Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself confronting these biases was unimportant and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, this was a difficult divide to maintain. Living through pervasive inequities, shame and sorrow began to turn into anger. Anger at how the biases that kept these inequities common were not contained to the minds of the middle and high school children I grew up with, anger at how these biases exist in adult minds and strip away our humanity within our communities. These inequities are inevitably why I ended up working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and sexual assault. Funded by the Office of Violence Against Women, I view the work as a necessary part of protecting and advocating for women’s health. I am addressing women’s health on a small scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. Although I always dreamed of being a doctor, PACT sparked my passion for women’s health. Growing up, the work I talk about with PACT and the conversations necessary for my future career felt like taboo topics. Although they were not spoken about, the effects were felt just the same. I would like to promise my future self that I will keep making space for those difficult conversations. In part, as a Reproductive Endocrinologist, advocating for women's reproductive health and education by having those difficult conversations and helping patients make informed and educated choices when family planning. This scholarship will help me in receiving the undergraduate and medical school education that will keep me on that path.

The first time I told my mother I was depressed; I was in the sixth grade. This is not to say that this was near the first time I felt it, it was just the first time it hurt too much to bury. This was also the first time that I found the courage to say a few simple words, and no one heard me. I’m sure she was listening to the words, but I’m unsure if she even knows enough now, 8 years later, to hear them. A strong Christian woman raised by a Catholic woman; her strength left no space for hurt. Part of me is sure that if I told her I felt hopeless or felt some other meaningful description, she would have confessed some relation to the feeling. I imagine she would have talked about working to provide for a family when she was meant to be nothing more than a child or a million other things anyone would understand. But I did not tell her I felt hopeless, I did not describe the feeling. Instead, I said “depression”, and she could not reconcile me with such a heavy word. My journey with mental health has taught me the heaviness of words. I left that day remembering that depression was a heavy word and saying it out loud would lead to the dismissal of my feelings. I spoke about my feelings, after that moment, sure, but I did not use that particular word again for 8 years. Looking back, my employment under the Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT) is what taught me how the “heaviness” of words should not dismiss their meaning. PACT, an organization created by a recent alumna of my university, aims to create a culture of consent on campus by educating students on sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking. Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence in our home. It was through PACT that I began to learn how to cope with own experiences of gender-based violence, from intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing sexual assault. There were many times that I told myself I was ok and believed it while living with depression. After my sexual assault, however, my depression worsened to a level I had not experienced in years. It began to affect my relationships, as those I once trusted used my mental health to invalidate my experience. The “heaviness” of sexual assault was once again too much for those who loved me to reconcile with their idea of me. They pushed away this heaviness by weaponizing taboos and claiming that my perception was a result of my deteriorating mental health, even once citing “bipolar”. While this originally devastated me, being part of PACT helped me to realize that the “heaviness” of a word is often an indicator of a social failing, not the personal failing of those who dare to utter (or evoke a hint of) what is “taboo.” What is “taboo” is often what most desperately needs to be talked about. The stigma of it is what creates “heavy words”. I believe in giving a voice to those who are brave enough to speak on what is taboo and helping those who are dismissed because others cannot hear their words through the stigma of them. Due to stigma, I did not say the word depression referring to myself again until this year, my sophomore year of college. In return for overcoming this fear and ignoring the stigma, I got the help I needed. As I overcame it, all of the time I spent trying to fix it could be dedicated to other things. With this newfound time, I began to think more deeply about my career. I knew that I wanted to be in medicine and had started my undergraduate degree with that goal in mind, but PACT and my mental health journey had prompted me to stop ignoring it. I did not want to be a surgeon cutting into strangers, or a doctor whose average day was diagnosing and treating the common cold. I wanted to continue being an advocate. Currently, I am addressing women’s health on a small scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. In the future, as a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue to address women’s health on a larger scale. I could say a million things about why this is the right career path for me, including a monologue about shaping the future, but ultimately like most things in my life, it came down to mental health. “Infertility” is a heavy word, and as I went down the rabbit hole that is a career in medicine. It also felt like one of the loneliest words, the most taboo. My journey with mental health has made me believe in looking at the things we usually shroud with shame, head-on, bringing hope into those dark places. In the end, I know I was always meant to be an advocate for women’s health. Learning to say the heavy words with ease, or at least with appropriate consideration, has simply taught me where exactly I should be advocating from.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself confronting these biases was unimportant and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, over time several life experiences made this divide more difficult to maintain. Although my gender and race came with pervasive inequities, it had always been more of a fact than an experience for me. From watching my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence on our home and family life to seeing the horrific outcomes of police brutality on the news. However, as I got older I began to understand the aftermath of living through these experiences more intimately, from tackling intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing what it’s like to be one of the more than 50% of women who survive sexual assault and having my first encounter with the police less than a semester after moving to the United States. Living through this what was previously shame and sorrow began to turn into anger. Anger at how the biases that kept these inequities common were not contained to the minds of the middle and high school children I grew up with, anger at how these biases exist in adult minds and strip away our humanity within our communities. These inequities are inevitably why I ended up working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and sexual assault. Funded by the Office of Violence Against Women, I view the work as a necessary part of protecting and advocating for women’s health. I am addressing women’s health on a small scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. Growing up, the work I talk about with PACT and the conversations necessary for my future career felt like taboo topics. Although they were not spoken about, the effects were felt just the same. Although I have explored many different versions of what my future may look like, it has always been having difficult conversations. As a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue advocating for women's reproductive health and education by having those difficult conversations and helping patients make informed and educated choices when family planning.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself confronting these biases was unimportant and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, over time several life experiences made this divide more difficult to maintain. Although my gender and race came with pervasive inequities, it had always been more of a fact than an experience for me. From watching my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence on our home and family life to seeing the horrific outcomes of police brutality on the news. However, as I got older I began to understand the aftermath of living through these experiences more intimately, from tackling intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing what it’s like to be one of the more than 50% of women who survive sexual assault and having my first encounter with the police less than a semester after moving to the United States. Living through this what was previously shame and sorrow began to turn into anger. Anger at how the biases that kept these inequities common were not contained to the minds of the middle and high school children I grew up with, anger at how these biases exist in adult minds and strip away our humanity within our communities. These inequities are inevitably why I ended up working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and sexual assault. Funded by the Office of Violence Against Women, I view the work as a necessary part of protecting and advocating for women’s health. I am addressing women’s health on a small scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. Growing up, the work I talk about with PACT and the conversations necessary for my future career felt like taboo topics. Although they were not spoken about, the effects were felt just the same. Although I have explored many different versions of what my future may look like, it has always been having difficult conversations. With the help of this I award, I can continue my education to serve as a Reproductive Endocrinologist, where I will continue advocating for women's reproductive health and education by having those difficult conversations and helping patients make informed and educated choices when family planning.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself confronting these biases was unimportant and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, over time several life experiences made this divide more difficult to maintain. Although my gender and race came with pervasive inequities, it had always been more of a fact than an experience for me. From watching my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence on our home and family life to seeing the horrific outcomes of police brutality on the news. However, as I got older I began to understand the aftermath of living through these experiences more intimately, from tackling intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing what it’s like to be one of the more than 50% of women who survive sexual assault and having my first encounter with the police less than a semester after moving to the United States. Living through this what was previously shame and sorrow began to turn into anger. Anger at how the biases that kept these inequities common were not contained to the minds of the middle and high school children I grew up with, anger at how these biases exist in adult minds and strip away our humanity within our communities. l learned to address these inequities, which is how I ended up working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and sexual assault. Funded by the Office of Violence Against Women, I view the work as a necessary part of protecting and advocating for women’s health. I am addressing women’s health on a small scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. Growing up, the work I talk about with PACT and the conversations necessary for my future career felt like taboo topics. Although they were not spoken about, the effects were felt just the same. Although I have explored many different versions of what my future may look like, it has always been having difficult conversations. As a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue advocating for women's reproductive health and education by having those difficult conversations and helping patients make informed and educated choices when family planning.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself confronting these biases was unimportant and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, over time several life experiences made this divide more difficult to maintain. Although my gender and race came with pervasive inequities, it had always been more of a fact than an experience for me. From watching my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence on our home and family life to seeing the horrific outcomes of police brutality on the news. However, as I got older I began to understand the aftermath of living through these experiences more intimately, from tackling intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing what it’s like to be one of the more than 50% of women who survive sexual assault and having my first encounter with the police less than a semester after moving to the United States. Living through this what was previously shame and sorrow began to turn into anger. Anger at how the biases that kept these inequities common were not contained to the minds of the middle and high school children I grew up with, anger at how these biases exist in adult minds and strip away our humanity within our communities. These inequities are inevitably why I ended up working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and sexual assault. Funded by the Office of Violence Against Women, I view the work as a necessary part of protecting and advocating for women’s health. I am addressing women’s health on a small scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. Growing up, the work I talk about with PACT and the conversations necessary for my future career felt like taboo topics. Although they were not spoken about, the effects were felt just the same. Although I have explored many different versions of what my future may look like, it has always been having difficult conversations. As a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue advocating for women's reproductive health and education by having those difficult conversations and helping patients make informed and educated choices when family planning.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was unimportant and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. Although, my identity colored not only my experiences but also the topics I learned about in school. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, over time several life experiences made this divide more difficult to maintain. From tackling intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing what it’s like to be one of the more than 50% of women who survive sexual assault and having my first encounter with the police less than a semester after moving to the United States. Living through this what was previously shame and sorrow began to turn into anger. Anger at how the biases that kept these inequities common were not contained to the minds of the middle and high school children I grew up with, anger at how these biases exist in adult minds and strip away our humanity within our communities. These inequities are inevitably why I began working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and sexual assault. Funded by the Office of Violence Against Women, I view the work as a necessary part of protecting and advocating for women’s health. As a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue advocating for women's reproductive health and education by having those difficult conversations and helping patients make informed and educated choices when family planning. The most challenging issues within the STEM field are issues of inclusion. Every facet of our world has made steps in diversity, but very few have taken the time to prioritize inclusion. This is why although gender and racial gaps may be marginally decreasing within the STEM fields, the lack of representation in leadership remains the same. As a hopeful doctor, I can only speak to what I know. Change and trust in the medical community are large and misunderstood beasts. Often, when change is championed or mistrust is communicated, the receiver finds it to be an accusation of a personal failing. This is not always the case and is highlighted by the change and trust that can be established within communities. An individual inside a community is less likely to let ingrained biases change how they treat another within the community, and more likely to listen to calls for change within the community, as trust has already been developed. Inclusion, in turn, is important, because it allows communities to be built. My suggestion is to keep finding and instituting practices and policies that promote inclusion. This is why it is important to increase racial diversity in healthcare. As a black woman pursuing a career as a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I hope to be a part of building a sense of community for black women who often fear that their intersectionality affects their reproductive care.

