At the age of six, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. Once a promising gymnast due to my flexibility, my orthopedic condition became so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone five reconstructive surgeries on both of my legs, but if it weren't for my disability, I would not be pursuing a career in physical medicine and rehabilitation. Growing up, I was fortunate to receive treatment at one of the nation's leading nonprofit orthopedic hospitals, equipped with fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground. As one of many kids with similar conditions, I finally felt like I belonged. Throughout my childhood, despite using a wheelchair, I always tried to stay active. The day after my first surgery, I vividly (despite the pain meds) remember the Child Life specialists taking us outside for a game of adaptive bowling. Once I was able to return home from the hospital, I would wheel myself to the park, determined to play basketball with the neighborhood kids the way I always did. Fitted with casts from my hips to my ankles, I eventually defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, it was the countless hours of physical therapy that sparked my early interest in medicine. Once I started college at UT, I decided to minor in disability studies to learn more about the role I could play as a caregiver and healthcare provider later in life. One of my professors at the time traveled the world playing wheelchair basketball, and I knew that adaptive sports was something I wanted to explore. Now, as a medical student, I volunteer weekly at Camp PossAbilities, an adaptive sports inclusion program for athletes of all ages. I love getting to explore new sports like cornhole and pickleball while serving as a partner for those who normally wouldn't get a chance to play -- an experience I am all too familiar with. As I explore what aspect of physical medicine and rehabilitation I would like to subspecialize in, I am drawn to both amputation and sports medicine. Now a rising third-year medical student, I am currently working with physicians and residents across the country, partnered with a grassroots organization called So Every Body Can Move, on legislation to advocate for insurance coverage of prosthetics for people with lower limb amputations. Through this work, we hope to improve mental health, physical health, quality of life, and opportunities for those who do not currently have access to a prosthesis. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my medical team who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Movement and the freedoms it brings are gifts I have never taken for granted, and I hope to spend the rest of my life helping others reclaim theirs.

At the age of six, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. Once a promising gymnast due to my flexibility, my orthopedic condition became so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone five reconstructive surgeries on both of my legs, but if it weren't for my disability, I would not be pursuing a career in physical medicine and rehabilitation. Growing up, I was fortunate to receive treatment at one of the nation's leading nonprofit orthopedic hospitals, equipped with fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground. As one of many kids with similar conditions, I finally felt like I belonged. Throughout my childhood, despite using a wheelchair, I always tried to stay active. The day after my first surgery, I vividly (despite the pain meds) remember the Child Life specialists taking us outside for a game of adaptive bowling. Once I was able to return home from the hospital, I would wheel myself to the park, determined to play basketball with the neighborhood kids the way I always did. Fitted with casts from my hips to my ankles, I eventually defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, it was the countless hours of physical therapy that sparked my early interest in medicine. Once I started college at UT, I decided to minor in disability studies to learn more about the role I could play as a caregiver and healthcare provider later in life. One of my professors at the time traveled the world playing wheelchair basketball, and I knew that adaptive sports was something I wanted to explore. Now, as a medical student, I volunteer weekly at Camp PossAbilities, an adaptive sports inclusion program for athletes of all ages. I love getting to explore new sports like cornhole and pickleball while serving as a partner for those who normally wouldn't get a chance to play -- an experience I am all too familiar with. As I explore what aspect of physical medicine and rehabilitation I would like to subspecialize in, I am drawn to both amputation and sports medicine. Now a rising third-year medical student, I am currently working with physicians and residents across the country, partnered with a grassroots organization called So Every Body Can Move, on legislation to advocate for insurance coverage of prosthetics for people with lower limb amputations. Through this work, we hope to improve mental health, physical health, quality of life, and opportunities for those who do not currently have access to a prosthesis. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my medical team who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Movement and the freedoms it brings are gifts I have never taken for granted, and I hope to spend the rest of my life helping others reclaim theirs.

