I fell in love with science in the quietest of places, the floor of my family’s living room, helping my little brother build circuits with a Snap Circuits kit we found at Goodwill. We didn’t know what “electrons” were, but we knew the feeling of wonder when the bulb lit up. That feeling stuck with me. I didn’t grow up in a household full of scientists. I grew up translating medical terms at doctor’s appointments, tutoring my siblings in math after school, and navigating a healthcare system that seemed designed to ignore families like mine. Still, I never let go of that spark. My name is Cindy Concepcion, and I’m an Afro-Latina daughter of immigrants, a first-generation college student, and a future neuro-oncologist. I was drawn to neuroscience after watching my grandfather struggle with memory loss and after meeting brain tumor patients during my research internships at Massachusetts General Hospital and Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. While others saw patients with terminal diagnoses, I saw teachers and people who taught me what it means to live with dignity, even when science doesn’t have all the answers yet. That’s why I want to become the kind of scientist who doesn't just ask questions, but uses research to improve people's quality of life. In the fall, I’ll be attending Pomona College to study neuroscience and economics. I hope to one day work at the intersection of research and public health policy, helping communities of color gain access to equitable care and innovative treatments. I want to help develop personalized, data-informed therapies for patients with brain cancer, especially those whose racial, socioeconomic, and linguistic historically excluded them from clinical trials and breakthrough care. But my goals don’t stop at my success. Representation matters. In every lab I’ve walked into, I’ve noticed how few womenespecially women who look like me, are present. That has to change. In high school, I served as parliamentarian of the National Honor Society and president of my student council. I used those positions to send STEM scholarship resources to underclassmen, mentor first-gen girls, and lead workshops on building confidence in science classes. I also helped younger students understand the links between biology and public health through my community presentations on lung cancer and neurodegeneration. I believe that every girl, no matter her zip code or background, deserves to see herself in a lab coat. William Griggs’ story resonates deeply with me. His legacy isn't just about engineering rockets to the moonit’s about daring to believe in the dreams of his daughters. That kind of support is what I try to model in my own life: lifting others as I climb, and building a future where the next generation of girls in STEM doesn’t have to fight so hard to be seen. With the help of this scholarship, I can continue that mission. I’ll use it to support my education and my research ambitions, but also to show other young womenespecially Black and brown girls, that their minds are powerful, their questions are valid, and their futures in science are worth investing in. Because every time I step into a lab, I’m not just there for myself, I’m lighting the path for those who will come next.

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2, Paragraph 1 "Say to yourself in the early morning: I shall meet today ungrateful, violent, treacherous, envious, uncharitable men. All these things have come upon them through ignorance of real good and ill. But I have seen the beauty of good, and the ugliness of evil, and have recognized that the wrongdoer has a nature akin to my own, not the same blood and seed, but the same mind, and possessing a share of the divine. So none of them can hurt me. For none can involve me in wrong. Neither can I be angry with my kinsman, nor hate him. For we have come into being for cooperation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of upper and lower teeth. To act against one another, then, is contrary to nature; and it is acting against one another to be vexed and to turn away." I read this paragraph for the first time during one of the hardest seasons of my lifewhen I was trying to recover from depression, keep my grades up, juggle caregiving responsibilities, and apply to college all at once. Marcus Aurelius’ words were quiet, ancient, and unwavering, like someone reminding me that I was still whole, even when the world felt like it was falling apart around me. His words didn’t sugarcoat anything. They didn’t promise comfort. They promised clarity. They called me to a higher version of myself when I wasn’t sure I had much left to give. This passage opens with something simple but revolutionary: "Say to yourself in the early morning…" It doesn’t say “hope” or “wish,” but rather “expect.” Aurelius is not trying to protect himself from the hard truths of the dayhe’s walking straight into them. This is what struck me most: the courage to accept that people can be selfish, mean, or crueland to meet them not with equal aggression but with understanding. For most of my life, I’ve had to play the role of the peacemaker. Whether translating medical terms for my grandfather, explaining paperwork to my mother, or helping my younger siblings with schoolwork while they adjusted to a new language and culture, I’ve seen how easy it is for misunderstanding and miscommunication to spiral into pain. Sometimes I’ve been hurt by people I loved. Other times, I’ve been blamed for problems I didn’t cause. It would’ve been easyalmost natural let those things harden me. But something about this passage reframed the struggle: “They have come upon them through ignorance of real good and ill.” That line reminds me of something I’ve seen again and again: when people lash out, it’s often because they haven’t seen another way. Anger, selfishness, and even cruelty don’t always stem from hate; they come from fear, or insecurity, or never having witnessed compassion modeled in the first place. Understanding that doesn’t excuse bad behavior, but it allows me to stay centered in my values. I don’t have to mirror harm with harm. I can pause. I can respond with care. That has become one of my greatest strengths. When I was working with brain cancer patients during my summer research, I met people who had every reason to be bitterbut weren’t. One patient, a Navy SEAL who had just found out he might not live to meet his baby, still thanked every nurse with a full sentence and a smile. Another, a retired nurse, told me her greatest fear wasn’t dying, was being forgotten. That stuck with me. Marcus writes, “None of them can hurt me. For none can involve me in wrong.” That’s not about invincibility’s about spiritual immunity. It’s about choosing love and cooperation in the face of pain, so that bitterness doesn’t rot you from the inside out. The comparison to the body “like feet, like hands, like eyelids…” isn’t just poetic; it’s functional. When I help my siblings with homework or walk my grandfather to the kitchen, I’m not performing charity’m doing what one part of the body does for another. We are interconnected. His pain is mine. Their future is mine to nurture. Cooperation isn’t an optional trait. But nature, for many, is disrupted. I’ve grown up surrounded by people whose sense of self was shaped in survival mode. They didn't always have the luxury of choosing peace over reaction. They taught me, not through perfection but through persistence, how to try again. So when Marcus says, “To act against one another is contrary to nature…” I think of how radical it is to choose compassion anywayto choose to not turn away, even when everything in you wants to. I won’t pretend I get it right every time. I’ve had my moments of anger, of defensiveness, of deep sadness. But this passage anchors me. It gives me a blueprint to come back to myself. It reminds me that my value doesn’t rest in how others treat me, but in how I choose to respond. It’s a philosophy I now live out, not only in big life decisions but in the small oneshow I talk to a stressed customer at work, how I lead my classmates as student council president, how I show up early to interpret medical terms at my grandfather’s appointments, even when I’m exhausted. Choosing cooperation is a daily, deliberate act. It’s also a form of protest against a world that often celebrates pride over humility, reaction over reflection. When I think about my future in medicine, particularly in neuro-oncology, I know I want to bring this ethic into every interaction. I want to be the kind of doctor who listens deeply, who doesn’t turn away from suffering, who sees each patient not just as a body to fix but a mind and spirit to honor. That begins with practicing cooperation today in my family, in my community, in myself. So each morning, like Marcus, I remind myself: the world may hurt me, but it will not harden me. The people I meet may be unkind, but I will not forget that we share the same spark, the same breath, the same aching hope to be seen. And I will act not in anger, but in alignment.

