first-generation Afro-Latina college student studying neuroscience and economics, my path hasn’t always been clear, but it has always been driven by purpose: to serve marginalized communities through science, advocacy, and policy reform. My short-term goal is to become a neuro-oncologist who leads research on brain tumors, specifically gliomas, while advocating for equitable care in underserved communities. But my long-term goal is even bigger: I plan to open a hospital in the rural Dominican Republic that centers the intersection of medicine, mental health, and cultural understanding. I want my work to empower people who have historically been overlooked by the healthcare system to give them not just treatment, but dignity. Being an underrepresented minority in STEM has added layers to my ambition. It means I’ve had to fight harder for visibility, respect, and access. In high school, I was often one of the only girls of color in advanced science classes. People underestimated me until they saw my work. At times, I questioned whether I truly belonged. But those doubts were always outweighed by my drive to represent others who look like me and to show younger students that we do belong in these spaces. During my time at Massachusetts General Hospital and Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, I saw how patients responded when they saw someone who looked like their daughters or granddaughters in a lab coat. Their trust meant everything. Financial challenges have always been part of my story. My family has faced medical debt, housing instability, and language barriers. As the eldest child, I’ve juggled school, caregiving, and work, often translating for my family at doctors’ offices, helping my siblings with homework, or working retail jobs to help with bills. These experiences shaped my resilience but also made me hyper-aware of the resources I lacked. This scholarship would help ease my financial burden, allowing me to focus more deeply on my studies, research, and community outreach without the looming stress of tuition or textbook costs. But more than anything, the SigaLa Education Scholarship would serve as a reminder that my voice, my culture, and my story matter in STEM. It would affirm that the field of neuroscience is better for having students like me in it and that our perspectives, especially when forged through adversity, are not obstacles, but assets. I’m not just pursuing STEM to build a career. I’m pursuing it to open doors for myself, for my family, and for every young girl who hasn’t yet seen herself in a scientist’s shoes.

Growing up in a densely populated city in Massachusetts, I witnessed how environmental neglect disproportionately impacts low-income communities. From lead-contaminated tap water to rising asthma rates due to poor air quality, I realized early on that environmental injustice doesn’t just hurt the planet, it hurts people, particularly those already burdened by systemic inequity. That realization sparked my passion for sustainability, not just as a concept, but as a necessary bridge between science, public health, and equity. Though I’m pursuing neuroscience and economics, I see environmental science as deeply intertwined with both fields. The brain cannot thrive in a polluted world. Communities cannot prosper with ecosystems in collapse. My goal is to approach sustainability as a systems issue, where the health of our minds, bodies, and economies relies on the health of our planet. I aim to contribute by designing policy-driven, community-based strategies that link environmental data with public health outcomes, ensuring that scientific findings don’t stay trapped in labs but lead to real-world change. To me, innovation lies in integration. Imagine hospitals powered by green infrastructure or community health initiatives that include clean air monitoring and climate education. In college, I plan to research how exposure to toxins like microplastics and PFAS affects neurological development, especially in underserved populations. I also want to study circular economies and how sustainable business practices can reshape supply chains in industries like healthcare and agriculture. I believe in strategies that are grassroots-informed and data-driven. One meaningful practice would be investing in local climate resilience through education and youth-led conservation programs. Another would be redesigning urban spaces with mental health and biodiversity in mind, creating green spaces that reduce heat islands, sequester carbon, and provide psychological relief. My career vision is to work at the intersection of neuro-oncology, environmental justice, and economic development. Whether that’s helping develop sustainable medical technologies, creating environmental impact frameworks for hospitals, or opening a neuro-oncology clinic in the Dominican Republic that also promotes ecological sustainability, I want to challenge the idea that healing people and healing the Earth are separate goals. They’re not. We cannot fight climate change in isolation, and we cannot build a better world without centering the most vulnerable. My education will equip me with the scientific, economic, and human understanding to create solutions that are sustainable, inclusive, and far-reaching. The Area 51 Miners Scholarship would empower me to take the next step in building a career committed to environmental stewardship, not just in words, but in lasting systems of change.

When I reflect on what it means to shine, motivate, inspire, lead, and excel, I think not of grand gestures, but of consistent, quiet acts of love and determination, especially in the face of adversity. As a high school senior, first-generation college student, and Afro-Latina from Lynn, Massachusetts, I’ve made it my mission to use my education to uplift not only myself, but also my family and community. Academically, I’ve challenged myself by enrolling in AP Biology, AP Calculus, and dual enrollment courses through Howard and Penn while maintaining a 4.2 GPA. But education, for me, is more than test scores. It’s what allows me to break cycles. It's the reason I stay up late translating medical documents for my grandfather, help my siblings with homework, and create workout groups to support mental health after my own battle with anxiety and depression. These moments have taught me the value of patience, resilience, and the importance of showing up even when no one is watching, just like John F. Puffer, Sr., did for his community. In my role as student council president and parliamentarian of the National Honor Society, I’ve worked to connect underclassmen with scholarships, college resources, and peer mentorships. At home, I lead weekly family reading nights, which I started after a traumatic experience in the Dominican Republic reminded me how fragile life can be. My younger siblings almost didn’t make it back home. That experience changed me. I now live each day with intentionmotivating others, leading with empathy, and choosing to leave a legacy built on compassion and action. Through my research on quality of life for glioma patients at Massachusetts General Hospital and Dana-Farber, I’ve also come to understand how meaningful a smile, a kind word, or a shared story can be for someone facing the unimaginable. These momentswhether they occur in a hospital room, classroom, or my own kitchen, are my way of shining for others. My journey hasn’t been easy. But with every hardship, I’ve chosen to rise. To shine. To inspire. And most of all, to lead not just with ambition, but with heart. I hope to become a neuro-oncologist and one day open a hospital in the rural Dominican Republic. But even now, before titles or degrees, I believe I’m already leaving a legacy rooted in service, love, and a refusal to give up. Receiving the John F. Puffer, Sr. S.M.I.L.E. Scholarship would not only honor my efforts but also remind my siblings and community that even in the face of challenge, our smiles and our stories can shape the future.

Growing up in a close-knit Afro-Latina family, I witnessed firsthand how health challenges ripple through families and communities. From caring for my younger siblings to supporting my sick grandfather, I learned early that health is not just a personal matter—it is a vital thread that weaves together the fabric of family, culture, and hope. These experiences, combined with my passion for science and empathy for those facing medical adversity, inspired me to pursue healthcare and health science, specifically focusing on neuro-oncology. I am currently an undergraduate student preparing to study neuroscience and economics at Pomona College, with the ultimate goal of becoming a neuro-oncologist. My fascination with the brain’s complexity is matched by my desire to improve the quality of life for patients facing brain tumors—particularly those diagnosed with IDH-mutant gliomas, a field where I have had the privilege to conduct research through summer programs at Dana-Farber and Massachusetts General Hospital. These experiences deepened my understanding of the disparities in care and quality of life outcomes that often affect underserved patients, especially younger adults who confront not only physical challenges but profound emotional and psychological ones. What drives me is the belief that healthcare must extend beyond treatment to embrace compassion, cultural understanding, and advocacy. In my community, many families face barriers such as language gaps, financial insecurity, and limited access to specialized care. These obstacles often mean late diagnoses and reduced survival chances. I want to change that narrative by working to make healthcare more equitable and accessible, by bridging the divide between medical science and the lived realities of marginalized populations. Through my future career, I aspire to not only treat illness but to uplift patients and their families with holistic support that respects their cultural identities and personal stories. I also want to contribute to research that prioritizes patient-reported outcomes and quality of life—because healing involves more than extending life; it means improving the experience of living. Choosing healthcare as my field of study is both a personal mission and a tribute to those who have inspired me. My younger brother survived a near-drowning incident thanks to quick action by my family, and my sister recovered from a severe accident caused by a drunk driver. These moments of crisis underscored how fragile life is and how vital skilled, compassionate care can be. They taught me resilience, responsibility, and the urgent need for advocates within the health system who look like and understand patients from diverse backgrounds. By receiving the Jeune-Mondestin Scholarship, I would be empowered to continue pursuing this path without the overwhelming burden of financial strain, allowing me to focus on developing the knowledge, skills, and empathy required to serve effectively. I am committed to honoring the legacy of Jeune-Mondestin by dedicating my education and future work to making a meaningful difference—improving lives through medicine, research, and community engagement.

Innovation doesn’t always begin in a lab or startup incubator—it can begin at a kitchen table, with a little sister who doesn’t understand her homework and a grandfather too sick to advocate for himself. As the oldest daughter of Afro-Latino immigrants in a low-income household, I’ve had to create my own path—one that blends service, resilience, and cultural pride to uplift not only my family, but my broader community. I’ve come to see myself as a trailblazer, not because I’ve had all the answers, but because I’ve consistently stepped into roles that didn’t exist and created solutions when none were offered. During the COVID-19 pandemic, my school community in Lynn, Massachusetts was hit hard. Many immigrant families, including mine, struggled with language barriers, misinformation, and job loss. While most focused on survival, I saw a need—and stepped up. I created a bilingual community resource binder that included information on food banks, rental assistance, and public health resources in both English and Spanish. I distributed the binder door-to-door in apartment complexes where I knew families were falling through the cracks. I wasn’t funded. I wasn’t asked. I just knew it had to be done. Beyond this, I created “Family Reading Nights” in my own home after my younger siblings, 6 and 8 years my junior, began falling behind academically. Three times a week, I’d gather them after dinner to read books together, translate new words, and ask reflection questions. Eventually, I began inviting my neighbors’ children too. What started as a small act of love became an informal tutoring circle—one centered on joy, cultural affirmation, and literacy. Many of the children were English learners, like my siblings, and I realized how rare it was for them to feel seen in academic spaces. So, I introduced bilingual stories that featured Afro-Caribbean and Latinx protagonists to make their learning feel rooted in identity, not shame. But being a trailblazer also means taking risks beyond your comfort zone. I became the first student from my school to intern at Massachusetts General Hospital through the YES for CURE program, where I conducted neuro-oncology research focused on improving quality of life for brain tumor patients. Most students in that lab didn’t look like me or come from my background, but I carried the stories of my community with me—especially those who’d never heard the word “glioma” but were dying from late diagnoses due to healthcare inequities. I used my position to advocate for inclusive patient-reported outcomes and to center underserved voices in research design. The projects I’ve led haven’t always had titles or certificates. But they’ve been bold, self-initiated, and rooted in a deep understanding of what my community needs: empathy, access, and representation. I don’t wait for opportunity—I create it. Whether I’m organizing schoolwide cultural celebrations or translating medical terminology for my family, I lead with a sense of duty to make space for those like me—those whose paths are often blocked before they begin. To me, trailblazing isn’t just about going far—it’s about looking back and extending your hand to the next person behind you. I hope to continue that work as I study neuroscience and economics at Pomona College, fusing science and policy to disrupt cycles of inequality and forge new paths for my community.