In my fourth-grade English class, we were prompted to describe a place that made us feel safe. I wrote about the children’s hospital. At 6 years old, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. My orthopedic condition was so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone numerous reconstructive surgeries, but looking back, some of my most impactful memories emerged from my time at the hospital. With fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground, the hospital recognizes that its patients are children first. From the overnight nurses who distracted me from my pain to the Child Life specialists who got us out of our hospital beds for a game of Uno, I was continually shown immense compassion that transcended the baseline treatment expected at a hospital. Most of all, it was my team of doctors, including the anaesthesiologist who ensured my comfort and the surgeons who tackled my complex condition, who ultimately gave me back my childhood. Because of their expertise, I defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, the hospital truly was my safe space. Despite the circumstances, this sparked my early interest in medicine. As I got older, I felt an overwhelming gratitude toward those involved in my treatment, which invoked a desire to follow in their footsteps. I became an orthopedic intern, and for two weeks, I shadowed the very doctors who treated me. On my last day, curious about allied health, I helped occupational therapists modify a wheelchair for an inpatient. As the therapists talked amongst themselves about the best plan of action, I could tell that the family was feeling uneasy and that the patient, a young girl, was getting restless. I decided to distract her by helping her order lunch from the cafeteria. “I used to get mashed potatoes and Teddy Grahams with every meal,” I mentioned as she excitedly took my suggestion. Upon realizing I had been a patient, the family flooded me with questions about my experience. I tried giving them advice that I wished I had known during my recovery, and I could tell they were feeling less anxious. I left the hospital that day with many takeaways: that despite well-intentioned healthcare professionals, medical distrust is important to recognize and address; that both core and allied health professionals extensively support patients through collaboration; and that given all I have experienced, my time as a patient provides me with an unparalleled ability to holistically empathize with aspects of care both within and beyond the clinic. It was this realization of my capacity for care that solidified my desire to become a doctor. Over the years, I have come to realize that it was a culmination of experiences that were constant reminders of my goal: to become the physician who sees patients as people first, who implements disability advocacy into my practice, and who seeks to not only treat, but improve healthcare through research. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my surgeons who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Now, as a Federal Work Study medical student, this scholarship would help offset costs so I can spend less time at work and more time developing into the best physician I can be.

In my fourth-grade English class, we were prompted to describe a place that made us feel safe. I wrote about the children’s hospital. At 6 years old, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. My orthopedic condition was so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone numerous reconstructive surgeries, but looking back, some of my most impactful memories emerged from my time at the hospital. With fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground, the hospital recognizes that its patients are children first. From the overnight nurses who distracted me from my pain to the Child Life specialists who got us out of our hospital beds for a game of Uno, I was continually shown immense compassion that transcended the baseline treatment expected at a hospital. Because of their expertise, I defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, the hospital truly was my safe space. Despite the circumstances, it was my medical team who sparked my early interest in healthcare, opening my eyes to both the transformative potential of medicine and the gaps in patient care. Throughout my childhood, I drew strength and empowerment from my mother as I navigated life with my disability. My mother was my caregiver. At the hospital, she would sleep in a chair beside me and stay with me for months at a time during each cycle of recovery. That is why, when my mom was diagnosed with spinocerebellar ataxia, I was stunned. For the first time in my life, she was the one in the patient’s chair. Being there for my mom meant watching her lose her sense of purpose after having to quit her job, supporting her through post-diagnosis depression, and taking Disability Studies classes to educate myself on the new challenges she would be facing. The difficulties I faced in my own journey allowed me to better support my mother following her diagnosis, strengthening our relationship as I accompanied her to neurology, physical and occupational therapy, and speech-language pathology appointments. With rehabilitation being the most fulfilling and empowering part of my medical journey, in addition to the complexity and lack of treatment in neurodegenerative disease, I became drawn toward a career in Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation (PM&R), a highly collaborative medical specialty that draws strength from the partnership between occupational therapists, physical therapists, speech-language pathologists, and physicians to provide an avenue for care that instills hope in patients experiencing complex neurological, cardiovascular, musculoskeletal, and traumatic conditions. Over the years, I have come to realize that it was a culmination of experiences that were constant reminders of my goal: to become the physician who sees patients as people first, who implements disability advocacy into my practice, and who seeks not only to treat, but improve healthcare through research. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my doctors who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Now, as a Federal Work Study medical student, this scholarship would help offset costs so I can spend less time at work and more time developing into the best physician I can be.