Obstacle is too small a word to describe the years I spent carrying adult responsibilities in a child’s body. Growing up in a low-income, Afro-Latina immigrant household in Lynn, Massachusetts, I learned early on that survival required sacrifice, and success demanded something more: resilience. For me, that resilience began with caregiving. When I was 10, my grandfather fell ill. With my mother working long hours and limited English spoken in the household, I stepped uptranslating prescriptions, advocating for him at appointments, and even administering basic care. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was doing the work of a nurse. I was practicing patience, empathy, and communication values that now drive my desire to pursue a career in medicine. The biggest obstacle came during my junior year of high school when I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. For months, I battled what I called “stress paralysis,” struggling to get out of bed, overwhelmed by the pressure of school, work, and home responsibilities. I stopped participating in clubs, withdrew from my friends, and lost confidence in my ability to balance it all. It was the darkest season of my life. But I wasn’t ready to give up. With the support of therapy, movement, and community, I began to take control of my mental health. I started hosting group workouts before school, using physical activity to connect with other students who were also struggling. The same girl who once avoided the world was now showing others how to navigate it. This transformation didn't just bring me back to lifeit redefined my purpose. I realized I wanted to help others heal, not just physically, but holistically. This led me to neuroscience and patient care, specifically in cancer. Through internships at Massachusetts General Hospital and Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, I worked with neuro-oncology patients whose stories mirrored those of my grandfather and others in my community. Many were underrepresented, misunderstood, or overwhelmed. I knew then that I didn’t want to just study medicine wanted to humanize it. The obstacles I’ve faced have shaped me into someone who refuses to let systems or circumstances define what’s possible. I've juggled jobs at Marshalls, TJ Maxx, and Victoria’s Secret to support my family, led student government efforts to bridge language and resource gaps for first-generation students, and continued to be a primary caretaker for my siblings and grandfather. Each challenge has only fueled my passion to serve. While I’m pursuing neuroscience with the long-term goal of becoming a neuro-oncologist, nursing remains the foundation of my journey. It was through caregiving textbooks that I learned how to respond to pain, listen deeply, and offer comfort. Those are the qualities I plan to carry with me into every room, every patient interaction, and every moment that demands compassion. To me, perseverance isn’t just about pushing through's about showing up. I’ve shown up for my family, for my community, and now, for my future patients. This scholarship would not just ease the financial burdens that come with pursuing higher education across the country, but would also affirm the values I live by: service, strength, and the unwavering belief that no one should have to heal alone.

In my community, conversations about health are often whispered behind closed doors if they’re had at all. As an Afro-Latina daughter of immigrants, I’ve watched family members delay doctor visits because they lacked insurance, struggled to understand English medical jargon, or didn’t trust a system that never seemed built for them. One social issue that hits closest to home is healthcare inequality, especially the cultural and linguistic barriers that prevent BIPOC families from accessing quality care. I’ve made it my mission to chip away at this issue, starting with the people around me. As a high school senior, I don’t wear a white coat, but I’ve become a health interpreter, listener, and advocate. Whether I’m translating my grandfather’s test results or researching my younger sister’s symptoms late at night, I’ve found myself filling in the gaps left by an inaccessible healthcare system. This role has made me hyperaware of how many immigrant families face similar struggles, so I began taking action. Last summer, through a cancer research program at Massachusetts General Hospital, I interviewed brain tumor patients about their quality of life. Many of them, including a retired nurse and a 9/11 firefighter, spoke not just about their symptoms, but about the emotional toll of being misunderstood or overlooked. Their stories echoed the ones I’d been hearing at home, except now, I was listening with the tools to take action. I designed surveys that translated medical experiences into quantifiable data to help improve patient-centered care. I realized that research, when rooted in empathy, could be one of the most powerful tools for advocacy. But I didn’t stop there. As student council president and parliamentarian of the National Honor Society, I use my platform to share scholarship and mental health resources with underclassmen, especially students who don’t speak English at home. I created a family wellness night where parents could ask anonymous questions about school health forms, vaccines, and mental health support. Many parents showed up, grateful to finally have someone who could explain things in Spanish without judgment. That night reminded me that impact isn’t measured only in numbers, it’s also in nods of relief and the simple act of being understood. I also co-lead wellness workouts before school, a tradition that began when I was struggling with depression earlier this year. Movement became a form of healing for me, and I wanted others, especially those suffering in silence, to experience that same sense of release. We stretch, run, and talk. Some students have told me they never thought about exercise as mental health care until then. Now they bring their siblings along. Through every role, whether researcher, translator, or peer leader, I’m confronting healthcare inequality by making information more accessible and the community more intentional. I plan to continue this work at Pomona College by studying neuroscience and economics. I want to become a neuro-oncologist who not only treats disease, but also dismantles the invisible walls keeping patients from care. Eventually, I hope to open a clinic in rural Dominican Republic, where my family is from, to serve communities like mine that have always been left behind. We often think addressing social issues requires power, degrees, or money. But I’ve learned that the most powerful changes often start with a simple question: “How can I help?” I’ve asked it countless times, and each time, it’s guided me to new ways of serving others, one conversation, one translation, and one act of empathy at a time.