The first time I told my mother I was depressed; I was in the sixth grade. This is not to say that this was near the first time I felt it, it was just the first time it hurt too much to bury. This was also the first time I found the courage to say a few simple words, and no one heard me. I’m sure she was listening to the words, but I’m unsure if she even knows enough now, 8 years later, to hear them. A strong Christian woman raised by a Catholic woman; her strength left no space for hurt. Part of me is sure that if I told her I felt hopeless or felt some other meaningful description, she would have confessed some relation to the feeling. I imagine she would have talked about working to provide for a family when she was meant to be nothing more than a child or a million other things anyone would understand. But I did not tell her I felt hopeless, I did not describe the feeling. Instead, I said “depression”, and she could not reconcile me with such a heavy word. My journey with mental health has taught me the heaviness of words. I left that day remembering that depression was a heavy word and saying it out loud would lead to the dismissal of my feelings. I spoke about my feelings, after that moment, sure, but I did not use that particular word again for 8 years. Looking back, my employment under the Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT) is what taught me how the “heaviness” of words should not dismiss their meaning. PACT, an organization created by a recent alumna of my university, aims to create a culture of consent on campus by educating students on sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking. Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence in our home. It was through PACT that I began to learn how to cope with my own experiences of gender-based violence, from intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing sexual assault. There were many times that I told myself I was ok and believed it while living with depression. After my sexual assault, however, my depression worsened to a level I had not experienced in years. It began to affect my relationships, as those I once trusted used my mental health to invalidate my experience. The “heaviness” of sexual assault was once again too much for those who loved me to reconcile with their idea of me. They pushed away this heaviness by weaponizing taboos and claiming that my perception was a result of my deteriorating mental health, even once citing “bipolar”. While this originally devastated me, being part of PACT helped me to realize that the “heaviness” of a word is often an indicator of a social failing, not the personal failing of those who dare to utter (or evoke a hint of) what is “taboo.” Learning to say the heavy words with ease, or at least with appropriate consideration, has better enabled me to advocate for others through my work in PACT. I have been and continue to be a safe space for survivors, hoping to lend a hand in their physical, mental, and spiritual recovery. Simultaneously, I work to spread awareness to stop the perpetuation of sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking. All of which is lent a hand by saying the heavy words and attempting to eliminate the taboo.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was unimportant and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, over time these experiences began to highlight the importance of advocacy. I believe my struggles with feeling accepted are what pushed me to become a champion for inclusivity. Since I was first elected as my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI), I have seen some devastating changes in US politics. However, putting myself up for this role was one of the first times I chose to use my voice against discrimination instead of stifling my opinions. Being in this position, enlightened me to fight the battles I had always watched from the sidelines with disgust. This is why I have continued to pursue social justice work. The most challenging issues within the STEM field are issues of inclusion. Every facet of our world has made steps in diversity, but very few have taken the time to prioritize inclusion. This is why even though gender and racial gaps may be marginally decreasing within the STEM fields, the lack of representation in leadership remains the same. As a scientist moving towards medicine, I can only speak to what I know. Change and trust in the medical community are large and misunderstood beasts. Often, when change is championed or mistrust is communicated, the receiver finds it to be an accusation of a personal failing. This is not always the case and is highlighted by the change and trust that can be established within communities. An individual inside a community is less likely to let ingrained biases change the way they treat another individual inside the community, and more likely to listen to calls for change within the community, as trust has already been developed. Inclusion, in turn, is important, because it allows communities to be built. My suggestion is to keep finding and instituting practices and policies that promote inclusion. As a black woman pursuing a career as a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I hope to be a part of building a sense of community for black women who often fear that their intersectionality affects their reproductive care.

The first time I told my mother I was depressed; I was in the sixth grade. This is not to say that this was near the first time I felt it, it was just the first time it hurt too much to bury. This was also the first time I found the courage to say a few simple words, and no one heard me. I’m sure she was listening to the words, but I’m unsure if she even knows enough now, 8 years later, to hear them. A strong Christian woman raised by a Catholic woman; her strength left no space for hurt. Part of me is sure that if I told her I felt hopeless or felt some other meaningful description, she would have confessed some relation to the feeling. I imagine she would have talked about working to provide for a family when she was meant to be nothing more than a child or a million other things anyone would understand. But I did not tell her I felt hopeless, I did not describe the feeling. Instead, I said “depression”, and she could not reconcile me with such a heavy word. My journey with mental health has taught me the heaviness of words. I left that day remembering that depression was a heavy word and saying it out loud would lead to the dismissal of my feelings. I spoke about my feelings, after that moment, sure, but I did not use that particular word again for 8 years. Looking back, my employment under the Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT) is what taught me how the “heaviness” of words should not dismiss their meaning. PACT, an organization created by a recent alumna of my university, aims to create a culture of consent on campus by educating students on sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking. Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence in our home. It was through PACT that I began to learn how to cope with my own experiences of gender-based violence, from intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing sexual assault. There were many times that I told myself I was ok and believed it while living with depression. After my sexual assault, however, my depression worsened to a level I had not experienced in years. It began to affect my relationships, as those I once trusted used my mental health to invalidate my experience. The “heaviness” of sexual assault was once again too much for those who loved me to reconcile with their idea of me. They pushed away this heaviness by weaponizing taboos and claiming that my perception was a result of my deteriorating mental health, even once citing “bipolar”. While this originally devastated me, being part of PACT helped me to realize that the “heaviness” of a word is often an indicator of a social failing, not the personal failing of those who dare to utter (or evoke a hint of) what is “taboo.” Learning to say the heavy words with ease, or at least with appropriate consideration, has better enabled me to advocate for others through my work in PACT. I have been and continue to be a safe space for survivors, hoping to lend a hand in their physical, mental, and spiritual recovery. Simultaneously, I work to spread awareness to stop the perpetuation of sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking. All of which is lent a hand by saying the heavy words and attempting to eliminate the taboo. Which I will continue to do as a Reproductive Endocrinologist.

My mother chooses to believe what most of my conservative community does: God created us with our intended gender to love someone of the opposite sex. I have never taken this personally, and it has never made me unsure about being pansexual. Still, it did encourage me to keep it a secret from almost everyone, unless they were the person I was interested in dating. Knowing I was pansexual around the same time I began exploring my identity, meant this encouraged me to become accustomed to secrecy early. What I was taught about sexuality growing up shaped me by making me someone who is secretive, and as a result, difficult to understand. I practiced keeping what was most important to me out of sight. Not only because I thought it was safer and more peaceful for everyone involved, but also because I knew the parts of me, or the experiences I kept secret, could be more than my loved ones were willing to handle. Looking back, my employment under the Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT) is what taught me how the “heaviness” of words should not dismiss their meaning. Instead, a word’s “heaviness” is often an indicator of a social failing, not the personal failing of those who dare to utter (or evoke a hint of) what is “taboo.” Silence perpetuates inequity. These inequities are inevitably why I started working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking. As a Black queer woman, this work gives me a space to address some of the most pervasive issues facing minority communities. Violence and threats against the LGBTQ+ have never been uncommon, and yet they are not addressed with the appropriate levels of concern and legislation. Through PACT, I aim to address the research around the community that is lacking. I pinpoint and share legislation that is necessary to create meaningful change. I hope that addressing these issues will make a better future for all LGBTQ+ youth. I work to highlight the person beyond the stereotypes, enabling a clearer perception of myself and others. I will address the physical health of those in minority communities on a larger scale as a Reproductive Endocrinologist. I knew I wanted to practice medicine as a young girl. Now I will be meet that dream, whether I helping women with infertility, or helping queer individuals build nontraditional families. As the child of a single parent paying for my education has always been a hurdle to overcome. I have taken on an on-campus job to alleviate some of this burden and have had a consistent job since the 11th grade, as well. Unfortunately, as an employee with the Virgin Islands Department of Tourism, my pay fluctuates with demand and I have recently been unable to make the income that is necessary to offset tuition costs. The Rainbow Futures Scholarship would help me to stay on track with my undergraduate education. I want to thank you for making this scholarship available to students.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was unimportant and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, over time several life experiences made this divide more difficult to maintain. From tackling intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing what it’s like to be one of the more than 50% of women who survive sexual assault and having my first encounter with the police less than a semester after moving to the United States. Living through this what was previously shame and sorrow began to turn into anger. Anger at how the biases that kept these inequities common were not contained to the minds of the middle and high school children I grew up with, anger at how these biases exist in adult minds and strip away our humanity within our communities. These inequities are inevitably why I began working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and sexual assault. Funded by the Office of Violence Against Women, I view the work as a necessary part of protecting and advocating for women’s health. As a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue advocating for women's reproductive health and education by having those difficult conversations and helping patients make informed and educated choices when family planning. The most challenging issues within the STEM field are issues of inclusion. Every facet of our world has made steps in diversity, but very few have taken the time to prioritize inclusion. This is why although gender and racial gaps may be marginally decreasing within the STEM fields, the lack of representation in leadership remains the same. As a hopeful doctor, I can only speak to what I know. Change and trust in the medical community are large and misunderstood beasts. Often, when change is championed or mistrust is communicated, the receiver finds it to be an accusation of a personal failing. This is not always the case and is highlighted by the change and trust that can be established within communities. An individual inside a community is less likely to let ingrained biases change how they treat another within the community, and more likely to listen to calls for change within the community, as trust has already been developed. Inclusion, in turn, is important, because it allows communities to be built. My suggestion is to keep finding and instituting practices and policies that promote inclusion. This is why it is important to increase racial diversity in healthcare. As a black woman pursuing a career as a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I hope to be a part of building a sense of community for black women who often fear that their intersectionality affects their reproductive care.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself confronting these biases was unimportant and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, over time, life experiences made this divide more difficult to maintain. Although my gender and race came with pervasive inequities, it had always been more of a fact than an experience for me. From watching my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence on our home and family life to seeing the horrific outcomes of police brutality on the news. However, as I got older I began to understand the aftermath of living through these experiences more intimately, from tackling intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing what it’s like to be one of the more than 50% of women who survive sexual assault and having my first encounter with the police less than a semester after moving to the United States. Living through this what was previously shame and sorrow began to turn into anger. Anger at how the biases that kept these inequities common were not contained to the minds of the middle and high school children I grew up with, anger at how these biases exist in adult minds and strip away our humanity within our communities. These inequities are inevitably why I ended up working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and sexual assault. Funded by the Office of Violence Against Women, I view the work as a necessary part of protecting and advocating for women’s health. I am addressing women’s health on a small scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. Growing up, the work I talk about with PACT and the conversations necessary for my future career felt like taboo topics. Although they were not spoken about, the effects were felt just the same. Although I have explored many different versions of what my future may look like, it has always been having difficult conversations. As a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue advocating for women's reproductive health and education by having those difficult conversations and helping patients make informed and educated choices when family planning.

The first time I told my mother I was depressed; I was in the sixth grade. This is not to say that this was near the first time I felt it, it was just the first time it hurt too much to bury. This was also the first time I found the courage to say a few simple words, and no one heard me. I’m sure she was listening to the words, but I’m unsure if she even knows enough now, 8 years later, to hear them. A strong Christian woman raised by a Catholic woman; her strength left no space for hurt. Part of me is sure that if I told her I felt hopeless or felt some other meaningful description, she would have confessed some relation to the feeling. I imagine she would have talked about working to provide for a family when she was meant to be nothing more than a child or a million other things anyone would understand. But I did not tell her I felt hopeless, I did not describe the feeling. Instead, I said “depression”, and she could not reconcile me with such a heavy word. My journey with mental health has taught me the heaviness of words. I left that day remembering that depression was a heavy word and saying it out loud would lead to the dismissal of my feelings. I spoke about my feelings, after that moment, sure, but I did not use that particular word again for 8 years. Looking back, my employment under the Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT) is what taught me how the “heaviness” of words should not dismiss their meaning. PACT, an organization created by a recent alumna of my university, aims to create a culture of consent on campus by educating students on sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking. Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence in our home. It was through PACT that I began to learn how to cope with own experiences of gender-based violence, from intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing sexual assault. There were many times that I told myself I was ok and believed it while living with depression. After my sexual assault, however, my depression worsened to a level I had not experienced in years. It began to affect my relationships, as those I once trusted used my mental health to invalidate my experience. The “heaviness” of sexual assault was once again too much for those who loved me to reconcile with their idea of me. They pushed away this heaviness by weaponizing taboos and claiming that my perception was a result of my deteriorating mental health, even once citing “bipolar”. While this originally devastated me, being part of PACT helped me to realize that the “heaviness” of a word is often an indicator of a social failing, not the personal failing of those who dare to utter (or evoke a hint of) what is “taboo.” Learning to say the heavy words with ease, or at least with appropriate consideration, has better enabled me to advocate for others through my work in PACT. I have been and continue to be a safe space for survivors, hoping to lend a hand in their physical, mental, and spiritual recovery. Simultaneously, I work to spread awareness to stop the perpetuation of sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking. All of which is lent a hand by saying the heavy words and attempting to eliminate the taboo.

