Cancer has been part of my family story for as long as I can remember. My great grandmother emigrated from Palermo, Sicily, built a life with very little, and still made sure I had a chance at the education she never received. She helped fund my undergraduate years through small savings and private loans in her name, even while undergoing repeated cancer treatments. Over roughly fifteen to twenty years she faced cancer four times. In the last decade of her life she lived with only one partially functioning lung, yet she continued to work, care for our family and show up for me. Watching her navigate the health care system showed me how much strength it takes just to access basic care, especially for immigrants and working class families. She struggled with transportation, language barriers, paperwork and constant worry about whether treatments would be covered. Even when she followed every instruction, the system did not make it easy for her to advocate for herself. Sitting in waiting rooms beside her, I saw how rushed visits could be and how often she left with more questions than answers. Those moments planted the first seeds of my interest in health care. I wanted to stand in that gap for patients like her and for families like ours. Cancer did not only affect her. Her brother died from prostate cancer, largely because he never had consistent access to preventive care or screening. By the time his cancer was discovered, options were limited. His story reminds me that outcomes are not just about individual choices or “catching things early.” They depend on whether people can afford checkups, whether there are clinics nearby and whether someone takes the time to explain what is happening in a way they can truly understand. Losing my great grandmother five months before my college graduation was devastating, especially because she had sacrificed so much to get me there. At the same time, it clarified my sense of purpose. I first moved toward nursing and clinical care because I wanted to be in the room with patients like her, making sure they felt seen and respected. As I learned more about health policy and public health, I saw that many of the obstacles she faced were not personal failures but structural choices. That realization pushed me into public health, where I could focus on access, equity and the design of systems that either open doors or quietly close them. Through my family’s experience with cancer, I have learned that illness is never just a medical event. It reshapes finances, relationships and the way people see their future. I have also learned that resilience is not about pretending to be unaffected, but about accepting help, asking questions and insisting that care should be both effective and humane. My great grandmother’s life, surviving multiple cancers and a decade with one partially functioning lung, and her brother’s death from prostate cancer taught me that where you are born and how much money you have should not decide whether you survive a disease like cancer. Carrying their stories with me, I am committed to a career that honors their sacrifices. Whether I am working at a bedside, in a clinic or within a public health department, I want to make it easier for families like mine to receive timely, high quality cancer care and to navigate the system with dignity. Every step I take in health care and public health continues the journey my great grandmother began when she left Palermo and chose to invest in my future.

That “awkward thing” that makes me stand out has always been that I never fit cleanly into any one category. I was the Black kid who grew up speaking a non English language at home and bringing food to school that other kids thought was “weird.” I was a little feminine in how I spoke and carried myself, but I loved what people called “boy things” like sports and competition. I was the “cool kid” who went to games and joined activities, but I was also the nerd who actually liked science, reading and talking about politics. No matter where I was, someone was ready to tell me I was “too” something or “not enough” of something else. Those comments stung when I was younger. Being told I was “too white” because I loved learning made me feel like I was somehow betraying my community, while being teased for my language, food and mannerisms made me feel like I would never really belong in mainstream spaces either. I remember sitting at lunch hearing jokes about what I brought from home and wondering if it would be easier to leave parts of myself at the door. On the court, I was the right handed kid who played basketball with his left hand, trying to prove that I still belonged even if I did things a little differently. It often felt like every room had an unspoken rule about how I was supposed to act, talk or move, and I was always slightly out of step. Over time, though, that in between space became one of my biggest strengths. Moving through the world as someone who is slightly feminine but often read as a stereotypical straight, masculine man has made me more aware of how people change their behavior based on who they think they are talking to. I notice when someone relaxes because they assume we share a background, and I notice when someone tenses up because they are not sure how to read me. Instead of trying to erase those differences, I have learned to sit with them. I know what it feels like to be misread or pushed to choose one side of myself, and that makes me more careful about how I listen to others. This mix of identities shapes how I show up in public health and nursing. When I work with patients or classmates from different cultures, I can often see a bit of myself in each of them. I know what it feels like to be the person whose food smells different, whose home language is not the dominant one and whose way of moving through the world does not match other people’s expectations. That empathy helps me build trust and create spaces where people can bring their full selves without feeling like they have to translate everything into a version that fits. What once felt awkward now feels like a kind of quiet superpower. I may never be the most stereotypical version of any identity, but that is exactly what allows me to move between communities, understand nuance and recognize how multiple truths can exist at once. The same kid who got teased for being “too white,” “too Black,” “too feminine” or “too much of a nerd” has grown into an adult who can hold all of those pieces together. That in between place is where I have learned to listen carefully, think critically and see people as more than just one label, including myself