My commitment to public service began not in a classroom, but in the living room of our apartment in Lynn, Massachusetts, where I helped my grandfather manage his medication schedule in Spanish and English. It grew when I started interpreting hospital documents for my parents and making sure my younger siblings understood their homework. For a long time, I didn’t have the vocabulary to call it public service. I just knew my family and community needed someone who could step in, translate the world around us, and make sure we were not left behind. As a first-generation Afro-Latina immigrant, I have spent most of my life learning how to advocate, first for my family, then for others like us. My passion for public service took shape through these small but critical moments: helping classmates apply for SNAP benefits, walking neighbors through COVID-19 vaccine appointments, and organizing scholarship lists for underclassmen as NHS parliamentarian. These experiences taught me that service is not about being seen. It’s about making sure others are. Now, as I prepare to enter Pomona College this fall to study neuroscience and economics, I plan to expand my impact. My long-term goal is to become a neuro-oncologist and return to the Dominican Republic to open a hospital in my family’s rural hometown. But public service for me doesn’t begin after I get my degree. It’s something I am committed to now and throughout my journey. While pursuing my studies, I will continue working to financially support my family and maintain my service to my local community. I currently work at Victoria’s Secret while balancing academic responsibilities and caregiving at home. Working has taught me time management, but more importantly, it has shown me the realities many students like me face when trying to pursue higher education. There is often an invisible weight we carry, juggling roles as students, workers, and family caregivers, all while striving for something more. I’ve learned to carry that weight with grace, but I also want to use my future skills to make the path easier for others. At Pomona, I plan to design a community-based initiative that offers mental health support and college access workshops to first-generation students and recent immigrants. I’ve seen how anxiety and burnout can affect young people who feel like they have to do it all alone. Through peer mentorship and wellness programming, I hope to create a space where students are not only supported academically but are cared for as whole people. Eventually, I want to bring this model into hospital settings. As a future doctor, I don’t just want to treat brain tumors; I want to reimagine the way public health systems communicate with diverse communities. I plan to use my background in economics to advocate for better healthcare funding and my neuroscience education to improve patient experience for marginalized groups. Whether it’s ensuring discharge instructions are printed in multiple languages or advocating for telehealth access in rural areas, I believe that public service begins with listening to those who are too often ignored. The Endeavor Public Service Scholarship represents the kind of support that turns purpose into impact. I’m not pursuing medicine just to wear a white coat. I’m pursuing it because I have seen firsthand what happens when communities are underserved and overlooked. I want to use my voice, my skills, and my education to change that, for my family, for my city, and for the next immigrant daughter trying to make sense of a world not built for her. With the right tools, I know I can help rebuild that world into something better.

My name is Cindy Concepcion, and I immigrated from the Dominican Republic when I was five years old. While I don’t remember the plane ride, I remember what came after, learning to navigate a new language, new systems, and a new way of life while still holding on to the culture that shaped me. From an early age, I became the family translator, interpreter, and advocate. Whether I was reading hospital bills, filling out school forms, or standing beside my parents at appointments, I learned to carry a responsibility many kids never face. It made me grow up fast, but it also made me strong. As an immigrant, life in the U.S. has come with constant adaptation. Language barriers, financial strain, and the pressure to succeed were ever-present. My parents are married and have worked incredibly hard to build a foundation for our family, even while facing the limits of what this country offers to newcomers. We didn't have relatives nearby to lean on, and often it felt like we were figuring everything out on our own. Watching my parents sacrifice so much without complaint motivated me to make every opportunity count, not just for myself but for my entire family. I’ve also taken on a caregiving role at home, especially for my younger siblings and my grandfather, who is ill. I help with schoolwork, medical care, and emotional support. These responsibilities have made me patient and empathetic. They’ve taught me that leadership doesn’t always look like giving speeches or holding titles, it often looks like showing up quietly and consistently, no matter how tired you are. Since coming to the U.S., I’ve also learned that being an immigrant doesn’t mean being behind. It means being equipped with a perspective that’s both global and grounded. I’ve learned how to move between worlds, how to code-switch without losing my voice, and how to stand tall in rooms where I’m often the only one who looks like me. I’ve learned that my background is not something to overcome; it’s something to use. These experiences have deeply shaped my career goals. I plan to become a neuro-oncologist and return to the Dominican Republic to open a hospital in my family’s rural hometown. I want to address the inequalities I’ve seen in both countries, especially when it comes to how patients receive information and access care. My goal is to combine neuroscience, economics, and technology to make healthcare more accessible and culturally competent. I envision developing multilingual platforms to help non-English-speaking patients understand their diagnoses and treatment options. I want every patient, no matter where they are from or what language they speak, to feel seen, heard, and cared for. This journey has also taught me to value community. I’ve worked jobs to help support my family, led school organizations, mentored younger students, and spent summers doing cancer research to better understand the kind of physician I want to become. I’ve learned that giving back isn’t something you do after you “make it.” It’s something you do at every stage of the journey. The Rose Ifebigh Memorial Scholarship speaks to the heart of who I am, not just a student, but an immigrant daughter determined to turn every challenge into fuel. I carry my family, my country, and my ambition with me in everything I do. I’m not just pursuing a degree. I’m building a life of purpose rooted in where I came from and where I’m going.