Sgt. Albert Dono Ware’s life reminds us that sacrifice doesn’t always begin on the battlefield. It often begins at home—when we choose to uplift others despite our own struggles, when we lead with love instead of fear, and when we fight for dignity in spaces that have long denied us that right. Though I never met Sgt. Ware, his legacy resonates deeply with me. As an Afro-Latina and first-generation college student raised in a working-class home, I have come to see service not as a choice, but as a responsibility. And like Sgt. Ware, I intend to serve—through advocacy, healing, and reform—for the sake of those whose voices are too often silenced. My journey started in Lynn, Massachusetts, a city where poverty, racism, and underfunded schools are everyday realities. As the eldest of three, I became a caretaker and translator for my family from a young age. When my grandfather became ill, I helped manage his medications and translated his hospital visits. When my siblings fell behind in school, I taught them how to read and speak English. I never thought of it as service—it was just love in action. But as I got older and stepped into leadership roles—president of student council, parliamentarian of National Honor Society—I realized how powerful structured service could be in transforming communities. One initiative I’m most proud of is a community resource drive I organized during the pandemic, distributing bilingual health pamphlets and PPE to families with limited access to information. In my neighborhood, many immigrants didn’t understand how to protect themselves from COVID-19 because public health campaigns weren’t designed with them in mind. That experience showed me how systemic neglect—especially toward Black immigrants and Afro-Latinos—has devastating consequences. It also made me realize that real change must go beyond individual acts of service. We need systemic reform. The African diaspora in the U.S. faces compounded barriers: economic inequality, healthcare disparities, cultural erasure, and educational exclusion. As I pursue a degree in neuroscience and economics, I plan to bridge science with policy to address these inequities, particularly in healthcare access for underrepresented communities. One of the most critical reforms, in my view, is the expansion of culturally competent mental health services. Too many in our diaspora suffer in silence. Stigma around mental health persists, while access remains limited by cost, language, and institutional bias. I envision a model where community-based mental health centers are embedded into schools, churches, and local nonprofits—staffed by professionals who reflect and understand the cultural contexts of their patients. These centers would not only provide therapy but also mentorship, education, and trauma-informed care. To make this vision a reality, we must engage a wide range of stakeholders: Local governments to fund and support infrastructure. Black and immigrant-led nonprofits to ensure cultural relevance. Academic institutions to train a diverse mental health workforce. Faith-based leaders to reduce stigma and increase trust. Youth organizers and peer advocates to build grassroots momentum and sustainability. In tandem with healthcare reform, I believe educational access is another cornerstone of empowerment. Programs like STEM pipeline initiatives must specifically center Black immigrant youth, who are often overlooked in both Black and immigrant-focused policies. As someone who has conducted cancer research at Mass General Hospital and Dana-Farber, I know firsthand how transformative representation in science can be—for both the researcher and the patient. Sgt. Ware's bravery, especially as an immigrant serving his adopted country, reminds me that those who leave their homelands often do so with the hope of building something better—for their families, and for the future. That dream should not be dimmed by barriers, but ignited through opportunity. In honoring him, we are called to build that future—not just for ourselves, but for every member of the diaspora who longs to be seen, valued, and supported. I carry that torch forward, not in uniform, but in action. Through public health, education, and policy, I intend to serve my community with the same values Sgt. Ware exemplified: service, sacrifice, and bravery. And I do so not alone, but as part of a growing collective of young leaders determined to rewrite what justice and equity look like in America.

As a first-generation Afro-Latina student from Lynn, Massachusetts, I’ve never seen STEM as just a field of study—it’s been my way of understanding and healing the world around me. Growing up, I wasn’t surrounded by scientists or doctors. I was raised by hardworking parents who often didn’t understand the systems they had to navigate, from school applications to hospital paperwork. That’s where I stepped in—not just as a daughter or big sister, but as a translator, a caretaker, and often, the problem-solver. Those early responsibilities shaped my love for neuroscience and medicine, where I see the power of inquiry, empathy, and community all come together. What drives my passion for neuroscience isn’t only the science itself, but the people it touches. I’ve conducted research at Dana-Farber and Massachusetts General Hospital, focusing on the quality of life in patients with gliomas—many of whom are young, facing terminal diagnoses, and looking for comfort more than cures. I remember speaking to a Navy SEAL expecting his first child, and a retired nurse being treated in the same hospital where she once worked. These conversations solidified that I want to do more than treat illnesses—I want to honor lives. I plan to become a neuro-oncologist and, eventually, open a hospital in rural Dominican Republic, where access to care remains a privilege. Throughout high school, I’ve taken every chance to give back. I serve as student council president and National Honor Society parliamentarian, roles through which I’ve organized scholarship-sharing initiatives for younger students, connecting them to resources I never had. I also run before-school workout groups that help students manage mental health—something I deeply care about after overcoming my own battles with anxiety and depression. Even through jobs at Marshalls, TJ Maxx, and now Victoria’s Secret, I’ve learned how to lead with compassion and communicate across diverse communities. Service, to me, isn’t a checklist—it’s a way of living with others in mind. Majoring in neuroscience and economics at Pomona College will provide the foundation I need to explore both the biological complexity of the brain and the structural barriers that prevent equitable healthcare. I believe STEM shouldn’t just be about advancing knowledge—it should be about using that knowledge to dismantle barriers. With my education, I’ll continue conducting research that centers patient well-being, advocate for culturally competent care, and design health systems that reach the most neglected corners of our world. Winning this scholarship would ease the financial pressure of attending a rigorous institution and allow me to focus on my research and leadership initiatives. More importantly, it would affirm that there’s space in STEM for students like me—students who look like me, who carry their culture and community in everything they do, and who aren’t afraid to take up space and lead boldly. STEM needs more than representation—it needs transformation. And I plan to bring both.

Becoming a medical doctor has never been a distant dream for me—it’s been a necessity born from lived experience. As a first-generation Afro-Latina student raised in a low-income household, I’ve long known that I would need to fight for a seat at the table in a healthcare system that has not always served families like mine. But I also know this: I don’t just want to make it into medicine. I want to change it from the inside out. Growing up, I was the primary interpreter and caregiver in my household. My mom relied on me during medical visits, my grandfather—now chronically ill—leans on me for support, and I’ve been responsible for raising my younger siblings, especially after near-death emergencies during a family trip to the Dominican Republic. I wasn’t just reading medical discharge summaries as a teenager—I was emotionally translating life-or-death decisions for my family. These experiences sparked my interest in medicine, but more importantly, they cemented my commitment to becoming a doctor who is deeply attuned to the real, human side of care. The path hasn’t been easy. My family has always had to stretch every dollar. There were days when internet service was uncertain, and others when I couldn’t afford tutoring or prep courses like many of my peers. I’ve worked since the age of 16 to help cover household bills—from Marshalls to Victoria’s Secret—while balancing AP classes, research fellowships at hospitals like Dana-Farber and Massachusetts General, and leading student government. The financial burden has been heavy, but it’s also built a fire in me that doesn’t burn out. That fire is why I want to become a neuro-oncologist. In my research, I’ve studied patients with IDH-mutant gliomas and learned that care doesn’t end with the diagnosis—it extends into the emotional and spiritual spaces we often ignore in medicine. I sat with a 9/11 firefighter, a young veteran about to become a father, and a retired nurse receiving treatment in her former workplace. These stories grounded me. They made me realize that the best doctors don’t just treat diseases—they witness the fullness of their patients’ lives. The obstacles I’ve faced have given me not just grit, but perspective. I know what it’s like to go unheard, to be treated like your background makes you unworthy of the same care. That will never be the kind of physician I become. Instead, I will be the one who listens longer, who learns my patients' languages—both spoken and unspoken—and who never forgets that health equity is not a buzzword, but a responsibility. I carry my community with me into every classroom, lab, and clinical space. Becoming an M.D. will give me the tools to care for them more powerfully—and to one day open a hospital in rural Dominican Republic, where access is limited but the need is great. This scholarship would not just ease a financial burden—it would be an investment in a future doctor who sees healing as a deeply personal, justice-driven mission.