The first time I told my mother I was depressed; I was in the sixth grade. This is not to say that this was near the first time I felt it, it was just the first time it hurt too much to bury. This was also the first time that I found the courage to say a few simple words, and no one heard me. I’m sure she was listening to the words, but I’m unsure if she even knows enough now, 8 years later, to hear them. A strong Christian woman raised by a Catholic woman; her strength left no space for hurt. Part of me is sure that if I told her I felt hopeless or felt some other meaningful description, she would have confessed some relation to the feeling. I imagine she would have talked about working to provide for a family when she was meant to be nothing more than a child or a million other things anyone would understand. But I did not tell her I felt hopeless, I did not describe the feeling. Instead, I said “depression”, and she could not reconcile me with such a heavy word. My journey with mental health has taught me the heaviness of words. I left that day remembering that depression was a heavy word and saying it out loud would lead to the dismissal of my feelings. I spoke about my feelings, after that moment, sure, but I did not use that particular word again for 8 years. Looking back, my employment under the Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT) is what taught me how the “heaviness” of words should not dismiss their meaning. PACT, an organization created by a recent alumna of my university, aims to create a culture of consent on campus by educating students on sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking. Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence in our home. It was through PACT that I began to learn how to cope with own experiences of gender-based violence, from intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing sexual assault. There were many times that I told myself I was ok and believed it while living with depression. After my sexual assault, however, my depression worsened to a level I had not experienced in years. It began to affect my relationships, as those I once trusted used my mental health to invalidate my experience. The “heaviness” of sexual assault was once again too much for those who loved me to reconcile with their idea of me. They pushed away this heaviness by weaponizing taboos and claiming that my perception was a result of my deteriorating mental health, even once citing “bipolar”. While this originally devastated me, being part of PACT helped me to realize that the “heaviness” of a word is often an indicator of a social failing, not the personal failing of those who dare to utter (or evoke a hint of) what is “taboo.” What is “taboo” is often what most desperately needs to be talked about. The stigma of it is what creates “heavy words”. I believe in giving a voice to those who are brave enough to speak on what is taboo and helping those who are dismissed because others cannot hear their words through the stigma of them. Due to stigma, I did not say the word depression referring to myself again until this year, my sophomore year of college. In return for overcoming this fear and ignoring the stigma, I got the help I needed. As I overcame it, all of the time I spent trying to fix it could be dedicated to other things. With this newfound time, I began to think more deeply about my career. I knew that I wanted to be in medicine and had started my undergraduate degree with that goal in mind, but PACT and my mental health journey had prompted me to stop ignoring it. I did not want to be a surgeon cutting into strangers, or a doctor whose average day was diagnosing and treating the common cold. I wanted to continue being an advocate. Currently, I am addressing women’s health on a small scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. In the future, as a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue to address women’s health on a larger scale. I could say a million things about why this is the right career path for me, including a monologue about shaping the future, but ultimately like most things in my life, it came down to mental health. “Infertility” is a heavy word, and as I went down the rabbit hole that is a career in medicine. It also felt like one of the loneliest words, the most taboo. My journey with mental health has made me believe in looking at the things we usually shroud with shame, head-on, bringing hope into those dark places. In the end, I know I was always meant to be an advocate for women’s health. Learning to say the heavy words with ease, or at least with appropriate consideration, has simply taught me where exactly I should be advocating from.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself confronting these biases was unimportant and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, over time several life experiences made this divide more difficult to maintain. Although my gender and race came with pervasive inequities, it had always been more of a fact than an experience for me. From watching my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence on our home and family life to seeing the horrific outcomes of police brutality on the news. However, as I got older I began to understand the aftermath of living through these experiences more intimately, from tackling intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing what it’s like to be one of the more than 50% of women who survive sexual assault and having my first encounter with the police less than a semester after moving to the United States. Living through this what was previously shame and sorrow began to turn into anger. Anger at how the biases that kept these inequities common were not contained to the minds of the middle and high school children I grew up with, anger at how these biases exist in adult minds and strip away our humanity within our communities. These inequities are inevitably why I ended up working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and sexual assault. Funded by the Office of Violence Against Women, I view the work as a necessary part of protecting and advocating for women’s health. I am addressing women’s health on a small scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. Growing up, the work I talk about with PACT and the conversations necessary for my future career felt like taboo topics. Although they were not spoken about, the effects were felt just the same. Although I have explored many different versions of what my future may look like, it has always been having difficult conversations. As a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue advocating for women's reproductive health and education by having those difficult conversations and helping patients make informed and educated choices when family planning.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school.  My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself confronting these biases was unimportant and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it.  However, over time several life experiences made this divide more difficult to maintain. Although my gender and race came with pervasive inequities, it had always been more of a fact than an experience for me. From watching my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence on our home and family life to seeing the horrific outcomes of police brutality on the news. However, as I got older I began to understand the aftermath of living through these experiences more intimately, from tackling intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing what it’s like to be one of the more than 50% of women who survive sexual assault, and having my first encounter with the police less than a semester after moving to the United States. Living through this what was previously shame and sorrow began to turn into anger. Anger at how the biases that kept these inequities common were not contained to the minds of the middle and high school children I grew up with, anger at how these biases exist in adult minds and strip away our humanity within our communities. These inequities are inevitably why I ended up working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and sexual assault. Funded by the Office of Violence Against Women, I view the work as a necessary part of protecting and advocating for women’s health. I am addressing women’s health on a small scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. Growing up, the work I talk about with PACT and the conversations necessary for my future career felt like taboo topics. Although they were not spoken about, the effects were felt just the same. Although I have explored many different versions of what my future may look like, it has always been having difficult conversations. As a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue advocating for women's reproductive health and education by having those difficult conversations and helping patients make informed and educated choices when family planning.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school.  My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it.  However, over time several life experiences made this divide more difficult to maintain. Although my gender and race came with pervasive inequities, it had always been more of a fact than an experience for me. From watching my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence on our home and family life to seeing the horrific outcomes of police brutality on the news. However, as I got older I began to understand the aftermath of living through these experiences more intimately, from tackling intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing what it’s like to be one of the more than 50% of women who survive sexual assault, and having my first encounter with the police less than a semester after moving to the United States. Living through this what was previously shame and sorrow began to turn into anger. Anger at how the biases that kept these inequities common were not contained to the minds of the middle and high school children I grew up with, anger at how these biases exist in adult minds and strip away our humanity within our communities. These inequities are inevitably why I ended up working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and sexual assault. Funded by the Office of Violence Against Women, I view the work as a necessary part of protecting and advocating for women’s health. I am addressing women’s health on a small scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. Growing up, the work I talk about with PACT and the conversations necessary for my future career felt like taboo topics. Although they were not spoken about, the effects were felt just the same. Although I have explored many different versions of what my future may look like, it has always been having difficult conversations. As a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue advocating for women's reproductive health and education by having those difficult conversations and helping patients make informed and educated choices when family planning.

The first time I told my mother I was depressed; I was in the sixth grade. This is not to say that this was near the first time I felt it, it was just the first time it hurt too much to bury. This was also the first time that I found the courage to say a few simple words, and no one heard me. I’m sure she was listening to the words, but I’m unsure if she even knows enough now, 8 years later, to hear them. A strong Christian woman raised by a Catholic woman; her strength left no space for hurt. Part of me is sure that if I told her I felt hopeless or felt some other meaningful description, she would have confessed some relation to the feeling. I imagine she would have talked about working to provide for a family when she was meant to be nothing more than a child or a million other things anyone would understand. But I did not tell her I felt hopeless, I did not describe the feeling. Instead, I said “depression”, and she could not reconcile me with such a heavy word. My journey with mental health has taught me the heaviness of words.  I left that day remembering that depression was a heavy word and saying it out loud would lead to the dismissal of my feelings. I spoke about my feelings, after that moment, sure, but I did not use that particular word again for 8 years. Looking back, my employment under the Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT) is what taught me how the “heaviness” of words should not dismiss their meaning. PACT, an organization created by a recent alumna of my university, aims to create a culture of consent on campus by educating students on sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking. Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence in our home. It was through PACT that I began to learn how to cope with my own experiences of gender-based violence, from intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing sexual assault. There were many times that I told myself I was ok and believed it while living with depression. After my sexual assault, however, my depression worsened to a level I had not experienced in years. It began to affect my relationships, as those I once trusted used my mental health to invalidate my experience. The “heaviness” of sexual assault was once again too much for those who loved me to reconcile with their idea of me. They pushed away this heaviness by weaponizing taboos and claiming that my perception was a result of my deteriorating mental health, even once citing “bipolar”.  While this originally devastated me, being part of PACT helped me to realize that the “heaviness” of a word is often an indicator of a social failing, not the personal failing of those who dare to utter (or evoke a hint of) what is “taboo.”  Learning to say the heavy words with ease, or at least with appropriate consideration, has better enabled me to advocate for others through my work in PACT. I have been and continue to be a safe space for survivors, hoping to lend a hand in their physical, mental, and spiritual recovery. Simultaneously, I work to spread awareness to stop the perpetuation of sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking. All of which is lent a hand by saying the heavy words and attempting to eliminate the taboo.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, over time several life experiences made this divide more difficult to maintain. Although my gender and race came with pervasive inequities, it had always been more of a fact than an experience for me. From watching my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence on our home and family life to seeing the horrific outcomes of police brutality on the news. However, as I got older I began to understand the aftermath of living through these experiences more intimately, from tackling intimate partner violence in my own relationships to experiencing what it’s like to be one of the more than 50% of women who survive sexual assault, and having my first encounter with the police less than a semester after moving to the United States. Living through this what was previously shame and sorrow began to turn into anger. Anger at how the biases that kept these inequities common were not contained to the minds of the middle and high school children I grew up with, anger at how these biases exist in adult minds and strip away our humanity within our own communities. These inequities are inevitably why I ended up working with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX. An organization founded by a former student at the university to bring necessary education and prevention on sexual assault, domestic violence, and sexual assault. Funded by the Office of Violence Against Women, I view the work as a necessary part of protecting and advocating for women’s health. Although I am addressing women’s health on a small-scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women, and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. Growing up, the work I talk about with PACT and the conversations necessary for my future career felt like taboo topics. Although they were not spoken about, the effects were felt just the same. Although I have explored many different versions of what my future may look like, it has always been having difficult conversations. As a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue advocating for women's reproductive health and education by having those difficult conversations and helping patients make informed and educated choices when family planning.