When I reflect on what drives me, I always return to my family, my first classroom, my first responsibility, and my first source of strength. As the oldest child in a low-income Afro-Latina household, I grew up translating not just words but entire worlds. From immigration papers to medical terms, I became the voice my family leaned on to navigate spaces that were not designed for us. Through that, I learned how to advocate, adapt, and lead. I’ve always been drawn to science, not just for its problem-solving but for its humanity. My curiosity sharpened when I joined cancer research teams at Dana-Farber and Massachusetts General Hospital, studying gliomas and liposarcoma under the guidance of oncologists. I wasn’t just fascinated by the biology; I was moved by the patients. I met a 9/11 firefighter who came to his appointment alone, a Navy SEAL expecting a child while facing a terminal diagnosis, and a retired nurse being treated at the hospital where she once worked. I listened to their stories, their fears, and their hopes. It was in those moments that I realized I didn’t want to just study disease. I wanted to improve lives. That’s why my dream is to become a neuro-oncologist and open a hospital in the rural Dominican Republic, where many of my family members live. I want to bridge the gap between high-quality care and communities that are too often forgotten. But beyond medical treatment, I want to use information technology to transform how people receive and understand healthcare. I imagine a system where someone like my grandmother, who never finished school and doesn’t speak English, could receive a diagnosis and then hear an explanation in her native language, watch a visual aid showing treatment options, and feel empowered to ask questions. That kind of care should not be revolutionary. It should be standard. What excites me most about STEM is its ability to create that kind of transformation. STEM gives us tools, but it also gives us opportunities to challenge injustice. I see information technology as the heartbeat of that change. Whether it's using machine learning to predict treatment outcomes or building language-accessible patient portals, IT allows us to reach people faster, more intelligently, and with greater compassion. I’ve already started learning coding and data science, and I plan to explore these areas even deeper when I start at Pomona College this fall. My focus will be neuroscience and economics, and I will also pursue programming so I can help develop tools that improve the quality of life for patients around the world. I’ve seen firsthand how technology can reshape lives. During my research internship, I learned to read complex medical records, sort through patient-reported outcomes, and analyze trends in tumor progression. But the moments that stayed with me were not in the spreadsheets. They were in the pauses between questions, when patients opened up about their families, their regrets, and their resilience. One patient told me he didn’t fear death. He feared being forgotten. That’s what information technology in medicine can help prevent. It gives us data, but it also preserves stories. It allows us to document, protect, and advocate. Still, my journey hasn’t been easy. In early 2024, I hit a wall. Years of pressure from school, caregiving, translating, and working caught up with me. I began experiencing anxiety so severe that I couldn’t get out of bed. I was exhausted but still trying to maintain my role as the “strong one.” Eventually, I broke down. I stopped submitting assignments. I stopped showing up for people. I felt like I had failed not just myself but everyone who believed in me. But in that silence, I started healing. I asked for help. I started therapy. I began exercising again, not to “fix” myself but to feel connected to my body. I created a small workout group before class and began advising peers about managing academic stress. I stopped pretending to have it all together and instead created space for honesty and recovery. That vulnerability made me stronger. It also taught me that mental health must be part of the conversation when we talk about women in STEM. We cannot uplift others without learning how to care for ourselves. Despite the challenge, I pushed forward. I became president of my student council and helped underclassmen access scholarships. I served as parliamentarian of my National Honor Society chapter, creating a bridge between upperclassmen and freshmen. I worked part-time at Marshalls, T.J. Maxx, and Victoria’s Secret to help support my grandfather’s medical care. I studied AP Calculus, AP Biology, and Spanish literature. I applied to QuestBridge and received a full scholarship to attend college. Through all of it, I never stopped dreaming of who I could become. To me, this scholarship is not just about money. It is about recognition. It is about saying to girls like me that we belong in these rooms, in labs, in hospitals, in leadership. I want to represent the future of STEM, not just by what I study but by how I lead. I want to show younger girls, especially those from immigrant families, that being the translator, the caregiver, or the first in your family does not limit you. It strengthens you. In my vision for the future, I see a clinic in the Dominican Republic where patients walk in without fear. I see research labs with multilingual access and culturally competent design. I see myself at the intersection of neuroscience, oncology, and technology, leading with both rigor and empathy. I see myself using every tool STEM offers to build not just treatments, but trust. That is why I’m applying for the Young Women in STEM Scholarship. Because I don’t just want to succeed. I want to redefine what success looks like for women in science, especially those who carry stories like mine.

My name is Cindy Concepcion, and I’m an Afro-Latina first-generation college student from Massachusetts who grew up translating documents, doctors’ visits, and bills for my entire family. That experience taught me two things early on: how to advocate for others and how broken systems often fail the people who need them most. I’m planning to double major in neuroscience and economics at Pomona College, and my goal is to one day open my own hospital in the rural Dominican Republic that serves people regardless of their income, background, or language. I want to make sure no one ever has to experience the kind of confusion and fear I watched my family go through—navigating a healthcare system that didn’t seem built for us. While I’m deeply passionate about medicine, I’ve also developed an equal interest in business and entrepreneurship. To open a hospital or build a community clinic, you can’t just be a doctor—you have to be a leader. You need to understand how to build sustainable models, how to manage finances, and how to innovate in communities that have been historically underfunded and overlooked. That’s why I’ve worked hard to gain leadership experience as the president of my student council and as the parliamentarian of the National Honor Society, where I’ve built programs that connect younger students with scholarship opportunities and academic resources. I’ve also worked three jobs in the past year—at Marshalls, T.J. Maxx, and now Victoria’s Secret—to help support my family and save for college. This scholarship would help relieve the financial pressure that comes with attending college across the country while still needing to send money back home. More than that, it would support someone with a real plan to make change. I don’t just want to be part of the medical field—I want to reshape it. That starts with getting the education I need in both science and business to launch projects that are rooted in compassion, accessibility, and real-world impact. I’ve experienced emotional and physical weakness before. In early 2024, I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety after a stretch of extreme stress from balancing school, work, caregiving, and personal health. I couldn’t get out of bed. I was stuck in survival mode. What helped me break out of it wasn’t just therapy or medicine—it was movement. I started working out in the mornings, first alone, then with friends. That routine gave me a sense of power again, and it turned into something bigger: I now lead morning workout groups for other students dealing with burnout or mental health challenges. That experience taught me that even when you feel powerless, there’s always a way to take control of your healing—and that helping others heal alongside you makes the recovery even more meaningful. I may be young, but I’m not waiting for permission to make change. I already see the need in my community and I know the gaps I want to fill. With this scholarship’s support, I can get closer to building something that lasts—something that turns the pain I’ve lived through into a source of healing for others.