I chose to pursue a career in healthcare—specifically neuro-oncology—because I believe every person, no matter their background, deserves access to compassionate, culturally competent, and life-affirming care. As a first-generation student from a low-income Afro-Latina family, I have seen firsthand how structural inequities in the medical system can determine the trajectory of a person’s life. My goal is to transform those inequities into opportunities for healing, understanding, and empowerment, especially for underserved communities like my own. My passion for medicine began long before I stepped into a hospital research lab. As the translator and medical advocate for my Spanish-speaking family, I was the bridge between my loved ones and the system that often overlooked or misunderstood them. I helped my grandparents manage their medications, sat with my mother through appointments she couldn’t navigate alone, and supported my siblings through their own near-death medical emergencies. These experiences weren’t exceptional in my community—they were normal. But they shouldn’t have to be. That sense of responsibility grew into something more during my summer research experiences at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and Massachusetts General Hospital, where I studied quality of life outcomes in patients with IDH-mutant gliomas. These patients—many of them young, vibrant individuals with families and dreams—opened my eyes to the emotional toll of illness. I sat beside a Navy SEAL preparing to become a father, a 9/11 firefighter survivor, and a retired nurse being treated in the same facility where she once saved lives. Their stories were full of fear, hope, grief, and resilience. They taught me that while medicine can extend life, it must also enrich it. I chose neuro-oncology because it demands both precision and empathy. The brain holds not only our cognition, but our identity, our memories, our ability to connect with others. When something threatens that, it doesn’t just alter biology—it disrupts lives. I want to be the kind of physician who understands that. Someone who listens before treating, who sees culture not as a barrier but as a guide to better care. Eventually, I want to open a hospital in rural Dominican Republic, where access to specialized care is scarce and stigma around mental health and neurological illness remains high. My dream is to build a space where care is not transactional but transformational—where patients are treated not just for their illnesses, but as whole human beings with complex histories and deep cultural roots. Dr. Michael Paglia’s legacy as a compassionate surgical oncologist inspires me because it reminds me that longevity in medicine is not measured just in years, but in lives touched. Receiving this scholarship would not only support my educational journey but affirm my belief that students like me—me-first-generation, low-income, and full of heart—belong in the operating rooms, the research labs, and the community clinics of tomorrow. I carry my community with me in every lecture, every research paper, and every patient interaction. I chose healthcare because I believe healing shouldn’t be a privilege. With the right support, I will help create a future where it’s a right.

I am the daughter of Dominican immigrants, a first-generation college student, and an aspiring neuro-oncologist studying neuroscience and economics at Pomona College. My career goal may be rooted in science, but my drive is rooted in people—specifically those too often left behind by our healthcare system. Growing up in a household where I translated medical jargon for my grandparents and advocated for my siblings in doctor’s offices, I quickly realized that healthcare was not equally accessible for everyone. Language barriers, cultural stigma, and a lack of resources shaped nearly every interaction we had with the medical system. These experiences were my first exposure to the painful reality that where you are born, what language you speak, or how much you earn can determine the quality—and sometimes even the length—of your life. These early lessons deepened when I began caring for my sick grandfather. His struggle with alcoholism and later chronic illness mirrored what I now understand as generational trauma and the intersection of addiction and healthcare neglect. Watching my mother shoulder the weight of his care while raising children of her own showed me the silent strength that women in my family carry—but also made me question why they had to carry it alone. My response has been to never stay silent. At Dana-Farber and Massachusetts General Hospital, I’ve conducted research on quality of life in patients with IDH-mutant gliomas. It was here that I spoke with patients whose lives—though terminal—were full of hope, purpose, and questions that couldn’t be answered by medicine alone. These conversations taught me that healing is more than treatment; it’s listening, advocating, and making sure dignity remains part of the patient experience. Beyond science, I lead with service. I mentor underclassmen through Minds Matter Boston, serve as the parliamentarian of my school’s National Honor Society, and organize family workout groups inspired by my own battle with depression. When school stress became too much, I turned to movement and therapy—then created spaces where others could do the same. Healing, I’ve learned, is not linear, but it is contagious when shared. I want to become a physician who doesn’t just treat tumors, but also rewrites the experience of care for communities like mine—where mistrust runs deep and compassion is often lacking. I plan to build clinics in rural Dominican Republic, where I can combine Western medical training with culturally respectful care. In doing so, I hope to prove that healthcare can be both advanced and human. Receiving this scholarship in honor of Catrina Celestine Aquilino would mean continuing the legacy of a woman who believed in service beyond borders and care beyond conditions. Like her, I believe justice and dignity should never be conditional. I may be young, but I am already standing on the shoulders of those who came before me—my mother, my grandfather, and my patients. And with every step forward, I plan to reach back and lift others up with me.

I grew up in a home where silence echoed louder than words. My family, while loving and close-knit, carried the unspoken weight of trauma. My grandfather, a strong and proud man, struggled with alcohol addiction for much of my life. It was the uninvited presence at every family gathering—the slurred words, the unpredictability, the worry on my mother’s face. While he never laid a hand on us, the emotional scars were real: walking on eggshells, hiding pain behind forced smiles, and pretending everything was okay in a culture that often tells us to keep family business private. As a young Afro-Latina woman, I’ve come to understand how deeply these experiences affect the trajectory of our lives—especially for African American women. We’re often seen as strong, as caretakers, as unshakable. But strength isn’t the absence of pain—it’s surviving in spite of it. Watching my mother support not only her children but also my grandfather through his addiction taught me what resilience looks like. It also showed me how systems fail us—how addiction and trauma, especially in Black communities, are met with judgment instead of healing. That’s why I’m pursuing neuroscience and economics at Pomona College. I want to understand not only the science behind trauma, addiction, and mental health, but also the systemic barriers—poverty, access, racism—that keep Black women from getting the care they deserve. My goal is to become a neuro-oncologist, but not one who only treats disease—I want to be a bridge between medicine and community. I believe that improving outcomes for African American women means listening first: to their stories, their needs, and their pain. Already, I’ve seen the power of listening through my research at Dana-Farber and Massachusetts General Hospital, where I focused on quality of life for brain cancer patients. Many of these patients, like a retired Black nurse treated in her former hospital, shared how trauma and mistrust shaped their health decisions. Their honesty reminded me that medicine isn’t just about treatment plans—it’s about trust, transparency, and cultural understanding. Beyond medicine, I give back by mentoring younger students through programs like Minds Matter and by leading my school’s National Honor Society, where I connect low-income students to scholarships and mental health resources. I also host workout groups before school, a tradition born from my own journey with depression. Movement became my medicine when therapy felt too heavy. Now, I share that space with others—especially Black and brown girls—who just need someone to say, “I see you. You’re not alone.” Receiving the Linda Hicks Memorial Scholarship would not only honor my family's story—it would amplify it. It would remind me that healing is generational, and that my education is not just for me, but for every girl who has ever felt silenced by addiction, trauma, or shame. I plan to keep showing up—for my patients, my community, and most importantly, for the little girl in me who once thought survival was enough. Now, I know: we deserve more than survival. We deserve joy, safety, and futures shaped by choice, not circumstance.

Service, for me, began at home—long before I had a title or leadership role. As the oldest daughter in a low-income, Afro-Latina, immigrant household, I became the bridge between my Spanish-speaking family and the English-speaking world. I translated documents, sat in on my grandfather’s medical appointments, helped my younger siblings learn English, and taught them how to navigate a system that often wasn’t built for people like us. I didn’t see this as community service at the time; I saw it as love. Since then, I’ve intentionally expanded that love into the broader community. I serve as the parliamentarian of my high school’s National Honor Society, where I run a mentorship initiative that connects upperclassmen with underclassmen, sharing resources like scholarships and leadership opportunities. I’m also the president of student council, where I’ve worked to make school a more inclusive and joyful space through spirit days, peer support initiatives, and events that bring students together after years of pandemic-induced disconnection. In my school’s broadcasting class, I help capture these moments on camera—documenting joy and unity as a form of community-building. I’ve also volunteered through programs like Minds Matter and The Academy Group, which aim to close equity gaps in education for students of color. But my deepest form of service lies in healthcare. Through research at Dana-Farber and Massachusetts General Hospital, I’ve had the privilege of working directly with patients living with brain cancer. I’ve heard stories from a 9/11 firefighter survivor, a young Navy SEAL expecting his first child, and a retired nurse being treated in the same hospital where she once healed others. These patients have shaped my understanding of what it means to serve—not just by treating disease, but by honoring people’s humanity. That’s why I focused my research on improving quality of life in patients with IDH-mutant gliomas—because even in their final chapters, patients deserve dignity, comfort, and hope. Looking ahead, I plan to become a neuro-oncologist and later open a hospital in rural Dominican Republic, where my family is from. Many communities there lack access to specialized care and basic resources. I want to change that. I want to be the doctor who listens, who speaks your language, who sees you not as a diagnosis, but as a full person with a story. I also hope to continue mentoring first-generation students in medicine, because opening doors isn’t enough—we need to walk through them together. Service is not something I turn on and off—it’s the foundation of everything I do. It shows up in my schoolwork, my job as a retail worker helping support my family, and in every conversation where I choose compassion over convenience. Receiving this scholarship would be more than financial support—it would be a recognition of the values I live by and the future I’m committed to building. Like Priscilla Shireen Luke, I believe that hope is meant to be shared—and I plan to spend my life doing just that.

There was a time last year when I couldn’t leave my room. I’d been pushing myself to be the “strong one”—at school, at home, even when I was breaking inside. My mind and body eventually gave out from stress and burnout. I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety in early 2024 after months of struggling to manage the expectations of being a high-achieving student, a caretaker for my grandfather and younger siblings, and a translator for my Spanish-speaking family. The pressure to succeed—both for myself and my family—often felt overwhelming. At one point, I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like I was drowning in silence. But I didn’t stay in that place. Through therapy and exercise, I began to heal. I started inviting classmates to join me for morning workouts before school, turning fitness into a shared outlet. I didn’t expect others to show up—but they did. And I realized that I wasn’t the only one carrying heavy things alone. That’s when I began using my voice differently—not just to translate at doctor’s appointments or help my mom understand the mail, but to uplift others who were silently struggling like me. Growing up low-income in a single-parent immigrant household, I’ve faced more obstacles than opportunities. My siblings nearly died during a family trip to the Dominican Republic—my brother from drowning, my sister from being hit by a drunk driver on a motorcycle. I was there for both incidents, helping save my brother and holding my sister as she cried. Those moments changed me. They made me treasure the fragile, fleeting nature of life. Since then, I’ve done everything I can to give back: organizing family reading nights, building community through student council, leading the National Honor Society, and conducting research on quality of life in patients with terminal brain cancer. Still, finances remain one of my biggest challenges. I currently work at Victoria’s Secret to help support my family while balancing school, internships, and caregiving. As much as I love research and aspire to become a neuro-oncologist, there are times I question whether I can afford to continue this path. This scholarship would give me a moment to breathe—less time worrying about money, more time focusing on school, patients, and my community. To me, “Not all stars must fall” means that people like me—Afro-Latina, low-income, first-generation—deserve to rise, too. It’s a reminder that brilliance doesn’t always look polished or perfect. Sometimes it looks like resilience in the face of everything trying to dim your light. This scholarship would not only support my education; it would validate every late night, every translated form, every step I’ve taken to lift others even while lifting myself. I carry Khai Perry’s message with me: to be a light, especially when it’s hardest. Thank you for considering me.