Olivia Rodrigo’s “teenage dream” resonates with me because it captures the moment when the bright future everyone imagined for you suddenly feels uncertain. I grew up seeing school as my safe place and my clearest path forward. I had a detailed plan for my education and career, and for years it seemed within reach. When health problems, housing instability and financial strain collided during my first years of college, that plan collapsed. Like in “teenage dream,” I found myself questioning whether I was still the person everyone believed in or whether I had already “peaked” before life really started. The song also reflects the weight of expectations. I was used to being the student who could push through anything, so when I needed medical leave and emergency housing, it felt like I was letting everyone down, including myself. Withdrawing from my first university and starting over at new schools forced me to admit that hard work was not always enough to control every outcome. I was grieving the future I had imagined while trying to design a new one that fit my reality. “brutal” matches the chaos of that period. It captures how overwhelming it can be to juggle school, work and survival while you are still trying to figure out who you are. During my time at community college, I was working full time, navigating financial aid and trying to stabilize my life. I often felt like I was spinning in circles, doing everything right and still struggling. The raw honesty in “brutal” reminds me that frustration is a real part of early adulthood and that acknowledging it can be a step toward change rather than a sign of failure. I also see my story in “good 4 u,” which blends hurt with a fierce determination to move on. That energy reflects the moment when you decide that, even if others do not see the weight you have carried, you will still build something better for yourself. When I transferred to Thomas Jefferson University and later began graduate work in public health, I carried that same resolve. I had learned to advocate for myself, ask for help when necessary and create backup plans for funding, housing and coursework. My more recent academic record, especially in science and health, shows the shift from barely hanging on to actively rebuilding my life. Across “teenage dream,” “brutal” and “good 4 u,” what stands out to me is Olivia Rodrigo’s willingness to sit with complicated emotions and still keep moving. That is the same balance I have had to find. My transcript shows disruption and recovery, but behind those numbers is a story of learning to adapt my plans, accept imperfection and keep working toward a future in public health and nursing. Her music does more than describe my experience. It reminds me that there is strength in telling the full, messy truth about how I got here and in believing that the next chapter can be more stable, intentional and hopeful than the last.

My long term goal is to build a career that connects public health and clinical care, so I can work directly with communities and also help shape the systems that affect their health every day. I plan to focus on global and community health roles that bring together patients, health care organizations and policymakers, with an emphasis on improving access, equity and quality of care for underserved populations in the United States and in other countries. Over the next two years my main priority is to complete my Master of Public Health, strengthen my background in health systems management, global health policy, intervention planning and program evaluation, and continue advanced science coursework and nursing related training that will keep me close to patient care while I am in school. In practical terms I expect the total cost of my two year MPH program, including tuition, fees and materials, to be significant enough that I will need a mix of institutional aid, federal loans, scholarships and income from work. My plan is to limit debt by seeking as many scholarships and grants as possible, working part time in health related positions and keeping a careful budget that prioritizes housing, transportation, food and academic expenses over wants. I plan to keep housing costs low by staying in modest shared or student oriented housing, relying on public transportation when I can and using campus and community resources such as libraries, student health services, technology centers and tutoring instead of paying for private services. I will also continue to look for paid roles in research, student health and community organizations that help cover living costs and give me practical experience with program delivery, data collection and community engagement. My academic path has already required me to manage school while dealing with financial pressure, work and periods of instability, so I build every plan with backup routes in mind. If scholarship and grant support is lower than I hope, I am prepared to adjust within the two year window, increase my hours in health related work or make use of employer tuition benefits to reduce the cost of classes. If something unexpected happens such as illness, family needs or a change in housing, I know how to talk with faculty and financial aid staff, adjust my course load and shift my schedule while still protecting my long term goals. By the time I finish this program I intend to step into roles where I can help design, carry out and evaluate health programs and policies, while spending regular time in clinical or community settings so I stay grounded in the experiences of patients, families and frontline providers. My plan is not only to earn this degree in two years, but to build a life where I keep listening to communities, use data and lived experience to guide decisions and contribute to health systems that feel more fair, compassionate and responsive than the ones I grew up navigating