Growing up, I didn’t see many Black women in lab coats. I didn’t know anyone who looked like me in medicine or neuroscience. Most of what I learned about STEM careers came from books, YouTube documentaries, and shadowing at hospitals, where I quickly noticed I was often the only Afro-Latina in the room. That visibility gap didn’t just make me feel out of place—it made me ask why entire communities are being left behind in fields that shape our future. Diversity in STEM is not just a moral necessity—it’s a survival one. Science touches everything from our healthcare to the algorithms that run our schools and legal systems. If the voices building those systems only come from a narrow slice of society, the results will never serve everyone equally. I’ve lived this firsthand. I’ve translated at medical appointments for my Spanish-speaking grandfather because no interpreter was available. I’ve watched my uncle struggle to receive proper treatment for his addiction because his symptoms were dismissed instead of understood. These moments made me realize that science isn’t neutral—it reflects the people who shape it. That’s why I’m pursuing a degree in neuroscience with the goal of becoming a neuro-oncologist. I want to bring equity into every space I enter, especially in medicine, where bias can cost lives. Through research at Massachusetts General Hospital and Dana-Farber, I’ve explored quality-of-life outcomes in brain cancer patients, many of whom didn’t feel heard by their doctors. I’ve sat beside patients—a Navy SEAL, a retired nurse, a 9/11 firefighter—who were brave enough to share their fears, and I’ve realized that STEM isn’t just about equations. It’s about empathy. It’s about ensuring every patient sees themselves reflected in their care. But representation goes beyond patient care. Black students are still underrepresented in clinical research, in medical schools, and in tech development. When we aren’t at the table, the solutions created are often incomplete or harmful. I want to help change that by not only becoming a doctor, but by mentoring other students like me—those who grew up translating for their parents, who took on caregiving roles, and who dreamed of science but didn’t always have the resources to chase it. I’ve already started doing this through the National Honor Society, where I send scholarship and STEM opportunities to younger students, and through The Academy Group and Minds Matter Boston, where I mentor students navigating college applications for the first time. This scholarship would ease the financial burden of attending Pomona College, where I’ll be studying neuroscience and economics. More importantly, it would affirm that my background isn’t a barrier to success—it’s the reason I’ll succeed. My experiences have taught me to solve problems creatively, communicate across languages and cultures, and never forget the people behind the science. The truth is, there is no innovation without inclusion. The future of STEM depends on people from all walks of life—people who’ve seen how systems fail and are ready to build better ones. I plan to be one of those people. And when I get there, I’ll make sure others can follow. I may not have had role models who looked like me in STEM growing up, but I’m becoming that person for someone else. That’s the legacy I want to leave behind.

I don’t come from a place where artificial intelligence is a common topic of conversation. At my high school, we didn’t have AI clubs or electives that taught Python. We had students like me—first-gen, Afro-Latina, working jobs after school to help our families while dreaming of careers we didn’t always see examples of. My introduction to AI wasn’t through a coding bootcamp or a robotics competition. It was in the middle of a hospital hallway, shadowing a neuro-oncologist at Massachusetts General Hospital. I watched a team use AI-driven imaging to detect the progression of gliomas in real time, helping personalize treatment plans for younger patients who still had so much life ahead of them. That moment was everything. It was the first time I saw how AI could touch lives—how it could quite literally extend them. Since then, I’ve worked to close the knowledge gap I wasn’t handed the tools to bridge. I taught myself the basics of machine learning and neural networks using free online platforms. I practiced Python through healthcare data visualization challenges. But more importantly, I started asking questions. How can AI help predict which brain cancer patients are most at risk of depression or cognitive decline? How can we use machine learning to spot early signs of addiction relapse, especially in communities of color? I may not have built an app yet, but I’ve built purpose. This past summer, during my research internship at MGH, I worked on a project exploring quality-of-life outcomes in patients with IDH-mutant gliomas. While the research was clinical, I couldn’t stop thinking about how AI might help analyze patient-reported data more efficiently. So I reached out to a PhD student using AI to detect speech changes in glioblastoma patients—and she let me observe her process. I was captivated. It reminded me that AI isn’t just a tool for tech labs; it’s a tool for equity, for empathy, for care. When I begin my studies at Pomona College this fall, I plan to major in neuroscience and minor in economics, with a strong focus on computational biology and machine learning applications in medicine. I’ve already started exploring how I can join Pomona’s Machine Learning and Neural Computation Lab, because I want to develop AI-based tools that don’t just respond to disease—but predict and prevent it. I want to co-create platforms that flag mental health red flags before they escalate, especially in patients battling chronic illnesses or going through cancer treatment. As a Black and Afro-Latina woman, I know the voices missing in these spaces. When AI is designed without diversity, it makes biased assumptions that harm the people I love. That’s why I won’t just use AI—I’ll shape it. I’ll bring my story into the room and push for models that reflect our realities. Because when algorithms are built by people who understand struggle, they become tools for liberation—not oppression. This scholarship wouldn’t just support my education—it would affirm the vision I carry into every lab, every late-night study session, and every patient story I remember. I may have started out behind, but I’m catching up fast. And when I arrive, I plan to bring others with me.

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.

I’ve always seen “first-generation” as more than a label. It’s a responsibility. One that started long before I even knew how to spell it. When my family came to the U.S., I was young enough to adapt quickly but old enough to feel everything. The shift in language, the pressure to translate bills and medical forms, and the way my parents looked to me for answers I didn’t always have built a sense of urgency in me. Not panic. Purpose. I wasn’t just learning English. I was becoming the bridge between two worlds. By the time I was 18, I was teaching younger immigrant kids how to read and write in English. Not because someone told me to, but because I remember what it felt like to sit in a classroom and pretend to understand. I saw my younger self in every kid who hesitated before raising their hand, afraid of saying something “wrong.” That fear of being seen as “less than” just because of where you’re from or how you speak still lingers in a lot of us. My mom didn’t go to college. Not because she wasn’t smart enough, but because she didn’t get the chance. That’s why I’m doing this. For her. For my siblings. For every immigrant student who’s been told “no” before they even had a chance to ask for help. I’ve worked jobs in retail to help pay bills and support my grandfather’s medical care, all while balancing AP classes, leadership roles, and cancer research. People ask me how I manage it, but the truth is, I don’t know any other way. This is survival. This is love. This is legacy. I’m heading to Pomona College this fall to study neuroscience and economics. I want to become a neuro-oncologist, not just to treat cancer but to understand how it steals time and identity from patients and their families. During my research at Massachusetts General Hospital, I met people whose stories stayed with me. A 9/11 firefighter survivor. A Navy SEAL waiting to become a father. A retired nurse receiving care in the same hospital where she once comforted others. They carried both courage and grief in the same breath. I want to spend my life fighting for them, and for patients like them, to live with dignity and peace. But I don’t want to stop there. One day, I plan to open a hospital in rural Dominican Republic where healthcare access is scarce. I’ve seen what it means to go without care, to rely on neighbors or remittances just to get basic treatment. No one should suffer in silence just because they live in the wrong place. This scholarship would mean more than financial support. It would be proof that people believe in students like me. Immigrants who are building futures from scratch, without a blueprint, but with a lot of heart. I don’t come from wealth. I come from persistence. And with the right tools, I believe I can do more than just survive. I can lead. I can serve. I can heal. This is my new beginning. I’m ready.