The first time I told my mother I was depressed; I was in the sixth grade. This is not to say that this was near the first time I felt it, it was just the first time it hurt too much to bury. This was also the first time that I found the courage to say a few simple words, and no one heard me. I’m sure she was listening to the words, but I’m unsure if she even knows enough now, 8 years later, to hear them. A strong Christian woman raised by a Catholic woman; her strength left no space for hurt. Part of me is sure that if I told her I felt hopeless or felt some other meaningful description, she would have confessed some relation to the feeling. I imagine she would have talked about working to provide for a family when she was meant to be nothing more than a child or a million other things anyone would understand. But I did not tell her I felt hopeless, I did not describe the feeling. Instead, I said “depression”, and she could not reconcile me with such a heavy word. My journey with mental health has taught me the heaviness of words. I left that day remembering that depression was a heavy word and saying it out loud would lead to the dismissal of my feelings. I spoke about my feelings, after that moment, sure, but I did not use that particular word again for 8 years. Looking back, my employment under the Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT) is what taught me how the “heaviness” of words should not dismiss their meaning. PACT, an organization created by a recent alumna of my university, aims to create a culture of consent on campus by educating students on sexual assault, domestic violence, and stalking. Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence in our home. It was through PACT that I began to learn how to cope with own experiences of gender-based violence, from intimate partner violence in my relationships to experiencing sexual assault. There were many times that I told myself I was ok and believed it while living with depression. After my sexual assault, however, my depression worsened to a level I had not experienced in years. It began to affect my relationships, as those I once trusted used my mental health to invalidate my experience. The “heaviness” of sexual assault was once again too much for those who loved me to reconcile with their idea of me. They pushed away this heaviness by weaponizing taboos and claiming that my perception was a result of my deteriorating mental health, even once citing “bipolar”. While this originally devastated me, being part of PACT helped me to realize that the “heaviness” of a word is often an indicator of a social failing, not the personal failing of those who dare to utter (or evoke a hint of) what is “taboo.” What is “taboo” is often what most desperately needs to be talked about. The stigma of it is what creates “heavy words”. I believe in giving a voice to those who are brave enough to speak on what is taboo and helping those who are dismissed because others cannot hear their words through the stigma of them. Due to stigma, I did not say the word depression referring to myself again until this year, my sophomore year of college. In return for overcoming this fear and ignoring the stigma, I got the help I needed. As I overcame it, all of the time I spent trying to fix it could be dedicated to other things. With this newfound time, I began to think more deeply about my career. I knew that I wanted to be in medicine and had started my undergraduate degree with that goal in mind, but PACT and my mental health journey had prompted me to stop ignoring it. I did not want to be a surgeon cutting into strangers, or a doctor whose average day was diagnosing and treating the common cold. I wanted to continue being an advocate. Currently, I am addressing women’s health on a small scale with PACT by sharing my knowledge with college-aged women and encouraging them to be autonomous and take control of their physical and mental health. In the future, as a Reproductive Endocrinologist, I will continue to address women’s health on a larger scale. I could say a million things about why this is the right career path for me, including a monologue about shaping the future, but ultimately like most things in my life, it came down to mental health. “Infertility” is a heavy word, and as I went down the rabbit hole that is a career in medicine. It also felt like one of the loneliest words, the most taboo. My journey with mental health has made me believe in looking at the things we usually shroud with shame, head-on, bringing hope into those dark places. In the end, I know I was always meant to be an advocate for women’s health. Learning to say the heavy words with ease, or at least with appropriate consideration, has simply taught me where exactly I should be advocating from.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. However, this viewpoint became increasingly difficult to maintain after the string of murders of African American people in the United States during the summer of 2022 that triggered international discourse. Every time this discussion bled into my schooling, my peers and even professors had opinions that made me realize I could never step out of the skin I was in, and that the box I had created was only harming me for the comfort of others. A discussion with a friend, made me realize that being surrounded by people you have nothing in common with will always make you feel unaccepted, regardless of the actuality of your inacceptance. I believe my struggles with feeling accepted are what pushed me to become a champion for inclusivity. When I took on the role of my former sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI), I saw myself begin to blossom. It was the first time I chose to use my voice against discrimination instead of stifling my opinions. Being in this position, enlightened me to fight the battles I had always watched from the sidelines with disgust. This is why I have continued to pursue social justice work and aligned myself with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT). Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence (IPV). As a child, this made me feel hopeless as there was nothing I felt I could do to help. Now, as a young woman, my goals in my individual and career-based endeavors are to continue dismantling systematic inequalities by educating myself and others and giving back to the less fortunate. I have the opportunity with my Title IX work to understand the harmful dynamics that cause IPV and work on dismantling it systemically. Among IPV Prevention, my council also works to combat sexual assault and stalking. My experiences with VPDEI and those in PACT are just two of the ways that my time at college has shaped my future. My major, Cellular & Molecular Biology, has made me more confident in giving back to my community. I pursued this degree with the hopes of helping people like my mother who always struggled to receive the care she needed as a victim and survivor of IPV. My education in and outside of the classroom is preparing me to be an OB/GYWN who is there to listen and help those who are marginalized. It's been a long journey to be able to say that without hesitation, but from the moment I started writing about my future career. I was writing about equality, from all angles. I wrote about it from my perspective as an African American girl, who saw our increased rates of preeclampsia and maternal mortality (and mortality in general). I wrote about it from a queer identity affected by healthcare discrimination, and eventually somewhere, in between all of the writings I decided that kids were the best place to start. This is how I am preparing to make a difference in my field.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness for them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, this viewpoint became increasingly difficult to maintain after the string of murders of African American people in the United States during the summer of 2022 that triggered international discourse. Every time this discussion bled into my schooling, my peers and even professors had opinions that made me realize I could never step out of the skin I was in, and that the box I had created was only harming me for the comfort of others. A discussion with a friend, made me realize that being surrounded by people you have nothing in common with will always make you feel unaccepted, regardless of the actuality of your inacceptance. I believe my struggles with feeling accepted are what pushed me to become a champion for inclusivity. Since I was first elected as my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI), I have seen some devastating changes in US politics. However, putting myself up for this role was one of the first times I chose to use my voice against discrimination instead of stifling my opinions. Being in this position, enlightened me to fight the battles I had always watched from the sidelines with disgust. This is why I have continued to pursue social justice work and aligned myself with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT). Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence (IPV). As a child, this made me feel hopeless as there was nothing I felt I could do to help. Now, as a young woman, my goals in my individual and career-based endeavors are to continue dismantling systematic inequalities by educating myself and others and giving back to the less fortunate. I have the opportunity with my Title IX work to understand the harmful dynamics that cause IPV and work on dismantling it systemically. Among IPV Prevention, my council also works to combat sexual assault and stalking. My experiences with VPDEI and those in PACT are just two of the ways that my time at college has shaped my future. My major, Cellular & Molecular Biology, has made me more confident in giving back to my community. I pursued this degree with the hopes of helping people like my mother who always struggled to receive the care she needed as a victim and survivor of IPV. Now, I can be a doctor who is there to listen and help those who are marginalized. This is how I am preparing to make a difference in my field.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons, and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness to it that made it a marvel for others. During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, this viewpoint became increasingly difficult to maintain after the string of murders of African American people in the United States during the summer of 2022 that triggered international discourse. Every time this discussion bled into my schooling, my peers and even professors had opinions that made me realize I could never step out of the skin I was in, and that the box I had created was only harming me for the comfort of others. A discussion I had with a friend about how damaging it is to be surrounded by people you have nothing in common with, and how wrong it makes you feel, regardless of if anyone has ever said you need to be different. I believe my struggles with feeling accepted are what pushed me to become a champion for inclusivity. Some devastating changes have happened in US law since I was first elected as my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI). However, putting myself up for this role was one of the first times I chose to stand up and use my voice against discrimination instead of stifling my opinions. Being in this position, enlightened me to fight the battles I had always watched from the sidelines with disgust. This is why I have continued to pursue social justice work and aligned myself with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT). Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence (IPV). As a child, this made me feel hopeless as there was nothing I felt I could do to help. Now, as a young woman, I have the opportunity to understand the harmful dynamics that cause IPV and work on dismantling it systemically. Among IPV Prevention, my council also works to combat sexual assault and stalking. My experiences with VPDEI and those in PACT are just two of the ways that my time at college has shaped my future. My major, Cellular & Molecular Biology, has made me more confident in giving back to my community. I pursued this degree with the hopes of helping people like my mother who always struggled to receive the care she needed as a victim and survivor of IPV. Now, I can be a doctor who is there to listen and help these individuals as I have been trained to recognize the signs and provide the proper next resources instead of just treating the physical injuries. This is how I am preparing to make a difference in my field.

Leadership to me means being a listening ear and advocating for the opinions and perspectives of others. This is my understanding of leadership because I do not believe you can lead a community or group you do not make yourself a part of. Being involved does not mean assuming you can speak for everyone in a group. No two individuals are the same, and amplifying voices should always be your first move if you want to share the experiences of a group you are not part of. Leading in this way is important because anything else risks leading someone in a direction they do not fully agree with. Leadership should incorporate individual voices, those in leadership should not be the sole and individual voice. I believe my desire to be a listening ear for those who feel unaccepted or unheard is what pushed me to become a champion for inclusivity. Some devastating changes have happened in US law since I was first elected as my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI). However, putting myself up for this role was one of the first times I chose to stand up and use my voice against discrimination instead of stifling my opinions. When members of my sorority reach out to me with concerns, it is always important to be a leader and respect their boundaries. Sometimes, a member may disclose an instant, and have no intention of moving forward in addressing the issue. As a leader, I have to incorporate this boundary into my decision-making and accept that although it may not be the best thing for a chapter as a whole, the individual who brought it to me should be my first concern. Being in this position, enlightened me to fight the battles I had always watched from the sidelines with disgust. This is why I have continued to pursue social justice work and aligned myself with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT). This organization aims to reduce instances of sexual assault, stalking, and intimate partner violence (IPV) on our college campus. We do this through social media infographics, educational games, and addressing misconceptions and questions about these topics within the student body and staff. My position as a peer leader within this organization also requires me to be a leader when private disclosures of these instances are shared with me. Helping a survivor or victim entails educating them on their options, making it clear that there is someone who cares about their experience, and complete neutrality on how they should choose to handle their circumstances. Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of (IPV). As a child, this made me feel hopeless as there was nothing I felt I could do to help. Now, I have the opportunity to understand the harmful dynamics that cause IPV, as well as sexual assault, and stalking, and work on dismantling these systems on a small scale. My positions as VPDEI and in PACT are just two of the ways I view myself as a leader. Neither of these positions requires a domineering force, rather my place in them is to remember the individual and fight whatever battles they choose to take on alongside them.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness to my peers, the sons and daughters of tourists, that made it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, this viewpoint became increasingly difficult to maintain after the string of murders of African American people in the United States during the summer of 2022 that triggered international discourse. Every time this discussion bled into my schooling, my peers and even professors had opinions that made me realize I could never step out of the skin I was in, and that the box I had created was only harming me for the comfort of others. I learned that I had to use my voice to destroy the box and the expectations that came with it. I believe my desire to be a listening ear for those who feel unaccepted or unheard is what pushed me to become a champion for inclusivity. Some devastating changes have happened in US law since I was first elected as my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI). However, putting myself up for this role was one of the first times I chose to stand up and use my voice against discrimination instead of stifling my opinions. Being in this position, enlightened me to fight the battles I had always watched from the sidelines with disgust. This is why I have continued to pursue social justice work and aligned myself with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT). Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence (IPV). As a child, this made me feel hopeless as there was nothing I felt I could do to help. Now, I have the opportunity to understand the harmful dynamics that cause IPV and work on dismantling it systemically. Among IPV Prevention, my council also works to combat sexual assault and stalking. My positions as VPDEI and in PACT are just two of the ways I view myself as having preserved despite my struggles growing up in a domestic violence situation at home while facing social challenges in school. These situations also taught me to pursue things that helped me be part of creating impactful change. I am pursuing my major, in Cellular & Molecular Biology to give back to my community. I pursued this degree with the hopes of becoming a pediatric neurosurgeon. A career my older brother originally set out to claim. My older brother intended to make himself part of the solution to an issue he saw my mom struggle through with my youngest brother, who was born prematurely. Where I was raised, there were only two pediatric neurosurgeons capable of providing the care they said my youngest brother needed, making access to their services difficult. That is still the case there. They need more people to be involved. I intend to be a part of the change my community needs by specializing in pediatric neurology and taking my skillset back to my hometown.

My childhood left me searching for stability. My mother did not prepare me to find out that the people I loved could be cruel. Maybe it was not her lesson to share, but it is one I learned indirectly regardless. During my teenage years, my father was in and out of our home bringing violence with him. My mother was my idol, but the lack of accountability by my father made me question if the other deserved my adoration. It was difficult to have my idol let someone else hurt me. Especially, when she told stories of what used to be the love between my father and me. I was pulled aside and reminded that the objects I most cherished were a testament to his love. There were so many stories of the both of us always being retold as if to say “You both were happy once, you can be again.” Yet the “once” I remembered was filled with memories that were less than happy. The “once” is filled with the moments I still can not find the words for. Finding the right words has always been a struggle for me. This is a fact that would astonish other people as they have only seen the finished product. Words manipulated by other hands left to feel like language that no longer belongs to me. Erasing the ugliest parts of the original story, leaving a redaction. In the original version, instead of sentences, I had adjectives, maybe even phrases. I could never write the right sentence, perhaps because they end and the original story is constantly revealing new pieces of itself. On one hand, during the “once” my sibling had a dream of being a pediatric neurologist. It was the only future ever spoken about in that house that did not feel like a wish upon a star. That idea of a future took root in me. Once, my younger brother was born prematurely and showed signs of neural “abnormalities”. The root inside of me branched out into multitudes. Once, the smack across my lower jaw made me not want to speak for days. Once, my mom’s jaw was actually broken, which was less serious than the way she hit the door frame (her spinal cord became misaligned). Once, is too much to put my mind on. The part of who I once was that is most important, is that becoming someone who could fix the physical wounds I had to play nurse to in private, was the ideal for a future that sprouted inside me. Now, I know I can not blindly live the first possibility of a future that was given to me. Although, I do strongly believe pediatric neurology is my destiny within the medical field I am more willing to be swayed by my instincts. My minor in Creative Writing is a deviation from the expected, I see it as a testimony to my freedom and newly felt autonomy in my ability to choose a path instead of being pushed down one. The obstacles I have faced made me passionate about social justice work. This is why I am part of my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT) and currently serve as my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI). Both positions allow me to advocate for the underserved. I hold on and believe in the field of medicine because it will one day give me the stability to stitch the broken threads of someone else’s life back together in a way that honors where I once was.