In my fourth-grade English class, we were prompted to describe a place that made us feel safe. I wrote about the children’s hospital. At 6 years old, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. My orthopedic condition was so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone numerous reconstructive surgeries, but looking back, some of my most impactful memories emerged from my time at the hospital. With fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground, the hospital recognizes that its patients are children first. From the overnight nurses who distracted me from my pain to the Child Life specialists who got us out of our hospital beds for a game of Uno, I was continually shown immense compassion that transcended the baseline treatment expected at a hospital. Because of their expertise, I defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, the hospital truly was my safe space. Despite the circumstances, it was my medical team who sparked my early interest in healthcare, opening my eyes to both the transformative potential of medicine and the gaps in patient care. Throughout my childhood, I drew strength and empowerment from my mother as I navigated life with my disability. My mother was my caregiver. At the hospital, she would sleep in a chair beside me and stay with me for months at a time during each cycle of recovery. That is why, when my mom was diagnosed with spinocerebellar ataxia, I was stunned. For the first time in my life, she was the one in the patient’s chair. Being there for my mom meant watching her lose her sense of purpose after having to quit her job, supporting her through post-diagnosis depression, and taking Disability Studies classes to educate myself on the new challenges she would be facing. The difficulties I faced in my own journey allowed me to better support my mother following her diagnosis, strengthening our relationship as I accompanied her to neurology, physical and occupational therapy, and speech-language pathology appointments. With rehabilitation being the most fulfilling and empowering part of my medical journey, in addition to the complexity and lack of treatment in neurodegenerative disease, I became drawn toward a career in Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation (PM&R), a highly collaborative medical specialty that draws strength from the partnership between occupational therapists, physical therapists, speech-language pathologists, and physicians to provide an avenue for care that instills hope in patients experiencing complex neurological, cardiovascular, musculoskeletal, and traumatic conditions. Over the years, I have come to realize that it was a culmination of experiences that were constant reminders of my goal: to become the physician who sees patients as people first, who implements disability advocacy into my practice, and who seeks not only to treat, but improve healthcare through research. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my doctors who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Now, as a Federal Work Study medical student, this scholarship would help offset costs so I can spend less time at work and more time developing into the best physician I can be.

In my fourth-grade English class, we were prompted to describe a place that made us feel safe. I wrote about the children’s hospital. At 6 years old, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. My orthopedic condition was so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone numerous reconstructive surgeries, but looking back, some of my most impactful memories emerged from my time at the hospital. With fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground, the hospital recognizes that its patients are children first. From the overnight nurses who distracted me from my pain to the Child Life specialists who got us out of our hospital beds for a game of Uno, I was continually shown immense compassion that transcended the baseline treatment expected at a hospital. Because of their expertise, I defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, the hospital truly was my safe space. Despite the circumstances, it was my medical team who sparked my early interest in healthcare, opening my eyes to both the transformative potential of medicine and the gaps in patient care. Throughout my childhood, I drew strength and empowerment from my mother as I navigated life with my disability. My mother was my caregiver. At the hospital, she would sleep in a chair beside me and stay with me for months at a time during each cycle of recovery. That is why, when my mom was diagnosed with spinocerebellar ataxia, I was stunned. For the first time in my life, she was the one in the patient’s chair. Being there for my mom meant watching her lose her sense of purpose after having to quit her job, supporting her through post-diagnosis depression, and taking Disability Studies classes to educate myself on the new challenges she would be facing. The difficulties I faced in my own journey allowed me to better support my mother following her diagnosis, strengthening our relationship as I accompanied her to neurology, physical and occupational therapy, and speech-language pathology appointments. With rehabilitation being the most fulfilling and empowering part of my medical journey, in addition to the complexity and lack of treatment in neurodegenerative disease, I became drawn toward a career in Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation (PM&R), a highly collaborative medical specialty that draws strength from the partnership between occupational therapists, physical therapists, speech-language pathologists, and physicians to provide an avenue for care that instills hope in patients experiencing complex neurological, cardiovascular, musculoskeletal, and traumatic conditions. Over the years, I have come to realize that it was a culmination of experiences that were constant reminders of my goal: to become the physician who sees patients as people first, who implements disability advocacy into my practice, and who seeks not only to treat, but improve healthcare through research. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my doctors who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Now, as a Federal Work Study medical student, this scholarship would help offset costs so I can spend less time at work and more time developing into the best physician I can be.