Some mornings, showing up to school felt like climbing a mountain. Not because I didn’t want to learn, but because my mind and body felt like they were betraying me. In early 2024, I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. At first, it manifested as constant exhaustion. Then came the stress paralysis—days when I physically couldn’t move from bed. I stopped eating properly, skipped assignments, and avoided friends. I wasn’t lazy or unmotivated—I was overwhelmed by an invisible weight. Every school day, I faced a war inside my head before even walking through the front door. At the same time, I was juggling responsibilities that made life more complicated: taking care of my grandfather while he was sick, translating for my entire Spanish-speaking family, helping raise my younger siblings, and working jobs at Marshalls, TJ Maxx, and now Victoria’s Secret to help at home. There were days I went to school with only three hours of sleep because my brother had a nightmare or my sister needed help with an essay. I didn’t have the luxury to fall apart—people depended on me. Still, I knew that education was my way forward. I couldn’t let these struggles be the end of my story. I decided to fight back—with support. I started therapy and, slowly, I learned how to identify and regulate my emotions. My friends and I formed a small workout group in the mornings to release stress before classes. Exercise gave me a way to reclaim my body from anxiety. I created a family reading night three times a week so I could stay close to my siblings and help them in a way that also recharged me. Most importantly, I focused on what I could control: how I responded to difficulty. I became president of my school’s student council and parliamentarian of the National Honor Society. I used my platform to share mental health resources, send scholarships to underclassmen, and foster community in our school through our weekly broadcast, The Spot. I still struggle. Some days are harder than others. But now, I face them with the mindset I share with my siblings: we may not control our circumstances, but we can control how we show up. Like Braiden Norton, I have learned that courage is not the absence of struggle—it’s perseverance despite it. Today, I stand proud as a graduating senior, soon to be a neuroscience and economics student at Pomona College. I hope to one day become a neuro-oncologist and return to serve rural communities like the one my family came from in the Dominican Republic. Because I know what it’s like to fight just to show up—and I want to help others do the same.

My name is Cindy Concepcion, and I am a first-generation Afro-Latina college-bound student from Lynn, Massachusetts. Raised in a low-income household, I’ve spent my life translating not only between Spanish and English for my family, but between the world we come from and the one we’re striving to build. I’ve grown up in the quiet space between hardship and hope, determined to transform my family's struggles into stepping stones toward something greater. What makes me a strong candidate for the Mark Green Memorial Scholarship is not just my academic record, a 4.0 GPA, AP coursework, and research in neuro-oncology, but my lived experience and commitment to service. Like Mr. Green, I believe in education as a transformative force. I also understand the power of resilience: when my brother nearly drowned during a family trip and I helped resuscitate him, and when my sister was hit by a drunk driver in the Dominican Republic, I learned the urgency of care and the fragility of life. These moments helped solidify my goal: to become a neuro-oncologist and eventually open a hospital in rural Dominican Republic, where families like mine can receive quality care regardless of language, income, or ZIP code. Throughout high school, I’ve juggled caregiving responsibilities, three part-time jobs, and community leadership roles. At Dana-Farber and Mass General, I worked closely with patients suffering from gliomas, many of them young, scared, and unsure about their futures. I listened to their stories, helped analyze quality-of-life data, and realized that healing isn't just about medicine, it's about dignity, trust, and being seen. It’s about building systems of care that recognize the humanity of every patient. In my community, I already work to make a difference. I serve as the student council president and parliamentarian of the National Honor Society, where I send scholarship opportunities to underclassmen and organize events that foster connection. I also lead wellness workouts before school, helping my peers cope with stress. After overcoming my battle with anxiety and depression, I learned the importance of showing up not just academically, but emotionally, for yourself and others. With the support of this scholarship, I will be attending Pomona College this fall to study neuroscience and economics. I chose these fields because I want to understand both the science of brain disease and the systemic inequalities that limit access to care. I want to become the kind of doctor who doesn’t just treat symptoms, but also challenges structures, who creates hospitals that are not just places of healing, but hubs for generational change. Like Mark Anthony Green, I believe in making every opportunity count. His story reminds me that our past does not limit our future; it fuels it. I am not just pursuing a degree; I am carrying the legacy of my family, and I hope one day, the families I serve will carry mine.

I believe that positive change starts with understanding and that understanding begins with listening. For me, that listening has happened behind pharmacy counters, in dressing rooms at TJ Maxx, on the floor of Marshalls helping a mother find shoes her son would like, and in whispered Spanish-English translations during my grandfather’s checkups. Service work has shaped how I see the world and how I want to change it. As a first-generation Afro-Latina student from Lynn, Massachusetts, I’ve spent the past few years balancing AP coursework, leadership roles, and jobs at retail stores, all while caring for my younger siblings and sick grandfather. These roles taught me not just how to manage time, but how to tune in to people’s needs, spoken and unspoken. I’ve learned that showing up consistently, whether it’s for a customer, a patient, or a classmate, is one of the most powerful forms of care. That sense of care is what drew me to medicine and to the people medicine often overlooks. I want to become a neuro-oncologist and later open a hospital in rural Dominican Republic, where my family is from. My goal isn’t just to treat brain cancer, but to make healthcare more humane, especially for underserved patients. During my summer research at Dana-Farber and Mass General, I studied how brain cancer patients experience quality of life and got to hear stories that solidified my calling. One patient, a 9/11 firefighter survivor, told me, “I’m not afraid to die. I’m afraid of being forgotten.” His words didn’t leave me. They reminded me that healing is just as emotional as it is medical. Higher education will be my launchpad for building the skills, relationships, and knowledge I need to give back. At Pomona College, I plan to study neuroscience and economics fields that will allow me to understand the science behind treatment and the systems that determine who gets access to it. I want to bridge the gaps I’ve seen firsthand: the language barriers, the rushed appointments, the lack of providers who look or speak like us. With the right education, I hope to become a doctor who doesn’t just save lives but transforms how care is delivered. Beyond medicine, I plan to continue mentoring students like me, first-gen, low-income, and underrepresented. I currently serve as student council president and NHS parliamentarian, and I regularly send scholarships to underclassmen and run pre-class workout sessions to help students manage stress. Education has helped me become a leader in my community. With college, I’ll have even more tools to inspire, uplift, and create lasting change. This scholarship would help reduce the financial burden of college and allow me to focus more on my studies, research, and service work. More than that, it would affirm that people like me, people raised between two cultures, two languages, and two worlds, deserve a seat at the table of impact. I’m not waiting until I become a doctor to make a difference. I’m already doing it. But with your support, I’ll be able to do it bigger, better, and for many more people.

As an aspiring neuro-oncologist, my ultimate goal is to provide compassionate care and advocate for patients who often feel overlooked by the medical system. I aim to focus on quality-of-life research for brain tumor patients and ultimately return to the Dominican Republic to establish a hospital in my grandparents’ rural hometown, one that not only addresses their medical needs but also their entire stories. I’ve seen what it means to be unseen in healthcare. Growing up as an Afro-Latina, I was often the translator during doctor visits for my immigrant family. I watched the frustration in my mother’s face as she tried to understand rushed medical explanations, and I noticed how different the care felt when a provider looked like us when they slowed down, asked questions, or knew how to pronounce our names. These early experiences planted a seed: What if I could be that doctor who not only heals, but understands? During my summers at Dana-Farber and Mass General, I had the chance to speak with brain cancer patients, many of whom were younger, working-class, and overwhelmed by their diagnoses. One former nurse told me, “I’ve spent my life helping patients. It’s strange to be one now.” Another patient, a Black Navy SEAL, told me how isolated he felt navigating both illness and identity. These moments reminded me that healthcare isn’t just about medicine. It’s about listening. And when patients don’t see themselves in their providers, it can deepen their fear and erode their trust. Only 4% of physicians in the U.S. are Black. That number matters. It means fewer mentors for students like me. Fewer doctors understand the impact of systemic racism on physical and mental health. Fewer providers who can catch subtle cultural cues or offer care that respects both science and story. Increasing racial diversity in healthcare is not just a moral issue, it’s a clinical one. Representation saves lives. My career will be built on both medicine and movement. I want to conduct research that addresses disparities in brain cancer care, especially among young adults and racial minorities. I also hope to mentor students from similar backgrounds, proving that you don’t have to choose between where you come from and where you want to go. This scholarship would not only support my academic journey, but it would help me fulfill a promise I’ve made to every patient, every sibling I’ve translated for, and every underrepresented student I’ve met: that our stories deserve a place in the healthcare system. And that I will fight to make that place bigger.

