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.

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.

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

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