The book, Girls of Paper and Fire taught me about power and how it can be reclaimed, about equality, and perseverance. As someone who is part of multiple minority groups, this book also means a lot because it beautifully displays LGBTQIA+ characters without centering their stories on their marginalized identities. Although it is a fantasy book, I would have everyone read it for the powerful lessons it has. Natasha Ngan writes about an immoral king and presents the Paper Girls, as the “bottom rung of society” in a caste system. The King sexually exploits these Paper Girls after ripping them from their homes and bringing them to the palace. Ngan uses the king as a substitute for those in power at the head of real-world caste systems (whether those castes are social or literal). The king does not do this to girls and women in higher caste systems because his behavior is no longer viewed as socially acceptable when done to those who have near or equal social status to him. Prejudices against the “Paper Girls” make it possible for the king to exploit them because their low social status disproportionately gives him power. Yet, Ngan takes the story further and shows how despite the odds stacked against Paper Girls, their power can be reclaimed. The girls are subjected to further inequities because their exploitation makes them more likely to be disloyal to the king. Therefore, they are banned from pursuing romantic partners. This is why when Lei and Wren, two Paper Girls, experience mutual romantic attraction, they initially avoid contact. Lei tells Wren that entering a romantic relationship is not right, “not because we’re girls. Because we’re Paper Girls.” With this statement among others in the book, Ngan makes gender inconsequential in romantic relationships and instead addresses the societal structure that upholds inequities for the benefit of those in power and removes choice for the subjugated. Ngan recognizes this system as arbitrary and proceeds to ridicule it through Lei and Wren’s relationship. Their romantic relationship and defiance of the king develop proportionally. Eventually, they become part of a plot to kill the king and form a more equitable government. Despite the systems that oppress them, the Paper Girls push forward. Ngan shows the battle for equality is not always easy but like her characters, readers can persevere and fight to reclaim their power and future.

My college admissions season did not turn out in the way my parents, college counselor, or anyone who was informed of the physical manifestation board I had dedicated to college since the sixth grade, saw coming. This is not a story about how I did not get into my dream school. That happens to almost everyone. Fair or not, rejection is part of the process. I had already submitted applications to colleges that accepted students on a rolling basis by December and had been accepted. Yet, I still did not feel I had found a school that pulled me in. My applications to my two top choice schools were deferred and in total by January of my senior year, I was waiting for admissions results from 37 schools. At this point, even though I had started my college journey early, I was starting to feel the strain of time. By May, when most of my graduating class had already committed to a school and started to get excited about the places they would end up, my school counselor was trying to push me to move forward. Our symbolic signing ceremony was meant to commemorate the next step in our journeys as we signed a certificate symbolizing our commitment to our school of choice. She told me I would regret not having that moment if I had not chosen by then. So I did, and a week or so after the ceremony I was accepted to what I would consider one of the schools of my dreams, the University of California at San Diego. This is the story of how I could not afford to attend any of my dream schools. A good amount of my college applications were submitted through Questbridge’s National College Match. I had been a Prep Scholar in the Questbridge Program since I was in 11th grade. As a low-income student, I knew that finances would be the determining factor in where I went to college, so I tried to give myself options. Still, the summer after my senior year, 37 applications later, at least three-fourths of which were acceptances, I was left with two schools I could afford to attend. Needless to say, I am not at the school of my dreams but I am moving forward with my education despite 35 answers that told me it was financially impossible. Every year as the cost of tuition and the amount I have loaned out to go to school rises, so does my anxiety about being able to continue my education. Yet, I am taking advantage of every opportunity. I am pursuing my degree in Cellular & Molecular Biology to become a pediatric neurologist. My brother who was born prematurely needed neural diagnostics when he was born. Where I was raised, there were only two people capable of providing the care he needed, making access to their services difficult. I am going to be a part of the solution by bringing these skills back to my community.

My childhood left me searching for stability. My mother did not prepare me to find out that the people I loved could be cruel. Maybe it was not her lesson to share, but it is one I learned indirectly regardless. During my teenage years, my father was in and out of our home bringing violence with him. My mother was my idol, but the lack of accountability by my father made me question if the other deserved my adoration. It was difficult to have my idol let someone else hurt me. Especially, when she told stories of what used to be the love between my father and me. I was pulled aside and reminded that the objects I most cherished were a testament to his love. There were so many stories of the both of us always being retold as if to say “You both were happy once, you can be again.” Yet the “once” I remembered was filled with memories that were less than happy. The “once” is filled with the moments I still can not find the words for. Finding the right words has always been a struggle for me. This is a fact that would astonish other people as they have only seen the finished product. Words manipulated by other hands left to feel like language that no longer belongs to me. Erasing the ugliest parts of the original story, leaving a redaction. In the original version, instead of sentences, I had adjectives, maybe even phrases. I could never write the right sentence, perhaps because they end and the original story is constantly revealing new pieces of itself. On one hand, during the “once” my sibling had a dream of being a pediatric neurologist. It was the only future ever spoken about in that house that did not feel like a wish upon a star. That idea of a future took root in me. Once, my younger brother was born prematurely and showed signs of neural “abnormalities”. The root inside of me branched out into multitudes. Once, the smack across my lower jaw made me not want to speak for days. Once, my mom’s jaw was actually broken, which was less serious than the way she hit the door frame (her spinal cord became misaligned). Once, is too much to put my mind on. The part of who I once was that is most important, is that becoming someone who could fix the physical wounds I had to play nurse to in private, was the ideal for a future that sprouted inside me. Now, I know I can not blindly live the first possibility of a future that was given to me. Although, I do strongly believe pediatric neurology is my destiny within the medical field I am more willing to be swayed by my instincts. My minor in Creative Writing is a deviation from the expected, I see it as a testimony to my freedom and newly felt autonomy in my ability to choose a path instead of being pushed down one. The obstacles I have faced made me passionate about social justice work. This is why I am part of my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT) and currently serve as my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI). Both positions allow me to advocate for the underserved. I hold on and believe in the field of medicine because it will one day give me the stability to stitch the broken threads of someone else’s life back together in a way that honors where I once was.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness to them that made it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, this viewpoint became increasingly difficult to maintain after the string of murders of African American people in the United States during the summer of 2022 that triggered international discourse. Every time this discussion bled into my schooling, my peers and even professors had opinions that made me realize I could never step out of the skin I was in, and that the box I had created was only harming me for the comfort of others. I learned that I had to use my voice to destroy the box and the expectations that came with it. I believe my struggles with feeling accepted are what pushed me to become a champion for inclusivity. Some devastating changes have happened in US law since I was first elected as my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI). However, putting myself up for this role was one of the first times I chose to stand up and use my voice against discrimination instead of stifling my opinions. Being in this position, enlightened me to fight the battles I had always watched from the sidelines with disgust. This is why I have continued to pursue social justice work and aligned myself with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT). Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence (IPV). As a child, this made me feel hopeless as there was nothing I felt I could do to help. Now, I have the opportunity to understand the harmful dynamics that cause IPV and work on dismantling it systemically. Among IPV Prevention, my council also works to combat sexual assault and stalking. My positions as VPDEI and in PACT are just two of the ways I view myself as having preserved despite my own struggles growing up in a domestic violence situation at home while facing social challenges in school. These situations also taught me to pursue things that helped me be part of creating impactful change. I am pursuing my major, in Cellular & Molecular Biology to give back to my community. I pursued this degree with the hopes of becoming a pediatric neurosurgeon. A career my older brother originally set out to claim. My older brother intended to make himself part of the solution to an issue he saw my mom struggle through with my youngest brother, who was born prematurely. Where I was raised, there were only two pediatric neurosurgeons capable of providing the care they said my youngest brother needed, making access to their services difficult. That is still the case there. They need more people to be involved. I intend to be a part of the change my community needs by specializing in pediatric neurology and taking my skillset back to my hometown.

I find it essential to help others because deciding not to is waiting for change that may not come. Others will always need help, just as we do. When thinking about how best to live my life, I look to the past, to people I admire, and try to understand their motivations and how they achieved success. Recently, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. (MLK) has been one of the people my attention has focused on. When thinking of why to help others, the letter he wrote from Birmingham Jail comes to mind. There are two key aspects of this letter exemplifying why it is the human duty to help others. In his letter from Birmingham jail, MLK writes that “justice too long delayed is justice denied.” When you need something, struggling to get it, and feeling like no one is on your side, it can be discouraging. No one should have to endure that feeling in their most desperate times. This is a denial of justice when those in need of assistance are not given it, even if this denial is not permanent. This is one of the reasons that we should help others because there is no confirmation someone else will ensure they get what they need. The second part of MLK’s letter that speaks to me is when he says he was called to act because he witnessed the horrific treatment of people who looked like him. Even though, MLK was talking about African Americans in his letter. I think seeing anyone being mistreated would make most, including him, feel a call to action. In the letter, MLK lists several scenarios that would be a breaking point for an individual that would result in him joining a movement. One that sticks with me is “when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she cannot go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television.” This scenario is especially poignant for me because it was a reminder that when we decide to wait for change we are not only harming ourselves but the next generation. In the worst cases of systematic injustices when we decide not to help, but wait for someone else to get the job done there is a kid somewhere that will be born to wonder why they are facing these challenges.

The book, Girls of Paper and Fire taught me about power and how it can be reclaimed, about equality, and perseverance. As someone who is part of multiple minority groups, this book also means a lot because it beautifully displays LGBTQIA+ characters without centering their stories on their marginalized identities. Although it is a fantasy book, I would have everyone read it for the powerful lessons it has. Natasha Ngan writes about an immoral king and presents the Paper Girls, as the “bottom rung of society” in a caste system. The King sexually exploits these Paper Girls after ripping them from their homes and bringing them to the palace. Ngan uses the king as a substitute for those in power at the head of real-world caste systems (whether those castes are social or literal). The king does not do this to girls and women in higher caste systems because his behavior is no longer viewed as socially acceptable when done to those who have near or equal social status to him. Prejudices against the “Paper Girls” make it possible for the king to exploit them because their low social status disproportionately gives him power. Yet, Ngan takes the story further and shows how despite the odds stacked against Paper Girls, their power can be reclaimed. The girls are subjected to further inequities because their exploitation makes them more likely to be disloyal to the king. Therefore, they are banned from pursuing romantic partners. This is why when Lei and Wren, two Paper Girls, experience mutual romantic attraction, they initially avoid contact. Lei tells Wren that entering a romantic relationship is not right, “not because we’re girls. Because we’re Paper Girls.” With this statement among others in the book, Ngan makes gender inconsequential in romantic relationships and instead addresses the societal structure that upholds inequities for the benefit of those in power and removes choice for the subjugated. Ngan recognizes this system as arbitrary and proceeds to ridicule it through Lei and Wren’s relationship. Their romantic relationship and defiance of the king develop proportionally. Eventually, they become part of a plot to kill the king and form a more equitable government. Despite the systems that oppress them, the Paper Girls push forward. Ngan shows the battle for equality is not always easy but like her characters, readers can persevere and fight to reclaim their power and future.

In the future, I will continue my advocacy work for the underserved both in my medical career and in my organizations and extracurricular activities; while being able to highlight these opportunities and my personal growth as a published writer.