I was eighteen when I stood in front of a sixth-grade classroom, not as a student, but as a teacher. Through the YES for CURE program, I had the opportunity to teach lung cancer prevention to middle school students. At first, I felt unsure. Would they listen to someone just a few years older than them? But as I spoke about the dangers of secondhand smoke and how it could harm the people they loved, I saw their eyes focus, their hands raise with questions, and their curiosity grow. That day showed me how powerful it is to use your voice to educate and care for others. Volunteering has always been part of my life, even when it did not come with formal recognition. I was raised in Lynn, Massachusetts, in a Dominican household that taught me community is everything. My father co-owns a small café that became my second home. My mother did not have the chance to earn a college degree, but her wisdom and drive taught me more than any textbook. When COVID hit and jobs were hard to find, she became a waitress to help keep our family stable. She also helped open an outdoor seating area for the café so it could continue serving people in need. Her example taught me that showing up for others is the highest form of strength. As the oldest child in my family, I have always held responsibilities far beyond my age. I have been a translator at hospitals, government offices, and school meetings. I taught my younger siblings how to read and speak English. I created "family reading nights" to keep us connected, especially after traumatic events we experienced in the Dominican Republic. My brother nearly drowned, and I helped my mother resuscitate him. Not long after, my sister was hit by a drunk driver on a motorcycle. These moments changed the way I saw the world. They taught me to value every breath and every moment with the people I love. I also care for my grandfather, who is chronically ill. I manage his medications, attend doctor appointments with him, and translate medical information. These experiences taught me the importance of compassion, patience, and clear communication, especially in health care. They inspired me to pursue a career as a neuro-oncologist so I can improve the quality of life for patients facing terminal illness. At school, I serve as student council president and parliamentarian of the National Honor Society. I lead initiatives to strengthen relationships between upperclassmen and underclassmen and share scholarship and academic resources with students who might otherwise miss them. I started early morning workout groups before class to give students a space to manage their stress and prioritize their mental health. These small acts of service helped create a culture of support in my school community. Outside of school, I work retail jobs to help cover bills and support my family. I am currently employed at Victoria’s Secret and previously worked at T.J. Maxx and Marshalls. I often assist Spanish-speaking customers who need help navigating the store, translating product details or policies that might otherwise be a barrier. Even in those small interactions, I feel the impact of service. I will be attending Pomona College this fall to study neuroscience and economics. My long-term goal is to open a hospital in rural Dominican Republic where underserved communities can receive high-quality, affordable care. Service is not just something I do. It is the foundation of who I am. It lives in my story, my family, and my future.

I grew up in Lynn, Massachusetts, in a Dominican household where every decision was shaped by faith, sacrifice, and love. My parents immigrated to the United States with little money but strong determination to give their children a better life. My father co-owns a small café that became my second home, and my mother, despite her college education in the Dominican Republic, took jobs as a waitress and cleaning woman when she couldn’t find work during COVID. She never complained. Instead, she built community wherever she went. Watching them taught me that dignity does not come from wealth but from effort and resilience. As the oldest child, I have been a translator at hospitals, a tutor for my siblings, and a caregiver for my grandfather. When my brother nearly drowned and my sister was hit by a drunk driver during a trip to the Dominican Republic, I was forced to confront the fragility of life at a young age. I held my brother’s hand as my mother performed CPR, and I watched my sister recover from injuries no child should ever endure. These moments made me feel helpless, but they also lit a fire in me. I wanted to understand the human body, to be the kind of doctor who not only treats but listens, especially when patients feel forgotten by the system. That goal has guided every step I’ve taken. I became a high school researcher and completed work at both Dana-Farber and the Pappas Center for Neuro-Oncology at Massachusetts General Hospital. I studied how to improve the quality of life for patients with brain tumors, many of whom are dealing with the same kinds of uncertainty and fear I saw in my own family. I’ve spoken with patients from all walks of life, including a retired nurse receiving care where she once treated others. These conversations helped me see medicine not just as a science but as a responsibility to preserve hope. Outside the lab, I serve as student council president and National Honor Society parliamentarian. I share scholarship opportunities with other students and run mental health workout groups before class. I also work part-time jobs at Victoria’s Secret and previously at T.J. Maxx and Marshalls to help my family with bills and my grandfather’s medication. I will be attending Pomona College to study neuroscience and economics with the long-term goal of opening a hospital in rural Dominican Republic. I want to bring care to people who are often left out of the conversation. My Hispanic background has given me the lens to see inequities clearly and the strength to do something about them. Receiving this scholarship would not only ease the financial burden on my family but also validate the sacrifices we have made. I carry their stories with me into every classroom, lab, and workplace. Their struggle is my fuel, and their dreams live on through mine.