As a future neuro-oncologist and proud Afro-Latina, I am deeply committed to confronting the healthcare disparities that impact Black women particularly in cancer care. My passion for health equity was born from personal experience: growing up in a low-income household, I watched my mother and grandmother navigate language barriers, medical mistrust, and delayed diagnoses that compromised their care. I translated during appointments and advocated for them when they couldn't advocate for themselves. These early responsibilities sparked my drive to pursue medicine and, more importantly, to make it more equitable. During high school, I completed two competitive research internships at Dana-Farber and Massachusetts General Hospital. Under the mentorship of Dr. Deborah A. Forst, I investigated quality-of-life outcomes for patients with IDH-mutant gliomas. In this work, I spoke with patients including women of color who were navigating life-limiting diagnoses with resilience and fear. I noticed how often Black women shared stories of misdiagnosis or felt unheard in clinical settings. These conversations affirmed the need for culturally competent care and empowered me to use my voice and research to champion patient dignity. Receiving the She Rose in Health Equity Scholarship would support my journey at Pomona College, where I will study neuroscience and economics to understand both the biological and systemic roots of healthcare inequity. I plan to participate in community-based research efforts, lead student health advocacy groups, and return to Washington, D.C. for summer internships focused on maternal health equity and the mental health of Black women. My long-term goal is to open a hospital in the rural Dominican Republic that integrates culturally responsive care, public health education, and workforce development for underrepresented students. I want to ensure that no girl grows up thinking quality healthcare is a privilege instead of a right. This scholarship will help me continue building the knowledge, networks, and leadership experience I need to dismantle inequitable systems and empower Black women and girls to thrive in their bodies, communities, and futures.

I grew up behind the counter of El Cafe Molino, my father’s small restaurant in Lynn, Massachusetts. I didn’t need a menu I knew every dish by heart. It wasn’t just a place where customers ate; it was where my siblings did homework, where I watched my mom step in as a waitress when she couldn’t find a job during the COVID-19 pandemic, and where I learned the weight of survival in a world that favors the big over the local. When the pandemic hit, El Cafe Molino shut its doors. Our community felt it our family lived it. We scrambled to build an outdoor seating area as restrictions lifted, but the financial strain was suffocating. Rent didn’t stop. Utilities didn’t pause. And corporate chain restaurants with drive-thrus and delivery apps dominated the landscape. We didn’t have an app or marketing team. We had family. We had grit. But grit doesn’t always pay the bills. Watching my parents struggle to keep our dream alive ignited something in me: a commitment to equity in the restaurant industry. If I could change the restaurant industry, I would build a digital support system tailored to immigrant- and family-owned businesses starting with a no-cost app that connects them to local customers, multilingual grant resources, and affordable tech tools for menu design, payroll, and delivery coordination. Most small restaurants don’t fail because of the food; they fail because the business side is often inaccessible, especially to those who don’t speak English as a first language or who don’t have the funds to hire support. I’d also advocate for a government-backed “Main Street Relief Fund,” offering tax incentives to small restaurants that serve under-resourced communities and face rising competition from national chains. These businesses feed us more than meals they feed culture, language, and identity. El Cafe Molino taught me what resilience looks like but it also taught me how close resilience can come to breaking. I want to ensure no other family restaurant has to fight so hard just to exist. As a future neuro-oncologist and economics student at Pomona College, I’ll bring the same fire I’ve seen in my parents into every venture I pursue bridging gaps in healthcare and entrepreneurship alike. The smell of plantains frying, the sound of salsa playing in the background, the way my dad greets every customer by name these details shaped me. They gave me empathy, drive, and a deep desire to preserve what matters most: community. And with this scholarship, I’d get one step closer to creating a world where small restaurants can not only survive but thrive.

As an Afro-Latina and a bisexual individual, I’ve learned the importance of embracing my authentic self while navigating the complexities of cultural and societal expectations. Growing up, I faced moments of uncertainty, trying to reconcile my personal identity with the world around me. However, the support I’ve received from the LGBTQ+ community has been a source of strength, and it’s shaped me into the person I am today. Being bisexual in a world that often favors heteronormative perspectives hasn’t always been easy. I’ve experienced both invisibility and occasional misunderstanding, which has made me more passionate about ensuring that everyone, regardless of their sexual orientation, feels seen and valued. My journey has also deepened my understanding of the importance of fostering inclusive spaces where people can express themselves without fear of rejection or discrimination. Throughout high school, I’ve worked to support my LGBTQ+ peers in both personal and academic settings. As president of my student council and parliamentarian of the National Honor Society, I’ve used my position to advocate for inclusivity, ensuring that all students, regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity, feel safe and welcome. I’ve also volunteered with various organizations to promote mental health awareness and visibility for LGBTQ+ individuals. These experiences have made me realize that visibility, support, and kindness are key to overcoming the struggles that many in the LGBTQ+ community face. My passion for advocating for the LGBTQ+ community extends beyond my school and extracurricular involvement. I’ve actively participated in discussions surrounding LGBTQ+ issues, especially concerning mental health, access to care, and the challenges faced by marginalized groups within the LGBTQ+ community. As I pursue a degree in neuroscience and economics, I hope to explore how systemic barriers affect mental health, particularly within LGBTQ+ communities. My goal is to become a neuro-oncologist, specializing in care for LGBTQ+ patients, ensuring that they receive not only the best medical care but also the emotional and psychological support they deserve. The Star Farm Scholarship would significantly help me achieve these goals. Financially, it would ease the burden of college expenses, allowing me to focus more on my education and advocacy work. It would also provide me with the resources to continue my involvement in LGBTQ+ advocacy, where I can further develop my efforts to create inclusive, supportive environments for everyone. In conclusion, being part of the LGBTQ+ community as a bisexual individual has deeply shaped my understanding of the importance of community, support, and inclusion. With the support of this scholarship, I will continue my education with the goal of becoming a neuro-oncologist who advocates for the health and well-being of LGBTQ+ individuals, ensuring that everyone, regardless of sexual orientation, has the opportunity to thrive.

Mental health has long been a topic shrouded in silence, especially in my family and community. Growing up, I was often expected to “push through” feelings of stress, anxiety, and overwhelm, as they were seen as weaknesses. However, it wasn’t until I encountered my own mental health struggles that I realized how deeply this silence affected my ability to truly understand myself and others. My journey with mental health has not only shaped my approach to life but has also influenced my career aspirations to become a neuro-oncologist, where empathy for patients is paramount. In early 2024, the stress of juggling academics, extracurriculars, and responsibilities at home took a heavy toll on my mental health. I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety, which left me feeling paralyzed. I found myself unable to focus on my work, retreating from the world, and spiraling into a place where it felt impossible to move forward. Yet, it was during this difficult time that I discovered how crucial it is to take care of one’s mental well-being. Encouraged by friends and family, I began therapy and discovered the power of exercise to relieve stress. Gradually, I was able to regain control, and I found strength in sharing my experience with others. This journey has fundamentally changed how I approach my relationships. I now recognize the importance of being open and honest about my feelings, both with myself and with others. It’s made me more empathetic toward those who struggle silently with mental health challenges. I also learned that mental health is a community issue, and by supporting each other, we can create environments where people feel safe enough to seek help. As a student council president and parliamentarian of the National Honor Society, I’ve worked to foster these conversations in my school, encouraging my peers to support each other in a more open and understanding way. These leadership roles have taught me how crucial it is to build a community that prioritizes mental well-being. My experience has also impacted my career goals. I’ve always been interested in science, and after conducting research in neuro-oncology, I realized how mental health and brain health are deeply connected. As I continue on my path toward becoming a neuro-oncologist, I’m driven by the desire to offer both physical and emotional support to my patients, many of whom face life-threatening illnesses like gliomas. Through my work, I hope to help them navigate not only their physical health but also the mental challenges that come with their diagnoses. In the future, I want to create an environment where patients and families feel heard, cared for, and empowered to manage their mental health, just as I’ve learned to manage my own. Through the challenges I’ve faced, I’ve gained a deeper understanding of myself and the world around me. My mental health struggles have made me more resilient and compassionate, and they’ve reinforced my passion for science and healthcare. I hope to inspire others by showing them that mental health challenges don’t have to define who we are. Instead, they can be part of our journey toward becoming the people we’re meant to be.

The best thing about Earth isn’t something I can hold. It’s something I feel. It’s when my feet sink into the sand and the ocean breeze hits my face. It’s the rhythm of waves echoing in my ears and the sun wrapping me in its warmth. My favorite thing about this planet is the coastlines, their calm, their beauty, their role as a barrier and a lifeline. But those coasts are disappearing, and I’m not just watching it happen. Growing up in Massachusetts, I’ve always lived close enough to the ocean to feel its pulse in my daily life. But I’ve also seen that pulse weaken. Plastic is tangled in seaweed. Discolored water after heavy rains. Storms are getting stronger, tides reaching farther, and erosion stealing inches of shore every year. For me, environmentalism isn’t abstract, it’s a matter of protecting the places that raised me. My work began locally. I volunteered with Green Lynn, a city-led initiative that cleaned up parks and waterfronts. Every weekend, I collected litter, logged data on waste types, and educated younger kids about plastic pollution. I was part of a campaign that successfully pushed for more recycling bins along our beaches and nature trails. Later, I joined a student coalition that petitioned for our school to stop using Styrofoam in the cafeteria. It worked. We transitioned to biodegradable trays by the end of the year. Then I took things further. I helped design a climate education workshop for middle schoolers through our city’s youth commission. We broke down big concepts like carbon footprints into everyday choices, bike rides over car rides, plant-based meals, and reusable bottles. Watching kids teach their families what they learned was the most rewarding ripple effect. It proved that change starts when people feel like they have the tools. As I plan to study biology and environmental science in college, I carry these lessons with me. I’ve learned that science isn’t just found in textbooks; it’s on the ground, in neighborhoods, in policy changes, and in community efforts. My ultimate goal is to develop climate adaptation strategies for vulnerable coastal communities, especially in places like the Dominican Republic, where my family is from. Many of those communities face climate threats with fewer resources, less infrastructure, and little international attention. I want to be part of the solution that makes their future more livable. I’ve also realized that protecting my favorite part of the planet means more than picking up trash. It means fighting for environmental justice. The beach doesn’t feel like home if the families that made it vibrant can no longer afford to live nearby due to climate gentrification. That’s why I hope to research ways environmental policy intersects with social equity and economic development. The coastline is where I feel most alive, and where I first understood the planet’s fragility. But it’s also where I learned that small actions, when done consistently and collectively, can hold back tides of destruction. Whether I’m organizing a cleanup, mentoring younger students, or planning to develop sustainable solutions in the future, I’m committed to keeping those coasts alive, for me, for my community, and for generations to come.