As a connoisseur of high fantasy, dystopian, and fiction, the books I’ve read have not always had the strongest direct correlations to real life. However, in roundabout ways, they taught me equality, perseverance, and the beauty that comes from acquiring knowledge. Writers are philosophers by nature, searching for an answer to a question. Although they may not always arrive at an answer, they certainly always share an opinionated stance on what kind of resolution should be pursued. The dystopian genre is a manifestation of a usually liberal stance, whether it's a scathing denouncement of capitalistic systems or books where the delineation of "factions" based on some seemingly inconsequential variable serves as an obvious parallel to real-world social castes that are to the detriment of certain demographics. Fantasy and dystopian novels are unique in that the real-world inequalities they address are primarily some product of social functioning rather than inequalities resulting from direct discrimination. They let you identify with characters that are female, gay, and black before informing you of these aspects of their identity on page 297. What is usually the source of conflict in the real world and books that imitate it have no relevance in the pages of these genres. Instead, what is addressed are the societal structures that encourage people to uphold these inequities to keep hold of power. To put it simply, high fantasy treats inequity as easily solvable by recognizing the systems that perpetuate it as arbitrary and therefore ridiculing it. By tackling the issue this way, authors of books in this genre ensure race, politics, gender, and sexuality are all irrelevant in the context of their pages. What is relevant is recognizing that as citizens we deserve a system that can evolve with the values of its people rather than one meant for the values and circumstances of those who are long dead. Purely in terms of being a perfect fit, systems of governance are like clothing, as we grow we require new ones. Despite the systems that oppress them, characters always push forward. They may grieve in the middle, go through a bout of depression, and wish they had done something different. Yet, they always recognize too much has been sacrificed for them to give in, and to honor these sacrifices they push through to whatever faith awaits them. This (mostly) always results in the protagonist feeling content by the end of their story. This ties into the battle for equality. Books show that this fight is not always easy, but finding the willpower to push through is the only way better days will come. This hidden truth urges readers to hold strong in their own battles and persevere despite unflinching odds. The cathartic part of following the protagonist through their journey is you learn alongside them. As I read fantasy and dystopian novels and saw the handling of inequity, I learned to give a voice to the disenfranchised by listening to how they think the systems that serve them should evolve with them. Social justice work became a personal goal of mine. This is why I am part of my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT) and currently serve as my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI). Both positions allow me to advocate for the underserved. Despite the hurdles I face in seeking justice as a woman of color, what I have read has taught me to push forward. It taught me that who I was born to be could be a cliffnote, and who I wanted to be could fill pages and pages of a novella.

My childhood left me searching for stability. My mother did not prepare me to find out that the people I loved could be cruel. Maybe it was not her lesson to share, but it is one I learned indirectly regardless. During my teenage years, my father was in and out of our home bringing violence with him. My mother was my idol, but the lack of accountability by my father made me question if the other deserved my adoration. It was difficult to have my idol let someone else hurt me. Especially, when she told stories of what used to be the love between my father and me. I was pulled aside and reminded that the objects I most cherished were a testament to his love. There were so many stories of the both of us always being retold as if to say “You both were happy once, you can be again.” Yet the “once” I remembered was filled with memories that were less than happy. The “once” is filled with the moments I still can not find the words for. Finding the right words has always been a struggle for me. This is a fact that would astonish other people as they have only seen the finished product. Words manipulated by other hands left to feel like language that no longer belongs to me. Erasing the ugliest parts of the original story, leaving a redaction. In the original version, instead of sentences, I had adjectives, maybe even phrases. I could never write the right sentence, perhaps because they end and the original story is constantly revealing new pieces of itself. On one hand, during the “once” my sibling had a dream of being a pediatric neurologist. It was the only future ever spoken about in that house that did not feel like a wish upon a star. That idea of a future took root in me. Once, my younger brother was born prematurely and showed signs of neural “abnormalities”. The root inside of me branched out into multitudes. Once, the smack across my lower jaw made me not want to speak for days. Once, my mom’s jaw was actually broken, which was less serious than the way she hit the door frame (her spinal cord became misaligned). Once, is too much to put my mind on. The part of who I once was that is most important, is that becoming someone who could fix the physical wounds I had to play nurse to in private, was the ideal for a future that sprouted inside me. Now, I know I can not blindly live the first possibility of a future that was given to me. Although, I do strongly believe pediatric neurology is my destiny within the medical field I am more willing to be swayed by my instincts. My minor in Creative Writing is a deviation from the expected, I see it as a testimony to my freedom and newly felt autonomy in my ability to choose a path instead of being pushed down one. The obstacles I have faced made me passionate about social justice work. This is why I am part of my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT) and currently serve as my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI). Both positions allow me to advocate for the underserved. I hold on and believe in the field of medicine because it will one day give me the stability to stitch the broken threads of someone else’s life back together in a way that honors where I once was.

@de_vanese

My mother once admitted to me she was wrong for hating the LGBTQ+ community because everyone takes what they believe from the Bible, ignores the rest, and God still loves them anyway. She chooses to believe what most of my conservative community does: God created us with our intended gender to love someone of the opposite sex. I have never taken this personally, and it has never made me unsure about being pansexual. Still, it did encourage me to keep it a secret from almost everyone unless they were the person I was interested in dating. Knowing I was pansexual around the same time I began exploring my identity, meant this encouraged me to become accustomed to secrecy early. What I was taught about sexuality growing up shaped me by making me someone who is secretive, and as a result, difficult to understand. I practiced keeping what was most important to me out of sight. Not only because I thought it was safer and more peaceful for everyone involved, but also because I knew the parts of me, or the experiences I kept secret, could be more than my loved ones were willing to handle. Despite this, now I know not taking the risk of openly sharing means accepting being misunderstood. My mother has confronted me on multiple occasions about my secrecy, but she does not seem to see that it is an unwritten family tradition. I have yet to disclose so many of her secrets, but one of them, how little she trusts the medical community, pertains to my career goals. The past makes this mistrust justifiable for too many. Minorities and the medical community do not have an easy history. From the Tuskegee experiments with syphilis to Ronald Reagan’s silence and inaction with AIDS, damaging secrets have been held with intentionality. The fear she has surrounding the intentions of doctors and nurses does not come from superstition. It has an authentic source that can only be addressed by change, trust, and knowing doctors and nurses with only the intention of healing. The latter of these is something almost every medical professional can cover. The vast majority have the purest intentions, which is why they dedicate their lives to helping others. Change and trust in the medical community however are much larger and misunderstood beasts. Often, when change is championed or mistrust is communicated, the receiver finds it to be an accusation of a personal failing. This is not always the case. Change and trust require everyone to be fully involved. My involvement is going to be in pediatric neurology. A destiny first intended by my older brother. However, as I said before, change and trust are different from intention. My older brother intended to make himself part of the solution to an issue he saw my mom struggle through with my youngest brother, who was born prematurely. Where I was raised, there were only two people capable of providing the care they said my youngest brother needed, making access to their services difficult. That is still the case there. They need more people to be involved. I can accomplish my career goals because I know fear often comes from what is unsaid. My identity, like most, has always been intersectional. Explaining how has always been difficult, but by accepting all pieces of me I hope to encourage others with intersectional identities to trust their fears can be understood, starting in the doctor’s room.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons, and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about the islands’ history. Everything that felt like home to me held a sense of foreignness to them, making it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, this viewpoint became increasingly difficult to maintain after the string of murders of African American people in the United States during the summer of 2022 that triggered international discourse. Every time this discussion bled into my schooling, my peers and even professors had opinions that made me realize I could never step out of the skin I was in, and that the box I had created was only harming me for the comfort of others. I had a discussion with a friend about how damaging it is to be surrounded by people you have nothing in common with, and how wrong it makes you feel, regardless of if anyone has ever said you need to be different. I believe my struggles with feeling accepted are what pushed me to become a champion for inclusivity. Some devastating changes have happened in US law since I was first elected as my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI). However, putting myself up for this role was one of the first times I chose to stand up and use my voice against discrimination instead of stifling my opinions. Being in this position, enlightened me to fight the battles I had always watched from the sidelines with disgust. This is why I have continued to pursue social justice work and aligned myself with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT). Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence (IPV). As a child, this made me feel hopeless as there was nothing I felt I could do to help. Now, I have the opportunity to understand the harmful dynamics that cause IPV and work on dismantling it systemically. Among IPV Prevention, my council also works to combat sexual assault and stalking. Working as VPDEI and being a part of PACT are just two of the ways my time at college has shaped my future. My major, in Cellular & Molecular Biology, has made me more confident in my ability to give back to my community. I pursued this degree with the hopes of becoming a pediatric neurosurgeon. A career my older brother originally set out to claim. My eldest brother intended to make himself part of the solution to an issue he saw my mom struggle through with my youngest brother, who was born prematurely. Where I was raised, there were only two pediatric neurosurgeons capable of providing the care they said my youngest brother needed, making access to their services difficult. That is still the case there. They need more people to be involved. I intend to be a part of the change my community needs by specializing in pediatric neurology and taking my skillset back to my hometown.