Each night, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, searching for the version of myself that had not yet learned to smile through fear. I brushed my hair and packed my school bag like everything was normal, even though nothing felt safe. At the time, I thought silence was strength. I thought surviving meant staying quiet. Now I know that real strength comes from reclaiming your voice and using it to build something better. As a survivor of intimate partner violence, I carry the weight of what I went through, but I do not let it define me. Instead, I use it as fuel to create a future rooted in healing. I am studying neuroscience and economics at Pomona College to become a neuro-oncologist. My long-term vision is to open a trauma-informed hospital in the rural Dominican Republic that offers bilingual, accessible, and culturally responsive care to women and families affected by violence and neglect. Trauma leaves marks we cannot always see. Through neuroscience, I study how trauma rewires the brain, especially in survivors. I am committed to building a model of care that accounts for the long-term impact of abuse and restores dignity to the healing process. My background in economics allows me to think practically about access and sustainability. I want my hospital to offer walk-in trauma counseling, financial literacy workshops for women rebuilding after abuse, and a leadership program that trains survivors to become health advocates. Healing did not end in private. It turned into leadership when I created early morning wellness groups at school, where students could breathe, stretch, and start their day in a space that felt safe. Some came to exercise. Others came just to be. These mornings became a quiet refuge for students struggling with anxiety, depression, and unspoken burdens. My experience also shaped my leadership as student council president and parliamentarian of the National Honor Society, where I connected underclassmen to scholarships, organized mental health events, and showed my peers that strength can be quiet, but never passive. Outside of school, I volunteered with the YES for CURE program, teaching middle school students about cancer prevention. I worked part-time jobs at Marshalls, TJ Maxx, and currently Victoria’s Secret, while caring for my younger siblings and my sick grandfather. I translated hospital paperwork, navigated insurance forms, and often put my own needs aside to meet those of my family. These responsibilities were heavy, but they taught me that leadership begins with showing up. Education has given me the language to name my pain and the tools to turn it into action. Every lecture, research lab, and mentorship session pushes me closer to a future where I can help others find safety and care. I plan to use my degree not only to treat patients, but to challenge the systems that fail them. I want to mentor survivors pursuing medicine and create scholarships for young women of color who often feel they must choose between survival and success. This scholarship would provide the support I need to focus on my studies, prepare for the MCAT, and take on research opportunities without being held back by financial strain. It would affirm that my story matters and that my future is worth investing in. One day, I hope a survivor will walk into my clinic, take a deep breath, and feel what I never did at her age: safety, belonging, and the belief that her life is still hers to shape. I plan to use my story and my education to build that world.

Growing up as an Afro-Latina first-generation student, I was often asked to choose between survival and success. I chose both. My journey to higher education has not been a straight path, but a winding one shaped by caregiving, translating for my entire family, and bearing responsibilities most teenagers never face. I see these challenges not as obstacles but as the foundation of my purpose. They have grounded me in service, sharpened my ambition, and inspired me to pursue a future in neuroscience and public health, starting at Pomona College and continuing through medical school. My goal is to become a neuro-oncologist and open a trauma-informed hospital in rural Dominican Republic that offers bilingual, accessible, and culturally competent care. I want to ensure that no family has to experience what mine did. Navigating hospital systems without clarity, support, or trust is a form of harm I hope to help eliminate. I plan to specialize in treating brain tumors while also creating community health programs that address the long-term neurological and emotional effects of trauma, particularly in underserved communities of color. I do not want to just treat illness. I want to redesign care to be more empathetic, holistic, and just. My passion for medicine began during a summer research program at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and deepened during my clinical shadowing experience at Massachusetts General Hospital. There, I worked closely with neuro-oncology teams and interviewed patients living with IDH-mutant gliomas. Many of them were between the ages of 20 and 50. They were young adults with families, jobs, and futures that were suddenly on hold. I sat beside a Navy SEAL who was expecting a baby, a 9/11 firefighter who carried both physical and emotional scars, and a retired nurse being treated in the same hospital where she had once worked. Each conversation reminded me that medical care is not only about science. It is also about stories, dignity, and the small moments of comfort that can change the course of someone’s final days. In parallel with my academic and research commitments, my foundation is rooted in civic service. At KIPP Academy Lynn, I served as student council president and parliamentarian of the National Honor Society. I sent out weekly scholarship opportunities to underclassmen, led school-wide mental health initiatives, and organized workshops that brought students together to share their challenges and solutions. One of the most meaningful projects I led was the creation of early morning workout groups before class. What started as a way to manage my own anxiety turned into a safe space for students dealing with depression, academic pressure, and personal trauma. These early sessions became filled with music, encouragement, and sometimes silence, the kind that brings healing. Outside of school, I volunteered through YES for CURE, a program that empowers high school students to teach cancer prevention in middle schools. I used that platform to talk about lung health, environmental risk factors, and lifestyle-based prevention in a way that younger students could understand and relate to. I also helped raise my younger siblings, ages nine and eleven. I taught them English, helped with homework, and comforted them through traumatic experiences. During a family trip to the Dominican Republic, both of my siblings nearly lost their lives. My brother drowned and had to be resuscitated. My sister was struck by a motorcycle driven by a drunk driver. Those moments made me realize how fragile and precious life is. Since then, I have committed to organizing family nights several times a week, making sure my siblings know they are safe, loved, and heard. This commitment to service extends into my work life. I have worked at Marshalls, TJ Maxx, and currently at Victoria’s Secret. I often took on full shifts while managing a rigorous course load. These jobs taught me about resilience, communication, and the unseen labor that many students of color carry in silence. At every job, I supported coworkers who were also students, helped non-English-speaking customers, and advocated for fairness in scheduling. Even in retail, I found ways to lead with compassion. I have faced many barriers, including financial instability and mental health challenges, but I have never let those define me. Instead, I used them as motivation to keep going and to bring others with me. I plan to use my education to create systemic change in healthcare, especially in communities where language, income, and race often determine the quality of care. My long-term vision includes creating scholarship pipelines for students interested in medicine, offering free MCAT prep and mentorship for Afro-Latinx and first-generation students, and launching mobile clinic programs in rural communities. Attending an HBCU would have been an honor, given their legacy of cultivating leaders and nurturing a sense of cultural pride and purpose. I deeply admire institutions like Spelman, Morehouse, and Howard for their tradition of excellence and community. Although I ultimately chose Pomona College for its neuroscience program and research opportunities, I carry the same values found in HBCUs. I believe in service, leadership, and the responsibility to uplift others through every step of my journey. Winning the ESOF Academic Scholarship would ease the financial pressures that come with travel expenses, academic supplies, and graduate school preparation. More importantly, it would affirm that my voice and my mission matter. This scholarship would allow me to focus on building the future I dream of and to serve the communities I care deeply about. I want my legacy to be one of healing, advocacy, and equity. I hope to be remembered not only for the hospital I build or the patients I treat but for the students I mentor, the barriers I help remove, and the families I stand beside. With faith, focus, and support from organizations like ESOF, I know that this future is possible.