If selected, I would use the KC MedBridge Scholarship to cover essential academic and pre-professional expenses that directly support my goal of becoming a neuro-oncologist. As a first-generation Afro-Latina student, I’ve had to navigate many educational barriers alone, translating for my family, balancing school with caregiving and jobs, and financing college applications on my own. This scholarship would provide meaningful relief. First, I would use the funds to pay for college enrollment fees, textbooks, and neuroscience lab supplies. Access to proper materials will help me keep up with the rigorous coursework required in pre-med tracks. I will be attending Pomona College this fall to study neuroscience and economics, where every dollar makes a difference. Second, I would allocate part of the funds toward travel expenses related to research and shadowing opportunities. I’ve previously interned at Dana-Farber and Massachusetts General Hospital, studying quality of life in glioma patients. These experiences confirmed my commitment to medicine, and I plan to pursue more hands-on work during college. Having financial support would allow me to accept opportunities that may otherwise be out of reach due to transportation or housing costs. Lastly, this scholarship would affirm that someone believes in my potential, not just academically, but as a future healer and leader. I don’t take that support lightly. I plan to give back by increasing access to compassionate, culturally informed care in under-resourced communities, both here and in the Dominican Republic.

At the peak of my depression last year, I found myself paralyzed in bed, watching the days blur together while my homework piled up. As someone who had always balanced school, work, and caregiving, I was ashamed of what I saw as failure. But science, specifically, the neuroscience behind physical activity and brain chemistry, offered a way forward. After reading about how endorphins and dopamine levels are impacted by exercise, I decided to test a small hypothesis: What if a daily walk could make a difference? I began moving again, slowly. A ten-minute walk turned into a light workout before school. I noticed not only that my mood lifted, but that I could finally focus again. The act of exercising wasn’t just physical, it rewired my habits and my mindset. And soon, I wasn’t the only one benefiting. I started inviting my classmates to join me, especially those struggling in silence. Our morning “wellness workouts” became a routine. It wasn’t therapy. It wasn’t a miracle. But it was science in action and community. This small experiment taught me that science is more than formulas and lab coats. It’s a tool that allows us to reclaim agency when we feel powerless. It bridges the gap between knowledge and everyday solutions. For me, science didn’t just help me understand the brain, it helped me heal mine. Now, as someone who has conducted clinical research on patients with brain tumors, I see an even deeper layer of how science can serve those in vulnerable situations. I’ve spoken with patients as young as 26 who are facing terminal glioma diagnoses. One of them, a retired nurse, was receiving treatment at the same hospital where she once comforted others. These experiences made me realize how important it is to combine cutting-edge research with empathy, to treat people, not just diseases. That’s why I plan to pursue neuroscience and public health. I want to explore not just how the brain works, but how disparities in healthcare access affect treatment outcomes for patients with neurological disorders, especially those in underrepresented communities. My goal is to become a neuro-oncologist and one day open a hospital in the rural Dominican Republic, where access to specialists is scarce and preventable conditions often go untreated. Dr. Aggarwal believed that safe, evidence-based scientific progress makes the world better. I believe the same, but I would add that progress must also be equitable. Whether it’s through personalized brain tumor treatment plans, culturally informed care, or even small group workouts that ease anxiety before class, I aim to carry that belief into every space I enter as a scientist. Science gave me a path when I felt lost. It gave me the language to understand myself and the tools to help others. And with the support of this scholarship, I’ll be one step closer to making sure that the next generation of young patients, especially those like the ones I’ve met, can live not only longer lives, but better ones.

I remember sitting beside a hospital bed, tracing the IV line with my eyes as if it held answers I hadn’t yet learned to ask. My grandfather’s labored breaths filled the sterile silence, and I could feel questions bubbling in my brain: What is happening inside his body? What can be done to ease his pain? I didn’t have the vocabulary to explain what I felt then, but now, I know it was the spark of scientific curiosity woven with love. As the eldest daughter in an Afro-Latina immigrant household, I often balance roles: translator, caretaker, motivator. But that hospital moment marked a shift. It wasn't just about protecting the people I love anymore. I wanted to understand. I wanted to heal. That desire pushed me into STEM. When I joined the YES for CURE program at Dana-Farber, I found myself immersed in neuro-oncology research focused on the quality of life in patients with IDH-mutant gliomas. At first, I thought I’d feel out of place—just a high schooler among PhDs and MDs—but then I met patients like a retired nurse receiving care in the hospital she used to work in, or a 9/11 firefighter who still laughed between chemo sessions. Listening to their stories wasn’t just meaningful—it was motivating. These weren’t just data points. They were people, living in limbo between hope and terminal diagnoses. I wasn’t just learning research—I was learning how science could restore dignity, even when it couldn’t offer a cure. Still, the path here wasn’t linear. In early 2024, I hit a wall. The weight of my responsibilities—school, work, caregiving—caught up to me, and I fell into a deep depression. I isolated myself, missing school for days. But the same way I learned to ask questions in a lab, I learned to ask for help in my own life. Therapy became my hypothesis for healing. Exercise was my experiment. Slowly, I reclaimed my mornings, starting workout groups with classmates before school. Those workouts became safe spaces—somewhere between squats and stretches, we talked about mental health, identity, and survival. Back in class, I started a peer mentorship program through the National Honor Society and began capturing student stories on camera through our broadcasting class, The Spot. My goal? To normalize struggle. To show that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s data worth analyzing. STEM is often seen as cold, logical. But for me, it’s been the opposite. It’s human. It’s empathetic. And it’s where I’ve found my purpose. Whether I’m measuring tumor growth in glioma patients or encouraging a friend to seek therapy, I’m applying science to build a better, kinder world. As a future neuro-oncologist and the first in my family to pursue medicine, I know the odds weren’t built for girls like me. But I plan to keep rewriting the equation. One patient, one project, one sister-driven gym session at a time.

I used to wake up and stare at my ceiling for hours. Not because I wanted to—but because I couldn’t move. My body felt heavy, like it had been filled with cement overnight. My room, once plastered with sticky notes and color-coded to-do lists, transformed into a cluttered cave. Missed assignments piled up. I stopped replying to texts. My little brother slipped a note under my door one morning that read: “Can you help me with English again? I miss you.” That broke me. And then it moved me. The pressure of being the oldest daughter in an immigrant household, a first-generation college hopeful, and the emotional translator for my entire family had caught up to me. I had always taken pride in holding everything together: the nightly homework checks for my siblings, the grocery runs with my grandfather, even the late-night pep talks for friends juggling their own chaos. But when I fell apart, I realized I never asked for help. It started with walking to the mailbox. Then walking to the gym. Then, slowly, walking back into myself. I found healing in motion. Exercise became my protest against paralysis. I began inviting classmates to walk with me before school. Those walks turned into group workouts, then into morning “check-ins” where we talked about mental health like we talked about the weather—openly, casually, without shame. At school, I proposed a student wellness initiative through the National Honor Society, where I serve as Parliamentarian. We set up monthly mental health workshops and resource stations in the cafeteria. I also started a peer mentoring series in our broadcasting class, The Spot, capturing vulnerable conversations between students on camera. It was messy, honest, and exactly what we needed. I saw how science and empathy could merge—how understanding the brain chemically could help heal it socially. Outside of school, I dove into neuro-oncology research through the YES for CURE program. I spent the summer listening to patients with brain tumors reflect on their lives—what mattered, what didn’t, what they wished they’d had more time for. Their stories echoed my own fears of time slipping away, of potential being smothered by silence. So I created research presentations not just with data, but with dignity. I centered the voices often lost in clinical reports. I made them human. Hardship didn’t give me a choice. But it did give me direction. It taught me that real strength isn’t just about pushing through—it’s about knowing when to pause, reset, and rebuild. Like robotics, like coding, like art—sometimes the best solutions come from reimagining the problem.

I was sixteen when I learned how to resuscitate my younger brother. We were on a family trip to the Dominican Republic when he drowned in a hotel pool. As my mother and I took turns performing CPR, time stretched, and all that mattered was getting him to breathe again. He survived, but something in me changed forever. My name is Cindy Concepcion, and I am a first-generation Afro-Latina student with dreams of becoming a neuro-oncologist. I’ve seen what it means to fight for life, whether it’s through translating medical jargon for my non-English-speaking family, helping my grandfather manage chronic illness, or supporting my siblings through their trauma after my sister was hit by a drunk driver. Medicine has never been an abstract ambition, it’s always been right in front of me, breathing, bleeding, and surviving. I’m drawn to medicine because I’ve lived at the edge of life and death, and I’ve felt the helplessness of not understanding what’s happening or how to fix it. My inspiration doesn’t come from a textbook or a TV show, but from the little hands I’ve held in emergency rooms, from the soft-spoken nurses who made eye contact when no one else did, and from the patients I met during my research internship at Massachusetts General Hospital. One of them was a retired nurse receiving treatment at the same hospital where she once cared for others. Despite her diagnosis, she smiled and reminded me that medicine is not just about prolonging life, but about honoring it. Through programs like YES for CURE and Dana-Farber’s immersion labs, I explored the science behind IDH-mutant gliomas, a type of brain tumor. But beyond the science, I interviewed patients, heard their fears, their hopes, and their heartbreak. I met a Navy SEAL awaiting his first child and a 9/11 firefighter still processing trauma. They inspired my current research project on quality of life for glioma patients. I want to be the kind of doctor who looks beyond the MRI scans to see the human stories they represent. Medicine is expensive, not just financially, but emotionally and mentally. But I’ve already survived what I once thought I couldn’t. When I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety in early 2024, I felt paralyzed by the weight of everything I carried: student leader, caretaker, translator, worker. It was through therapy, exercise, and community that I began healing. I now lead early-morning workout groups for peers and encourage conversations about mental health, because resilience should be shared. Winning this scholarship would not just relieve financial stress; it would be a vote of confidence in a student who’s been dreaming of scrubs, stethoscopes, and equity her whole life. I hope to attend Pomona College this fall to study neuroscience and economics, with the ultimate goal of opening a hospital in rural Dominican Republic, where care like my brother needed isn’t a luxury, it’s a right. Norman’s story reminds me why I do this. He, like my siblings, like my grandfather, deserved more time, more answers, more care. I want to be part of the next generation of medical professionals who offer not only treatment, but dignity. And I will.