As my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion I have intimately learned how encouraging free speech is the cornerstone to fostering an inclusive and diverse environment. Free speech makes both diversity and inclusion possible because no one can be ostracized or marginalized in a way that is detrimental to their well-being or future in retaliation for speaking their truth. This 1st amendment right makes individuals more comfortable speaking on injustices and championing change. As a college student, I see this right exercised with petitions, in student government, on executive boards and so much more. Getting a view from this perspective on how free speech powers change, I am inclined to believe the world would stand still without it and nothing would ever change for the better. To understand the role of inclusivity, I encourage everyone to know the difference between diversity and inclusion. Diversity just refers to having different types (whether that be of people or opinions). Inclusivity is actively validating the voices of all people by listening to them and letting them know they are heard. Diversity and Inclusion are not interchangeable and one can be present where the other is not. However, investing in one is mutually beneficial for the other. When outsiders see that a person or organization is inclusive, they are more likely to be open to them, even if they do not initially view themselves to be a perfect match. In this way, being inclusive encourages those who are different to be proud of their diversity and share it with others. Likewise, having a diverse environment makes members more tolerant of differing ideologies, opinions, and origins than those who have been unilaterally exposed to individuals from the same place with similar views to their own. Therefore, knowing this, one might be tempted to ask themselves how to invest in diversity and inclusion. For me, free speech has always been the answer. Encourage others to share their opinions, recognize what you learn to be your differences, and be respectful regardless of whether you can relate or agree. Environments can be diverse without free speech. Regardless of how accepted they feel, those with differences must exist somewhere even if they feel unsafe or unwelcomed. This is why diversity should not be used as a hallmark of tolerance, respect, or anything else, including inclusivity. While I have already defined the difference between diversity and inclusion, I would like to emphasize the word, validation. Free speech is what makes being validated a possibility, which is why an environment can not be inclusive without it. Free speech fuels personal growth by making individuals not only tolerate individuality and differences but understand and celebrate them and also creates people who are more internationally-minded and knowledgable on the challenges, issues, and accomplishments that happen outside of their backyard. Put shortly, free speech forces everyone to step outside of themselves. They can ignore what is shared if they choose to, but what needs to be said can be. Free speech has empowered me to be open about pursuing further equity in the medical field after I have furthered my education in my field of study, and has allowed me to be an advocate for those who feel silenced both within my sorority and as a student advisor working with Title IX. I have not always been in inclusive environments, and during the times I was not, knowing that one day when I gathered the courage I could speak up is what gave me hope.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the viewpoints of my peers, the sons, and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness to them that made it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school. My identity and how it made me different from those around me, became a secret reserved for those closest to me. It would take me a while to learn the true harm of secrets. My mother’s secret mistrust of the medical community is why I have my career goals. The past has made this secret justifiable for too many people. Minorities and the medical community do not have an easy history. From the Tuskegee experiments with syphilis to Ronald Reagan’s silence and inaction with AIDS, damaging secrets have been held with intentionality. The fear she has surrounding the intentions of doctors and nurses does not come from superstition. It has an authentic source that can only be addressed by change, trust, and knowing doctors and nurses with only the intention of healing. The latter of these is something almost every medical professional can cover. The vast majority have the purest intentions, which is why they dedicate their lives to helping others. Change and trust in the medical community however are much larger and misunderstood beasts. Often, when change is championed or mistrust is communicated, the receiver finds it to be an accusation of a personal failing. This is not always the case. Change and trust require everyone to be fully involved. My involvement is going to be in pediatric neurology. A destiny, I hope my degree in Cellular & Molecular Biology is preparing me for. My older brother was the first of my mom’s children to attempt to become a pediatric neurosurgeon. However, as I said before, change and trust are different from intention. My older brother intended to make himself part of the solution to an issue he saw my mom struggle through with my youngest brother, who was born prematurely. Where I was raised, there were only two pediatric neurosurgeons capable of providing the care they said my youngest brother needed, making access to their services difficult. That is still the case there. They need more people to be involved. I can accomplish my career goals because I know fear often comes from what is unsaid. Yet, I hope to encourage everyone who steps foot in a doctor’s room to be confident their fears can be understood. I understand voicing these fears requires vulnerability, and as I attempt to be the change, bridge the gap, and create trust, I will have to be willing to voice my fears first. Therefore, I hope to address the sources of these fears outright and be a familiar face. I intend to be a part of the change my community needs by specializing in pediatric neurology and taking my skillset back to my hometown.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the viewpoints of my peers, the sons, and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness to them that made it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school. My identity and how it made me different from those around me, became a secret reserved for those closest to me. It would take me a while to learn the true harm of secrets. My mother’s secret mistrust of the medical community is why I have my career goals. The past has made this secret justifiable for too many people. Minorities and the medical community do not have an easy history. From the Tuskegee experiments with syphilis to Ronald Reagan’s silence and inaction with AIDS, damaging secrets have been held with intentionality. The fear she has surrounding the intentions of doctors and nurses does not come from superstition. It has an authentic source that can only be addressed by change, trust, and knowing doctors and nurses with only the intention of healing. The latter of these is something almost every medical professional can cover. The vast majority have the purest intentions, which is why they dedicate their lives to helping others. Change and trust in the medical community however are much larger and misunderstood beasts. Often, when change is championed or mistrust is communicated, the receiver finds it to be an accusation of a personal failing. This is not always the case. Change and trust require everyone to be fully involved. My involvement is going to be in pediatric neurology. A destiny, I hope my degree in Cellular & Molecular Biology is preparing me for. My older brother was the first of my mom’s children to attempt to become a pediatric neurosurgeon. However, as I said before, change and trust are different from intention. My older brother intended to make himself part of the solution to an issue he saw my mom struggle through with my youngest brother, who was born prematurely. Where I was raised, there were only two pediatric neurosurgeons capable of providing the care they said my youngest brother needed, making access to their services difficult. That is still the case there. They need more people to be involved. I can accomplish my career goals because I know fear often comes from what is unsaid. Yet, I hope to encourage everyone who steps foot in a doctor’s room to be confident their fears can be understood. I understand voicing these fears requires vulnerability, and as I attempt to be the change, bridge the gap, and create trust, I will have to be willing to voice my fears first. Therefore, I hope to address the sources of these fears outright and be a familiar face. I intend to be a part of the change my community needs by specializing in pediatric neurology and taking my skillset back to my hometown.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the viewpoints of my peers, the sons, and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness to them that made it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school. My identity and how it made me different from those around me, became a secret reserved for those closest to me. It would take me a while to learn the true harm of secrets. My mother’s secret mistrust of the medical community is why I have my career goals. The past has made this secret justifiable for too many people. Minorities and the medical community do not have an easy history. From the Tuskegee experiments with syphilis to Ronald Reagan’s silence and inaction with AIDS, damaging secrets have been held with intentionality. The fear she has surrounding the intentions of doctors and nurses does not come from superstition. It has an authentic source that can only be addressed by change, trust, and knowing doctors and nurses with only the intention of healing. The latter of these is something almost every medical professional can cover. The vast majority have the purest intentions, which is why they dedicate their lives to helping others. Change and trust in the medical community however are much larger and misunderstood beasts. Often, when change is championed or mistrust is communicated, the receiver finds it to be an accusation of a personal failing. This is not always the case. Change and trust require everyone to be fully involved. My involvement is going to be in pediatric neurology. A destiny, I hope my degree in Cellular & Molecular Biology is preparing me for. My older brother was the first of my mom’s children to attempt to become a pediatric neurosurgeon. However, as I said before, change and trust are different from intention. My older brother intended to make himself part of the solution to an issue he saw my mom struggle through with my youngest brother, who was born prematurely. Where I was raised, there were only two pediatric neurosurgeons capable of providing the care they said my youngest brother needed, making access to their services difficult. That is still the case there. They need more people to be involved. I can accomplish my career goals because I know fear often comes from what is unsaid. Yet, I hope to encourage everyone who steps foot in a doctor’s room to be confident their fears can be understood. I understand voicing these fears requires vulnerability, and as I attempt to be the change, bridge the gap, and create trust, I will have to be willing to voice my fears first. Therefore, I hope to address the sources of these fears outright and be a familiar face. I intend to be a part of the change my community needs by specializing in pediatric neurology and taking my skillset back to my hometown.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the viewpoints of my peers, the sons, and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness to them that made it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school. My identity and how it made me different from those around me, became a secret reserved for those closest to me. It would take me a while to learn the true harm of secrets. My mother’s secret mistrust of the medical community is why I have my career goals. The past has made this secret justifiable for too many people. Minorities and the medical community do not have an easy history. From the Tuskegee experiments with syphilis to Ronald Reagan’s silence and inaction with AIDS, damaging secrets have been held with intentionality. The fear she has surrounding the intentions of doctors and nurses does not come from superstition. It has an authentic source that can only be addressed by change, trust, and knowing doctors and nurses with only the intention of healing. The latter of these is something almost every medical professional can cover. The vast majority have the purest intentions, which is why they dedicate their lives to helping others. Change and trust in the medical community however are much larger and misunderstood beasts. Often, when change is championed or mistrust is communicated, the receiver finds it to be an accusation of a personal failing. This is not always the case. Change and trust require everyone to be fully involved. My involvement is going to be in pediatric neurology. A destiny, I hope my degree in Cellular & Molecular Biology is preparing me for. My older brother was the first of my mom’s children to attempt to become a pediatric neurosurgeon. However, as I said before, change and trust are different from intention. My older brother intended to make himself part of the solution to an issue he saw my mom struggle through with my youngest brother, who was born prematurely. Where I was raised, there were only two pediatric neurosurgeons capable of providing the care they said my youngest brother needed, making access to their services difficult. That is still the case there. They need more people to be involved. I can accomplish my career goals because I know fear often comes from what is unsaid. Yet, I hope to encourage everyone who steps foot in a doctor’s room to be confident their fears can be understood. I understand voicing these fears requires vulnerability, and as I attempt to be the change, bridge the gap, and create trust, I will have to be willing to voice my fears first. Therefore, I hope to address the sources of these fears outright and be a familiar face. I intend to be a part of the change my community needs by specializing in pediatric neurology and taking my skillset back to my hometown.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons, and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its’ history. Everything that felt like home to me had a sense of foreignness to them that made it a marvel. During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, this viewpoint became increasingly difficult to maintain after the string of murders of African American people in the United States during the summer of 2022 that triggered international discourse. Every time this discussion bled into my schooling, my peers and even professors had opinions that made me realize I could never step out of the skin I was in, and that the box I had created was only harming me for the comfort of others. A discussion I had with a friend about how damaging it is to be surrounded by people you have nothing in common with, and how wrong it makes you feel, regardless of if anyone has ever said you need to be different. I believe my struggles with feeling accepted are what pushed me to become a champion for inclusivity. Some devastating changes have happened in US law since I was first elected as my sorority’s Vice President of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (VPDEI). However, putting myself up for this role was one of the first times I chose to stand up and use my voice against discrimination instead of stifling my opinions. Being in this position, enlightened me to fight the battles I had always watched from the sidelines with disgust. This is why I have continued to pursue social justice work and aligned myself with my university’s Peer Advisory Council for Title IX (PACT). Growing up, I saw my mother struggle with the effects of Intimate Partner Violence (IPV). As a child, this made me feel hopeless as there was nothing I felt I could do to help. Now, I have the opportunity to understand the harmful dynamics that cause IPV and work on dismantling it systemically. Among IPV Prevention, my council also works to combat sexual assault and stalking. The positions I have held, as VPDEI and in PACT are just two of the ways that my time at college has shaped my future. My major, in Cellular & Molecular Biology, has made me more confident in my ability to give back to my community. I pursued this degree with the hopes of becoming a pediatric neurosurgeon. A career my older brother originally set out to claim. My older brother intended to make himself part of the solution to an issue he saw my mom struggle through with my youngest brother, who was born prematurely. Where I was raised, there were only two pediatric neurosurgeons capable of providing the care they said my youngest brother needed, making access to their services difficult. That is still the case there. They need more people to be involved. I intend to be a part of the change my community needs by specializing in pediatric neurology and taking my skillset back to my hometown.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons, and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its’ history. Carnival for them was the equivalent of going to a fair during their spring break, as they had no cultural connection. The dialect that I was used to barely registered as English to their ears, and I began to correct what I thought was out of place to sound “educated.” During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, this viewpoint became increasingly difficult to maintain after the string of murders of African American people in the United States during the summer of 2022 that triggered international discourse. Every time this discussion bled into my schooling, my peers and even professors had opinions that made me realize I could never step out of the skin I was in, and that the box I had created was only harming me for the comfort of others. Arguably, white has never had to be placed in a box. It is the default. You do not have to draw white on to most things. It is the default color for paper and canvas alike. Every other color leaves a mark, it is a lasting reminder that something has changed. Every color other than white is a consequence of intention, for better or for worse. In this case, the consequences of placing myself in the box turned out to be for the worst. A conversation I had earlier this week made me realize how damaging it is to be surrounded by people you have nothing in common with, and how wrong it makes you feel, regardless of if anyone has ever said you need to be different. This realization prompted me to take a closer look at intention, and I began to understand that until the intention behind my placement, box or not, changed, someone would always be unconscious of their default privileges. The lack of acknowledgment of default privileges is something I hope to change in healthcare and help my community get the medical care they not only need but deserve. Minorities and the medical community do not have an easy history. From the Tuskegee experiments with syphilis to Ronald Reagan’s silence and inaction with AIDS both are cases of minority voices being overlooked and this erasure, changing history for the worse. However, these instances are rarely acknowledged as a source of the large divide between the medical community and those they have sworn to protect. Mistrust needs to be addressed by change which is a large and misunderstood beast. Often, when change is championed or mistrust is communicated, the receiver finds it to be an accusation of a personal failing. This is not always the case. Change requires everyone to be fully involved. My involvement is going to be in pediatric neurology.

Caribbean-raised, my pride in my heritage was stripped by the expectations I met upon transferring to a private school. My peers, the sons, and daughters of tourists who had decided to make the island a semi-permanent home, did not know anything about its’ history. Carnival for them was the equivalent of going to a fair during their spring break, as they had no cultural connection. The dialect that I was used to barely registered as English to their ears, and I began to correct what I thought was out of place to sound “educated.” During this stage, I told myself that confronting these biases was not important and that their ignorance had no serious real-life consequences. I was able to be comfortable settling in silence because I only felt like a minority, in school, from 8 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. It was easy to step into the box when I knew how long I had to stay in it. However, this viewpoint became increasingly difficult to maintain after the string of murders of African American people in the United States during the summer of 2022 that triggered international discourse. Every time this discussion bled into my schooling, my peers and even professors had opinions that made me realize I could never step out of the skin I was in, and that the box I had created was only harming me for the comfort of others. Arguably, white has never had to be placed in a box. It is the default. You do not have to draw white on to most things. It is the default color for paper and canvas alike. Every other color leaves a mark, it is a lasting reminder that something has changed. Every color other than white is a consequence of intention, for better or for worse. In this case, the consequences of placing myself in the box turned out to be for the worst. A conversation I had earlier this week made me realize how damaging it is to be surrounded by people you have nothing in common with, and how wrong it makes you feel, regardless of if anyone has ever said you need to be different. This realization prompted me to take a closer look at intention, and I began to understand that until the intention behind my placement, box or not, changed, someone would always be unconscious of their default privileges. The lack of acknowledgment of default privileges is something I hope to change in healthcare and help my community get the medical care they not only need but deserve. Minorities and the medical community do not have an easy history. From the Tuskegee experiments with syphilis to Ronald Reagan’s silence and inaction with AIDS both are cases of minority voices being overlooked and this erasure, changing history for the worse. However, these are instances that are rarely acknowledged as one of the sources of the large divide between the medical community and those they have sworn to protect. Mistrust needs to be addressed by change which is a large and misunderstood beast. Often, when change is championed or mistrust is communicated, the receiver finds it to be an accusation of a personal failing. This is not always the case. Change requires everyone to be fully involved. My involvement is going to be in pediatric neurology.

