I was fourteen when I had to translate the phrase “substance-induced psychosis” from English to Spanish while holding back tears. My uncle, who once told me that music heals everything, had stopped recognizing faces, mine included. It started with pills after a work injury. Then came mood swings, paranoia, and emergency calls. Addiction entered our home quietly but made itself known in every drawer we locked and every conversation we avoided. I didn’t know how to fix it. What I did know was how to be the oldest daughter. I helped care for my younger siblings while my mother took on the brunt of his recovery, all while working multiple jobs and hiding our struggles from the outside world. There was no room for falling apart. I translated at doctor appointments, explained discharge instructions to my grandfather, and held my sister’s hand when the sirens came too close. Addiction didn’t just impact my uncle. It rewired all of us. But somewhere between hospital visits and family therapy, I stopped asking, “Why did this happen to us?” and started asking, “How does this happen at all?” That question pulled me into neuroscience. I learned how opioids hijack the brain’s reward system and how trauma makes certain communities, especially immigrant ones like mine, more vulnerable. I began dreaming not just of becoming a neuro-oncologist, but of building clinics that treat addiction and mental health as real, urgent medical issues, not things to hide behind silence or shame. This path hasn’t been easy. I’ve balanced three jobs to help pay bills. I’ve studied for AP exams while helping my siblings with their math homework. I’ve spent hours researching quality-of-life in brain cancer patients through internships at Massachusetts General Hospital and Dana-Farber, because I believe every patient deserves dignity, whether they’re battling gliomas or substance use. I now lead workout groups before school for students struggling with depression and anxiety, something I started after being diagnosed with both. Physical movement helped me cope; now it helps others too. Still, the hardest work is emotional. It’s forgiving someone who relapsed. It’s choosing to love them without enabling them. It’s learning that being strong doesn’t mean being numb. I never met Aryana, but I see her in my uncle’s eyes when he’s doing better and making us breakfast like old times. I see her in my little sister, who watches me chase my dreams and believes she can too. Like Aryana, I’m the oldest. And like her, I’ve learned that life can change in a single moment. That’s why I’m careful with mine. This scholarship wouldn’t just ease the financial pressure of attending Pomona College it would honor the parts of my story I used to hide. It would remind me that where I come from is not a weakness, but a reason to keep going. I want to be a doctor who understands pain beyond the charts. I want to treat the whole person, not just their scans. Addiction nearly broke my family. But it also built my purpose.

When I received my acceptance letter to Pomona College, I cried—quietly, so I wouldn’t wake my grandfather in the next room. It wasn’t just a college acceptance; it was proof that my family’s sacrifices meant something. My mother, who works overnight shifts and never went to college, called her sisters back home in the Dominican Republic to tell them the news: “La niña lo logró.” The girl made it. But getting to that moment nearly broke me. As a first-generation, Afro-Latina woman pursuing a degree in neuroscience and economics, I’ve had to navigate the hidden curriculum of higher education on my own. College wasn’t just a dream—it was a maze of test fees, late-night FAFSA applications, and learning how to self-advocate in a system not built for me. I studied for standardized tests using hand-me-down books with torn pages. I translated college documents for my family while balancing AP coursework, jobs at Marshalls and TJ Maxx, and caregiving responsibilities for my sick grandfather. I missed sleep, skipped outings, and cried silently in school bathrooms—then wiped my tears and walked into class like nothing was wrong. Even after getting in, the financial burden didn’t disappear. I saved money from part-time jobs just to afford AP test fees, college deposits, and the endless costs of moving into a dorm. The cost of applying to professional programs, especially in STEM, is daunting—MCAT prep courses, admissions fees, and traveling for interviews feel almost impossible on a tight budget. These financial pressures don’t just affect my bank account—they weigh on my ability to fully focus, to explore internships, or to say “yes” to unpaid research opportunities that could change the trajectory of my future. Receiving this scholarship would give me the ability to breathe—to study without choosing between a textbook and a MetroCard. It would cover the cost of professional program applications and let me participate in research and service opportunities without constant financial worry. It would be a reminder that I’m not doing this alone. My goal is to become a neuro-oncologist—a doctor who treats patients with brain tumors and researches how trauma and disease intersect in the brain. I was drawn to this field during my summer research at Massachusetts General Hospital, where I interviewed patients with IDH-mutant gliomas. One, a retired nurse being treated at her own hospital, whispered, “I just want to leave something behind.” Her words never left me. I want to be the kind of physician who not only treats disease but honors the humanity of those facing it. I also plan to return to the Dominican Republic and open a trauma-informed hospital in a rural area—one that provides bilingual care, mental health services, and education about chronic illness and trauma. I want to train local professionals, offer internships to first-generation students, and create mentorship pipelines for young women of color in STEM. Throughout my journey, I’ve mentored classmates, created mental health groups, and led student government with a focus on inclusion. I believe in reaching back as I climb—because someone once did that for me. This scholarship isn’t just about funding—it’s about recognition. Of the quiet resilience it takes to be the first. Of the brilliance that exists in young women of color when someone invests in us. And of a future where we don’t have to fight so hard just to belong.

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 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.

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.