On a humid July afternoon in the Dominican Republic, my little brother drowned in a swimming pool. He was seven. I was thirteen. I can still feel the screech of my mother’s scream echoing inside my skull, the sensation of my knees hitting the tiles as we pulled his body out, limp, blue, and silent. That day, everything changed. I didn’t just resuscitate my brother with my mother’s help—I became a translator for paramedics, an anchor for my sister who watched it all, and a lifeline for my family. And somehow, I still had algebra homework waiting for me when we flew back to Boston. I didn’t know it then, but that trauma lit a fire in me. A quiet, slow-burning determination to do something—something bigger than survival. As a future neuro-oncologist, I want to create safe, culturally grounded spaces for underrepresented patients, especially those facing terminal illnesses. During a research internship at Massachusetts General Hospital, I met a former Navy SEAL diagnosed with a glioma. He was about to become a father. All he wanted was to live long enough to hold his baby. That moment broke me open. How do you tell someone like him there’s nothing more we can do? So I started researching quality of life in patients with IDH-mutant gliomas. I studied ways to ensure that even if a patient can't be cured, they can still live—with dignity, comfort, and the full presence of their families. I’m not afraid of hard conversations anymore. I’ve sat with patients while they cried. I’ve learned to hold silence gently. Outside of the hospital, I serve as parliamentarian of my school’s National Honor Society, where I organize scholarship resources for underclassmen—many of whom, like me, are first-generation students of color. I also serve as student council president and host workout sessions before school to destigmatize mental health. After being diagnosed with depression last year, I learned the power of movement, community, and simply showing up—even when you’re not okay. At home, I’m the glue that holds us together. I help my siblings with homework, manage my grandfather’s medications, and translate legal and medical documents for my family. I didn’t choose these roles, but I carry them with pride. Because even on the days when I’m exhausted, I know I’m making someone’s life easier. I believe higher education is a form of resistance—a way to honor the stories my community carries and to build bridges for others like me. Pomona College will be my next step, where I plan to major in neuroscience and economics so I can one day open a hospital in rural Dominican Republic—one that doesn’t turn patients away because of the language they speak or the money they don’t have. This scholarship would not only relieve the financial burden on my family, it would also help me continue the work I’ve already started—amplifying stories that too often go unheard and creating systems of care rooted in empathy. The sunshine I carry didn’t come easily. But I shine anyway.

Why I’m Passionate About an Education in STEM When I was nine years old, my little brother drowned in a pool during a family trip to the Dominican Republic. I remember the panic in my mother’s voice, the blur of people shouting, and the way my hands trembled as we worked together to resuscitate him. He survived—but something inside me changed that day. I didn’t have the words for it back then, but I knew I never wanted to feel that helpless again. That moment sparked my desire to understand the body, the brain, and what happens when things go wrong. It planted the seed of my passion for science and medicine, and it has grown stronger with every year. Today, I’m a senior at KIPP Academy Lynn Collegiate, and this fall, I’ll attend Pomona College to study neuroscience and economics. My goal is to become a neuro-oncologist and eventually open a hospital in rural Dominican Republic, where families like mine often lack access to the care they need. Growing up in a low-income Afro-Latina household, STEM was never just about labs or textbooks—it was about survival, responsibility, and hope. I’ve had to grow up fast. I’ve worked retail jobs at Marshalls, TJ Maxx, and now Victoria’s Secret to help pay bills. I’ve cared for my younger siblings, translated for my Spanish-speaking parents, and supported my sick grandfather while managing AP coursework, student government, and research. Through it all, STEM has been the space where my curiosity meets my compassion, where I feel closest to my purpose. What keeps me going are the people I want to serve. During my summer research at Massachusetts General Hospital and Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, I studied the quality of life in patients with IDH-mutant gliomas. I sat with patients and listened to stories that will stay with me forever—a Navy SEAL expecting his first child, a 9/11 firefighter living with the scars of his service, a retired nurse being treated in the same hospital where she once saved lives. These weren’t just data points or diagnoses. They were reminders of why this work matters. Mental health has also shaped my path. In early 2024, I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety due to extreme school stress. There were days I couldn’t leave my room. But with therapy, the support of friends and family, and exercise as an outlet, I slowly found my way back. Now, I lead early-morning workout groups for my peers and help others manage their own mental health. That struggle made me more empathetic, more determined—and even more committed to a future in STEM. Receiving the Dr. Michal Lomask Memorial Scholarship would mean more than financial relief—it would be a recognition of how far I’ve come and how much I still hope to do. Dr. Lomask believed in the power of science and education to uplift lives. I carry that same belief in every step I take. I want to build a career that heals, that empowers, and that reaches those often left behind. To me, STEM isn’t just about solving problems. It’s about seeing people—their fears, their stories, their hopes—and choosing to make their lives better through knowledge, care, and action. That’s why I’m passionate about pursuing a STEM education. It’s where I find meaning, and it’s how I plan to give meaning back. And I’m just getting started.

"The Best is Yet to Come" If you had asked me a year ago what my future looked like, I wouldn’t have had an answer. I was locked in my room for days at a time, paralyzed by school stress, perfectionism, and the crushing fear that I would disappoint everyone who believed in me. I stopped showing up to class, stopped going outside, and stopped believing in myself. Diagnosed with depression and anxiety, I felt like I was losing a battle that no one else could see. But in that silence, I found a truth that changed everything: asking for help is not weakness—it’s the beginning of healing. What saved me was the community. My family, my friends, my therapist, and even strangers who unknowingly inspired me. They reminded me that I was more than a grade or a résumé—that my heart, my story, and my will to keep going mattered. Slowly, I started to rebuild. I found comfort in movement, beginning with daily walks and then full workouts. I hosted group exercises before school, hoping to help others find the same release I did. I journaled, I cried, I laughed again. I saw color return to my life. And I realized: my dreams were still there, waiting for me to catch up. Today, I’m a senior at KIPP Academy Lynn Collegiate, and I will be attending Pomona College this fall to study neuroscience and economics. My dream is to become a neuro-oncologist and open a hospital in rural Dominican Republic, where my family is from. I want to bridge the gap between science and empathy, between diagnosis and dignity. My passion lies in improving the quality of life for patients with brain cancer, especially those who, like me, have faced invisible battles—whether with their mind or their body. I believe “The Best is Yet to Come” because I’ve lived through what felt like the worst and still found light. I carry that hope into everything I do. As student council president and parliamentarian of the National Honor Society, I’ve made it my mission to connect students with scholarships and mental health resources. In my broadcasting class, I produce videos that spotlight student voices and moments of kindness. I’ve worked retail jobs to help my family financially and still find time to take care of my younger siblings and my grandfather. Every step I take forward is proof that I am not my diagnosis—I am my dreams, my resilience, and my ability to rise. When I think of August Engler’s story, I feel a deep connection. Like him, I believe education is a path toward healing, growth, and impact. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s made me more empathetic, more determined, and more aware of the quiet struggles so many carry. I hope to use my voice to advocate for others, especially those who’ve been told they’re “too broken” to succeed. Because we are not broken—we are becoming. Winning this scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of college but would also honor the work I’ve done to rebuild my life. It would allow me to continue my mission of making mental health visible, valid, and supported in every space I enter. I want to be a doctor who listens, a leader who uplifts, and a reminder that no matter where you start, your story can still lead somewhere beautiful. The best is yet to come—because I’m still here. And I’m not done yet.

Growing up, I didn’t have access to labs or fancy microscopes—but I had people. People with stories, resilience, and diagnoses that made me wonder: What does it truly mean to live well, even when you're sick? As a high school researcher, I’ve spent the past two summers studying quality of life in brain cancer patients, particularly those with IDH-mutant gliomas. I’ve sat with Navy SEALs expecting their first child, with 9/11 firefighters facing terminal illness, and with retired nurses being treated in the same hospitals they once worked in. Their voices shaped my understanding of what matters in medicine—not just survival, but dignity, memory, and the ability to hold a grandchild or walk to the mailbox without fear. That type of STEM moves me: research with heart, science that listens, and care that reaches beyond the clinic. I plan to major in neuroscience at Pomona College, with the long-term goal of becoming a neuro-oncologist and opening a hospital in rural Dominican Republic, where my family is from. My passion for STEM is both deeply personal and rooted in community. My grandfather, now struggling with multiple chronic conditions taught me how to plant herbs for healing, how to observe the body with patience, and how the brain, when “too tired,” can make people forget things they never wanted to. I started reading neuroscience textbooks to understand him better. What began as a need to care for him turned into a fire inside me to pursue science, not for prestige, but for the people I love. But STEM, to me, isn’t just academic—it’s a tool for equity. As the daughter of immigrants, I’ve served as my family’s translator, advocate, and caretaker since I was young. I’ve helped raise my younger siblings, taught them English, created “reading nights” three times a week, and even helped resuscitate my brother after a near-drowning in the Dominican Republic. Those moments taught me that life is fragile—and that knowledge, patience, and quick thinking can save it. They also taught me what empathy looks like in action. Whether it’s managing a household, working retail jobs to support my family, or staying up late to finish research abstracts, I bring that same persistence and purpose into every role I take on. In school, I serve as student council president and parliamentarian of the National Honor Society, where I’ve used my platform to connect underclassmen with scholarships and wellness resources. I also help lead our school’s broadcasting class, capturing stories of community and resilience through “The Spot,” a student-run segment that highlights everyday acts of kindness and leadership. I believe storytelling and science go hand in hand—both help us understand the world better and inspire us to improve it. Harry B. Anderson’s life reminds me of what’s possible when curiosity meets compassion. Like him, I’m fascinated by the natural world—I started a small garden at home to address food insecurity in my community, drawing on both traditional remedies and modern nutritional science. I’ve also started hosting early-morning workout groups at school to promote mental health after my own journey through anxiety and depression. These aren’t grand gestures—they’re small ways I try to make science tangible, healing, and human. Pursuing a STEM career isn’t just about diagnosing tumors—it’s about holding space for someone’s story. It’s about transforming pain into purpose and research into real-world impact. I want to be the kind of scientist who knows your name, not just your chart. And with support from opportunities like this scholarship, I’m determined to turn that vision into reality—not just for myself, but for everyone who’s ever felt unseen in the healthcare system.