My enigmatic escape of an estate `is in Tulum, Mexico deep in one of their lush, green tropical forests. The entrance to the house is over a lake filled with turtles, which are my friendly companions during weekly swims. On days when I want to avoid the swim into the entrance, I skip across the bridge of stepping stones to the pearly white slide that will take me into the foyer of the house. Some magic of the forest makes the slide at the entrance able to whisk anyone up from the forest floor straight into the house’s foyer. Immediately upon entering, you can tell that this house belongs to the forest. Its walls are strung with vines and made of bamboo. Still, there is a human touch in the matte black hardwood flooring and the roof made solely of windows. Besides the blue skies, the only thing that can be seen overhead is the braided seagrass chandeliers. From below, the sea grass appears to be moving freely in the wind and the complicated intertwine almost appears to have purpose as if it's a map to the location of some long-lost treasure. The open floor plan allows for clear viewing of the kitchen, whose cabinets and appliances alike are the color of earthy sage. A brown bamboo bowl on the counter is filled with limes, used for both a refreshing drink and a touch of fragrance around the estate. The only other color in the kitchen, a sandy white, compliments the white and sepia brown Geometric Rug in the sitting room beautifully. The camel-colored couches sit in front of an array of palm trees. The palm trees obscure a set of black stairs. There are a total of 4 rooms upstairs. Unlike the downstairs open floor plan, each room is sectioned off by a series of glass walls. A movie room, the room adjacent holds a reading nook, another room holds a tub grand enough to fit 4 people, and the last is the bedroom. The movie room is completely black and white. Album covers line 3 of the 4 glass walls of the room, with the final wall being taken up by a 146-inch tv. The only other thing of note in the room are lines of black seats. This is the only room in the house that seems out of place. It is too sleek and feels more created than carved into what surrounds it as everything else does. The reading nook for instance feels like a passerby created a haven in the middle of a vast jungle. There are beanbags amongst vines, and shelves made out of invading branches. Fairy lights hung throughout the room and reflect off the dew on the branches to make a glittering paradise. The bathroom has a more natural glow. The sun outside shines in and bounces off of the wood flooring. The tub has both a spout that hangs over it from the outside and a showerhead directly in the center of the ceiling overhead that rains down water like a curtain. After peering in, I continue walking to the bedroom which is also filled with plants, harvested or native, alike. A waterfall flows into a river that circles the perimeter of the room, helping the plants there thrive. The sound of running water makes the room feel serene. Less wild jungle than the rooms before it. Grey sheets and curtains are easy on the eyes and after this draining house tour makes the room look like a welcoming and perfect place to rest in.

As silence swept the halls and tears fell in obscured corners on Monday morning, I gathered with my fellow Creative Writing Club members to discuss whether we should hold our weekly Tuesday meetings the following day. If so, is it business as usual? Should we recruit our school counselor for a more discussion-based session than we previously planned? Do we begin our session with words for the deceased and words of solidarity for the grieving? There seemed to be too many questions to ask in what was usually our half-an-hour-long planning session. Yet, even asking these hard-hitting questions and dealing with the loss we found ourselves laughing together. Our quips were not particularly funny, and they held a certain amount of honesty that felt intimate, slightly uncomfortable, and more than a little bit like oversharing. Reflecting on the loss of her grandmother, one of my fellow founders said she recollected not wanting to talk about the situation at all and how hard it was to be reminded of when she was searching for distractions. To be respectful of everyone’s process she suspected it would be best to proceed as business as usual, but wanted to find a way to subtly teach them how to handle their grief. I was lost by this proposal. Who would benefit from something they did not know they were learning and how do you teach something without sharing the lesson objective? With less than 24 hours' notice, emotional counseling was now in my job description, and my presentation on documenting and releasing feelings came as a surprise to no one more than myself. So finding that this group seemed more at ease by the end of their session, as I had seen them from the moment the news swept the halls. I came out with a new lesson as a leader. Confrontation is not always the best teacher. Respect and trust go both ways and if they had enough in me to show up week after week, I could have trust in their ability to know and communicate their needs. I will extend this same level of trust and respect to my patients in my future career as a pediatric neurosurgeon. A case, I reference as an example of the necessity for doctors to learn how to trust their instincts while extending compassion, respect, and the same level of trust to their patients, is the tragic death of Dr. Suzan Moore. Dr. Moore was a medical professional who knew the symptoms of Covid-19 and advocated for herself but was still discharged prematurely with shortness of breath. Due to inadequate treatment, Dr. Moore passed away five days later, a completely avoidable death. Listening is the most difficult part of leadership, as it requires trusting and depending on someone else. As a medical professional, listening to my patients is the first part of not only trust and respect but ultimately, treating them. A great doctor understands that their patient already has all of the answers. They know their history and their symptoms. Their blood holds the genetic code of the illness they may be suffering from. Their habits dictate their health. Patients walk through the door with all of the answers they need already written in their biology or their memory, a science they don't understand, and a pattern they cannot see. As a hopeful neurosurgeon, I feel and understand my complete obligation to treat patients with the respect they earn by fighting harder than anyone to keep themselves alive.

As silence swept the halls and tears fell in obscured corners on Monday morning, I gathered with my fellow Creative Writing Club members to discuss whether we should hold our weekly Tuesday meetings the following day. If so, is it business as usual? Should we recruit our school counselor for a more discussion-based session than we previously planned? Do we begin our session with words for the deceased and words of solidarity for the grieving? There seemed to be too many questions to ask in what was usually our half-an-hour-long planning session. Yet, even asking these hard-hitting questions and dealing with the loss we found ourselves laughing together. Our quips were not particularly funny, and they held a certain amount of honesty that felt intimate, slightly uncomfortable, and more than a little bit like oversharing. Reflecting on the loss of her grandmother, one of my fellow founders said she recollected not wanting to talk about the situation at all and how hard it was to be reminded of when she was searching for distractions. To be respectful of everyone’s process she suspected it would be best to proceed as business as usual, but wanted to find a way to subtly teach them how to handle their grief. I was lost by this proposal. Who would benefit from something they did not know they were learning and how do you teach something without sharing the lesson objective? With less than 24 hours' notice, emotional counseling was now in my job description, and my presentation on documenting and releasing feelings came as a surprise to no one more than myself. So finding that this group seemed more at ease by the end of their session, as I had seen them from the moment the news swept the halls. I came out with a new lesson as a leader. Confrontation is not always the best teacher. Respect and trust go both ways and if they had enough in me to show up week after week, I could have trust in their ability to know and communicate their needs. I will extend this same level of trust and respect to my patients in my future career as a pediatric neurosurgeon. A case, I reference as an example of the necessity for doctors to learn how to trust their instincts while extending compassion, respect, and the same level of trust to their patients, is the tragic death of Dr. Suzan Moore. Dr. Moore was a medical professional who knew the symptoms of Covid-19 and advocated for herself but was still discharged prematurely with shortness of breath. Due to inadequate treatment, Dr. Moore passed away five days later, a completely avoidable death. Listening is the most difficult part of leadership, as it requires trusting and depending on someone else. As a medical professional, listening to my patients is the first part of not only trust and respect but ultimately, treating them. A great doctor understands that their patient already has all of the answers. They know their history and their symptoms. Their blood holds the genetic code of the illness they may be suffering from. Their habits dictate their health. Patients walk through the door with all of the answers they need already written in their biology or their memory, a science they don't understand, and a pattern they cannot see. As a hopeful neurosurgeon, I feel and understand my complete obligation to treat patients with the respect they earn by fighting harder than anyone to keep themselves alive.

I spent a lot of my time in high school wondering if a stronger relationship with God would make me feel more at peace with myself. Christianity is the major religion in my culture, and when I told my mother I did not believe in God, she did absolutely everything she could to convince me otherwise. However, I cannot remember when exactly my faith in God faltered. My parents grew up Catholic but decided before I was born that Christianity was a better fit for them. So, for all my time in elementary school, my locally known institution was of the Christian denomination. The kind that had biblical tests every week, and church on Fridays. I loved both these things; getting to know The Word and being a part of a chorus of voices rejoicing on at least one thing we could all agree on. Yet, somewhere in the middle of elementary school, and feeling like the idea of God just served as a mental fortitude for those that would otherwise be hopeless, I found that The Word and the gospel songs were written on the inside of the box I was so used to stepping into. What I know is that as I got older, religion just did not seem to have the answers to my questions anymore. It did not seem to be making the world a better place. Sometimes, it made people feel better, and safe, like something was watching out for them, and that was it. I did not have faith that something was looking out for us. Thinking back, I am not sure whether religion or my lack of faith in authority has had a larger impact on my identity. I always believed in something larger than myself, but when that “thing” was an individual, I no longer trusted its intentions. I thought about “God,” and how the story says he sent a flood, or how unless we worship him, we would be doomed to hell, and I could not bring myself to believe that he loved everyone in the world. Recently, however, after a bad allergic reaction, I thought had brought me face-to-face with a creator, I refused to believe in. I realized, I always thought about all the reasons why God was not someone to be trusted, and never acknowledged all of the ways that He showed his trust in me. He has never wished evil upon me and has always trusted that in time I would come to understand why faith is blind. He is not something to be questioned but felt and understood. My lack of faith in authority started with my own father, he abused the trust placed in him and taught me that power can always be mishandled making me diligent with who I placed it in. But this was a personal struggle, I had to overcome in order to serve and be served. We give faith to the Lord, because we know and trust that he will never abuse it, will always cherish it, and will always use his power to shape us in a way that is worthy of His Grace. I know that as a pediatric neurosurgeon, honoring the struggles of my youngest brother to receive care and my eldest brother to be capable of helping those like him, God will guide my hands to success and remind me that even though I may not be capable of creating miracles on my own accord, with Him behind me I can consider every possibility.

My mother once admitted to me she was wrong for hating the LGBTQ+ community, because everyone takes what they believe from the Bible, leaves the rest, and God still loves them anyway. She chooses to believe what most of my conservative community does: God created us with our intended gender to love someone of the opposite sex. I have never taken this personally, and it has never made me unsure about being pansexual. Still, it did encourage me to keep it a secret from almost everyone, unless they were the person I was interested in dating. Knowing I was pansexual around the same time I began exploring my identity, meant this encouraged me to become accustomed to secrecy early. What I was taught about sexuality growing up shaped me by making me someone who is secretive, and as a result, difficult to understand. I practiced keeping what was most important to me out of sight. Not only because I thought it was safer and more peaceful for everyone involved, but also because I knew the parts of me, or the experiences I kept secret, could be more than my loved ones were willing to handle. Despite this, now I know not taking the risk of openly sharing means accepting being misunderstood. My mother has confronted me on multiple occasions about my secrecy, but she does not seem to see that it is an unwritten family tradition. I have yet to disclose so many of her secrets, but only one pertains to why I have my career goals. One of her secrets, how little she trusts the medical community, pertains to my career goals. This is a secret that is justifiable for too many. It is a mistrust the past has made too justifiable. Minorities and the medical community do not have an easy history. From the Tuskegee experiments with syphilis to Ronald Reagan’s silence and inaction with AIDS, damaging secrets have been held with intentionality. The fear she has surrounding the intentions of doctors and nurses does not come from superstition. It has an authentic source that can only be addressed by change, trust, and knowing doctors and nurses with only the intention of healing. The latter of these is something almost every medical professional can cover. The vast majority have the purest intentions, which is why they dedicate their lives to helping others. Change and trust in the medical community however are much larger and misunderstood beasts. Often, when change is championed or mistrust is communicated, the receiver finds it to be an accusation of a personal failing. This is not always the case. Change and trust require everyone to be fully involved. My involvement is going to be in pediatric neurology. A destiny first intended by my older brother. However, as I said before, change and trust are different from intention. My older brother intended to make himself part of the solution to an issue he saw my mom struggle through with my youngest brother, who was born prematurely. Where I was raised, there were only two people capable of providing the care they said my youngest brother needed, making access to their services difficult. That is still the case there. They need more people to be involved. I can accomplish my career goals because I know fear often comes from what is unsaid. My identity, like most, has always been intersectional. Explaining how has always been difficult, but by accepting all pieces of me I hope to encourage others with intersectional identities to trust their fears can be understood, starting in the doctor’s room.

I wrote this story about a close friend who suffers from schizophrenia to make other people understand the experience. There was pressure to get the story right for those who lived with the disease. I was also afraid that I would find out my writing wasn't good enough. Then I realized that if I didn't publish it, I would never know if it was amazing or if I had written something that other people were searching for. Instead of being afraid, I submitted it to one of the largest publishing companies in the world.