Some people assume that if your parents did not go to college, they will not care if you do either. That was never the case in my home. My mother may not hold a degree, but she carries a kind of wisdom built from years of sacrifice and strength. My grandfather, who I now help care for, often reminds me how education in the Dominican Republic was more of a privilege than a promise. For my family, college is not just about a career. It is about breaking a cycle. No one in my household had gone through the college process. I had to learn it all from scratch. I studied financial aid guides after work, watched videos on how to complete the FAFSA, and translated every document for my parents, making sure they understood what I was signing us all up for. There were no shortcuts, only persistence. I asked questions, searched for scholarships, and pieced together a future that had always felt out of reach. During this time, I was balancing much more than applications. I held retail jobs to support my family, translated for hospital visits, and helped raise my younger siblings while my parents worked long hours. I also battled anxiety and depression, which at times left me paralyzed with stress. I had to push myself through days that felt impossible. I leaned on therapy, morning exercise, and friends who reminded me of my strength. These moments shaped me into someone who does not quit, even when the weight feels heavy. Today, I am a first-year student at Pomona College, studying neuroscience and economics. My dream is to become a neuro-oncologist and eventually return to the Dominican Republic to open a trauma-informed hospital. I want to serve families who are often overlooked, people who deserve care in their native language, and those who cannot afford to wait in fear for answers. I want to train bilingual providers and create access to healthcare that reflects the dignity of every patient. I have prepared for this journey by becoming a leader in and out of the classroom. I served as student council president, mentored underclassmen through the National Honor Society, and volunteered to teach cancer prevention to middle schoolers. Through each experience, I discovered that being first-generation means being a bridge. I connect my family to the systems they cannot navigate alone. I speak for people who feel invisible in medical settings. I build paths where there were none before. This scholarship would relieve a financial burden that follows me every semester. It would allow me to invest in test preparation, academic materials, and professional opportunities without needing to overwork myself just to stay afloat. More importantly, it would be a reminder that my story matters and that first-generation students belong in every room where decisions are made. I chose higher education because I believe in building something better than what I inherited. I have prepared by turning every challenge into motivation. With the right support, I will continue to rise and bring others with me.

My light began as a spark. I was thirteen years old, standing behind the counter at my dad’s small café in Lynn, Massachusetts, watching him stretch one bag of coffee grounds into two days’ worth of sales. El Café Molino was more than a business. It was my second home, my classroom, and my first taste of entrepreneurship. When COVID hit, I watched my parents fight to keep our doors open. We moved to outdoor seating, took on debt, and learned to adapt overnight. It was not just about surviving. It was about serving the community that had supported us for years. That moment lit something in me: the belief that businesses can be more than money-makers. They can be symbols of resilience, community, and hope. That is the kind of business I want to create. My dream is to one day open a community wellness center that combines medical services, mental health support, and entrepreneurship training for low-income families, especially immigrants and first-generation students like me. It would be a space where people do not have to choose between paying rent or seeking therapy, where young girls of color can see themselves reflected in leadership, and where local vendors can rent space affordably to grow their own small businesses. The idea comes from my life experience. I have worked retail jobs since I was 16, helped raise my younger siblings, and served as a translator and health advocate for my immigrant family. At school, I serve as the president of our student council and the parliamentarian of the National Honor Society, where I mentor younger students and connect them with scholarship and leadership opportunities. I have volunteered with the YES for CURE program to teach cancer prevention in middle schools, and I have organized food drives and community events to support families in need. Wherever I go, I lead with empathy and action. I shine my light by lifting others up. Whether it is sitting with a classmate who is struggling with anxiety, leading a sunrise workout to start our mornings with strength, or helping my mom navigate her hospital forms, I believe in the quiet power of showing up. That is what entrepreneurship means to me. It is not just building something for myself. It is creating something that helps others rise with me. As a low-income, Afro-Latina, first-generation student, I have faced many barriers: academic, financial, and emotional. But instead of dimming my light, those challenges fueled it. I am currently studying neuroscience and economics at Pomona College with the goal of becoming a neuro-oncologist and later expanding into healthcare entrepreneurship. My education will be the foundation for the business I envision, one built on compassion, cultural understanding, and sustainable impact. Winning the Let Your Light Shine Scholarship would be more than financial support. It would be fuel for the fire I have been tending since that day in my dad’s café. It would help cover application fees, books, and future business development courses I plan to take. Most importantly, it would be a reminder that even in a world where people like me are often underestimated, our light matters. I do not just want to succeed. I want to transform what success looks like. I want to create a legacy rooted in service, in healing, and in the belief that every person, regardless of their background, deserves the chance to shine.

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 an Afro-Latina and first-generation college student from the Dominican Republic, the act of crossing borders has always been both literal and symbolic for me. When I came to the United States, I carried more than just a suitcase—I held my family's hopes. My mother, a former factory worker, and my grandfather, now ill and reliant on me for care, are my daily reminders of why education matters. I translate for my entire family, not just in language but in culture, healthcare, and opportunity. At times, the weight of responsibility felt like too much, especially when depression and anxiety took hold earlier this year. I would stare at blank walls, paralyzed by school stress, unsure if I could carry on. But I did. With therapy, exercise, and a support system I built for myself, I began to heal—and I realized I wasn’t just surviving. I was transforming. I now run informal morning workout groups with my peers, host open discussions about mental health, and advocate for immigrant and low-income students to access scholarships and healthcare resources. What once held me back is now what pushes me forward. I'm currently studying neuroscience and economics at Pomona College, intending to become a neuro-oncologist. My passion for medicine was sparked by conversations I had with terminally ill brain tumor patients while conducting research at Massachusetts General Hospital. Many were immigrants like me—people whose stories are rarely heard. One man, a retired Navy SEAL expecting a baby, told me he had more to live for but not enough time. Another patient, a nurse receiving treatment at her former workplace, smiled through tears as she described caring for others while slowly losing her own life. They taught me that healing isn't just about curing—it's about listening, comforting, and dignifying. My dream is to return to rural areas in the Dominican Republic, where access to specialized medical care is nearly nonexistent, and open a hospital that bridges modern medicine with culturally competent care. I want to train bilingual doctors, start a telemedicine program for families without transportation, and ensure no one is turned away due to language or income. I believe that international students like me bring something powerful to the U.S.—not just academic ambition, but a global mindset grounded in lived experience. Winning this scholarship would be more than financial support—it would be a vote of confidence in someone who has walked the tightrope between two worlds and now dreams of connecting them. I plan to utilize every lecture, lab, and late-night study session not just to build a career, but to create a legacy of impact that begins here and extends far beyond borders.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.