Growing up, I thought “budgeting” just meant knowing how much money you didn’t have. As the oldest daughter of a Dominican immigrant family, I became the translator, bill organizer, and the one who explained why we couldn’t afford something. My financial education didn’t come from a classroom or a book—it came from the dinner table, where my mom and I would sort through medical bills we could barely read and balance food stamps with the groceries we needed. By the time I was fourteen, I was responsible for managing our family’s SNAP benefits, calculating how much we could spend each week while still saving enough for emergencies. I learned to compare unit prices, plan meals around discounts, and resist impulsive buys. At the same time, I was teaching my younger siblings how to stretch a dollar—and how to recognize the difference between a want and a need. These lessons weren’t optional; they were necessary for our survival. Still, I knew that living paycheck to paycheck wasn’t the future I wanted. My turning point came during the pandemic, when our family's income dropped and I started working part-time jobs—first at Marshalls, then TJ Maxx, and now Victoria’s Secret. Each paycheck brought new lessons: how taxes worked, how credit could either save you or trap you, and how little mistakes—like overdraft fees—could snowball if you weren’t careful. I started teaching myself about personal finance through YouTube videos and free online courses. I learned about compound interest, Roth IRAs, credit scores, and how to create a zero-based budget. I even helped my mom build credit by co-signing her for a secured credit card and paying the bill on time each month. My proudest moment was helping her increase her credit score by over 100 points in one year. That boost made it easier for us to rent a safer apartment in a better neighborhood—proof that financial knowledge really is power. Now, as I prepare to attend Pomona College this fall to study neuroscience and economics, I plan to combine my lived experience with academic insight. I want to advocate for better access to financial education in low-income communities, especially those that serve immigrant families like mine. I’ve already begun hosting informal budgeting workshops at my high school, helping peers understand their student loan options and encouraging them to start saving—even if it’s just $5 at a time. In the future, I hope to open a community clinic in rural Dominican Republic that offers not only medical care but also financial counseling. My vision is rooted in the belief that well-being isn’t just physical or emotional—it’s also financial. A family that understands how to manage money can plan for the future, afford proper care, and make decisions from a place of hope instead of fear. I’m grateful for the financial struggles I’ve faced because they’ve taught me resilience, resourcefulness, and the value of education. This scholarship would help ease the financial burden of college, but more importantly, it would affirm that my journey—and my future—are worth investing in.

The darkest moments often lead to the brightest breakthroughs. The fall of my senior year was an incredibly challenging time. The pressure of college applications hung over me like a constant weight. As a first-generation student from a low-income family, I found myself doubting my worth and ability to succeed. The fear of failure was overwhelming, and every rejection felt like a personal defeat. It wasn’t just the uncertainty of the future that was difficult to bear, but also the feeling that no matter how hard I tried, success seemed just out of reach. I hit my lowest point during the peak of the application season. Anxiety about college decisions kept me up at night, and I struggled to summon the energy to complete even basic tasks. At one point, I could barely find the motivation to get out of bed. I was frustrated with myself for not being able to handle the pressure better, but I also couldn’t shake the fear that all my hard work would amount to nothing. That fear was paralyzing, and I began to wonder if my dreams were simply too big, too out of reach for someone like me. However, my mother’s teachings about perseverance started to resonate with me. She always told me that the most valuable things in life come from the hardest struggles and that setbacks were opportunities to learn, not indications of failure. Her words became my mantra in those dark moments. Slowly, I began to push through the doubts and negativity. I took a step back and reminded myself why I was applying in the first place—because I wanted to contribute to the betterment of my community, especially in healthcare. I focused on small, manageable goals: completing one essay at a time, reaching out to mentors, and seeking support from teachers who believed in me. As I gained more clarity, I realized that failure wasn’t the end of the road—it was part of the process. I became more resilient, learning to trust myself and my abilities. When I finally received my acceptance to Pomona College, the sense of accomplishment wasn’t just about overcoming the application process—it was about having overcome my own self-doubt. I understood that if I could push through the darkest moments, I could handle whatever challenges the future would throw my way. This experience solidified my desire to pursue a career in neuroscience, particularly in improving healthcare outcomes for underserved communities. The obstacles I faced have strengthened my resolve to find solutions to the issues I care most about. It has also ignited a passion for technology and data science, which I believe will be instrumental in addressing disparities in healthcare. The Eleven Scholarship’s mentorship program is a perfect opportunity for me to build on the lessons I’ve learned. I would be honored to work with experts in technology and data science, as I believe their guidance would be invaluable in helping me turn my ideas into actionable solutions. Having a tailored mentorship experience would allow me to grow in a way that aligns with my goals and aspirations. Challenges are often the greatest teachers, and the ones we face define our path to success. The Eleven Scholarship would provide me with the mentorship and resources to continue turning my dreams into reality.

The first time I saw a glioma under a microscope, I didn’t just see cancer—I saw a question. How can we use technology to not only diagnose diseases earlier but also improve the quality of life for people living with them? That question has guided my journey in neuro-oncology research, where I study the impact of IDH-mutant gliomas—an aggressive form of brain cancer—on younger patients. At Massachusetts General Hospital, I’ve spoken with Navy SEALs expecting children, 9/11 survivors, and nurses being treated in the very hospitals they once worked in. Each of them reminded me that medicine is not just about survival—it’s about the lived experience of every single day. One technology that inspires me deeply is artificial intelligence (AI)—specifically its use in brain imaging and diagnostics. AI models can analyze thousands of MRI scans at a speed and level of detail that surpasses human ability. This means earlier detection, more precise treatment plans, and less patient uncertainty. But what excites me even more is AI’s potential to predict cognitive outcomes, personalize care based on patient data, and one day even simulate the effects of certain treatments before they’re administered. AI doesn’t replace empathy—it enhances it, allowing doctors to act faster, smarter, and with more compassion. As a future Afro-Latina neuro-oncologist and hospital founder, I want to bring these innovations to underserved communities—starting with rural areas in the Dominican Republic, where my family is from. In these regions, access to neurologists, let alone advanced diagnostic tools, is nearly impossible. I dream of building a healthcare system that combines human connection with technological precision. One where AI helps bridge the gap between quality care and geographic isolation. Beyond research, I’ve also explored tech through data analysis, broadcasting, and leadership. In my school’s broadcasting class, I’ve used editing software to capture moments of community support. In my role as NHS parliamentarian, I’ve created digital databases of scholarships to make opportunities more accessible for low-income students like me. Technology, to me, is a language—one that, when used with empathy, can speak life into systems that once silenced people like my family. AI inspires me because it’s not just about what’s possible—it’s about who gets to benefit. I want to make sure that the answer includes everyone.

“It’s okay to not be okay.” That’s what I used to tell my friends, even though I didn’t believe it myself. For a long time, I thought I had to hold everything together—be the translator for my family, the emotional anchor for my siblings, the perfect student, the resilient Afro-Latina girl who never breaks. But in early 2024, I broke. College application season hit me harder than I could’ve ever expected. I was already carrying so much—taking care of my siblings and my sick grandfather, maintaining leadership roles at school, working a retail job, and conducting research on glioma patients at Massachusetts General Hospital. I barely slept, rarely ate, and cried more times than I could count. I was deeply depressed, confined to my room most days, overwhelmed by the pressure to be exceptional in everything. I remember staring at blank Google Docs, terrified that my story wouldn’t be enough. I remember doubting every dream I had—Stanford, Pomona, becoming a neuro-oncologist—and wondering if I was even worthy of trying. At the same time, anxiety consumed me. The uncertainty of college admissions and scholarships left me spiraling. I didn’t come from a family with a financial safety net. I knew scholarships would determine whether I could even attend college, and the thought of rejection was paralyzing. Every email notification made my heart race. I felt like my entire future was balancing on a thread I couldn’t control. But I persevered. I started therapy and began exercising again, encouraged by my friends and my younger siblings who needed me present—not perfect, just present. I created a morning workout group before class to bring some joy and structure back into my life. I permitted myself to rest. I re-learned how to breathe, reflect, and ask for help. Slowly, the fog lifted. I submitted every application, no matter how anxious I felt. I showed up to interviews with shaking hands but a steady voice. And I got in. I’ll be attending Pomona College this fall, studying neuroscience and economics—two fields that will help me one day return to the Dominican Republic and open a hospital that prioritizes both mental and physical health. My experience with mental health has transformed my view of success. I used to believe it meant achievements. Now I know it means balance, self-compassion, and finding peace in uncertainty. It’s also changed the way I build relationships—I listen more, judge less, and make space for others’ struggles without trying to “fix” them. As student council president and parliamentarian of the National Honor Society, I’ve created safe spaces for my peers to talk about stress and burnout. Through my research with patients who have terminal brain cancer, I’ve seen how deeply mental health impacts a person’s quality of life. I’ve spoken with a 9/11 firefighter, a Navy SEAL expecting his first child, and a nurse being treated in the same hospital where she once worked. Their stories weren’t just medical—they were emotional, human, and raw. That’s what I want to focus on in my future: being a doctor who treats not just tumors, but trauma. Someone who acknowledges that healing must include the mind and spirit. Mental health is not just a chapter in my life—it’s the lens through which I see everything. It’s why I lead with empathy. Why I center my goals on care. And why, after everything, I can now say with full conviction: it’s okay to not be okay—and it’s powerful to keep going anyway.