In my fourth-grade English class, we were prompted to describe a place that made us feel safe. I wrote about the children’s hospital. At 6 years old, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. My orthopedic condition was so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone numerous reconstructive surgeries, but looking back, some of my most impactful memories emerged from my time at the hospital. With fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground, the hospital recognizes that its patients are children first. From the overnight nurses who distracted me from my pain to the Child Life specialists who got us out of our hospital beds for a game of Uno, I was continually shown immense compassion that transcended the baseline treatment expected at a hospital. Because of their expertise, I defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, the hospital truly was my safe space. Despite the circumstances, it was my physical and occupational therapists who sparked my early interest in healthcare, opening my eyes to both the transformative potential of medicine and the gaps in patient care. Throughout my childhood, I drew strength and empowerment from my mother as I navigated life with my disability. My mother was my caregiver. At the hospital, she would sleep in a chair beside me and stay with me for months at a time during each cycle of recovery. That is why, when my mom was diagnosed with spinocerebellar ataxia, I was stunned. For the first time in my life, she was the one in the patient’s chair. Being there for my mom meant watching her lose her sense of purpose after having to quit her job, supporting her through post-diagnosis depression, and taking Disability Studies classes to educate myself on the new challenges she would be facing. The difficulties I faced in my own journey allowed me to better support my mother following her diagnosis, strengthening our relationship as I accompanied her to neurology, physical and occupational therapy, and speech-language pathology appointments. With rehabilitation being the most fulfilling and empowering part of my medical journey, in addition to the complexity and lack of treatment in neurodegenerative disease, I became drawn toward a career in Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation (PM&R), a highly collaborative medical specialty that draws strength from the partnership between occupational therapists, physical therapists, speech-language pathologists, and physicians to provide an avenue for care that instills hope in patients experiencing complex neurological, cardiovascular, musculoskeletal, and traumatic conditions. Over the years, I have come to realize that it was a culmination of experiences that were constant reminders of my goal: to become the physician who sees patients as people first, who implements disability advocacy into my practice, and who seeks not only to treat, but improve healthcare through research. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my surgeons who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Now, as a Federal Work Study medical student, this scholarship would help offset costs so I can spend less time at work and more time developing into the best physician I can be.

In my fourth-grade English class, we were prompted to describe a place that made us feel safe. I wrote about the children’s hospital. At 6 years old, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. My orthopedic condition was so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone numerous reconstructive surgeries, but looking back, some of my most impactful memories emerged from my time at the hospital. With fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground, the hospital recognizes that its patients are children first. From the overnight nurses who distracted me from my pain to the Child Life specialists who got us out of our hospital beds for a game of Uno, I was continually shown immense compassion that transcended the baseline treatment expected at a hospital. Because of their expertise, I defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, the hospital truly was my safe space. Despite the circumstances, it was my physical and occupational therapists who sparked my early interest in healthcare, opening my eyes to both the transformative potential of medicine and the gaps in patient care. Throughout my childhood, I drew strength and empowerment from my mother as I navigated life with my disability. My mother was my caregiver. At the hospital, she would sleep in a chair beside me and stay with me for months at a time during each cycle of recovery. That is why, when my mom was diagnosed with spinocerebellar ataxia, I was stunned. For the first time in my life, she was the one in the patient’s chair. Being there for my mom meant watching her lose her sense of purpose after having to quit her job, supporting her through post-diagnosis depression, and taking Disability Studies classes to educate myself on the new challenges she would be facing. The difficulties I faced in my own journey allowed me to better support my mother following her diagnosis, strengthening our relationship as I accompanied her to neurology, physical and occupational therapy, and speech-language pathology appointments. With rehabilitation being the most fulfilling and empowering part of my medical journey, in addition to the complexity and lack of treatment in neurodegenerative disease, I became drawn toward a career in Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation (PM&R), a highly collaborative medical specialty that draws strength from the partnership between occupational therapists, physical therapists, speech-language pathologists, and physicians to provide an avenue for care that instills hope in patients experiencing complex neurological, cardiovascular, musculoskeletal, and traumatic conditions. Over the years, I have come to realize that it was a culmination of experiences that were constant reminders of my goal: to become the physician who sees patients as people first, who implements disability advocacy into my practice, and who seeks not only to treat, but improve healthcare through research. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my surgeons who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Now, as a Federal Work Study medical student, this scholarship would help offset costs so I can spend less time at work and more time developing into the best physician I can be.

In my fourth-grade English class, we were prompted to describe a place that made us feel safe. I wrote about the children’s hospital. At 6 years old, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. My orthopedic condition was so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone numerous reconstructive surgeries, but looking back, some of my most impactful memories emerged from my time at the hospital. With fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground, the hospital recognizes that its patients are children first. From the overnight nurses who distracted me from my pain to the Child Life specialists who got us out of our hospital beds for a game of Uno, I was continually shown immense compassion that transcended the baseline treatment expected at a hospital. Because of their expertise, I defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, the hospital truly was my safe space. Despite the circumstances, it was my physical and occupational therapists who sparked my early interest in healthcare, opening my eyes to both the transformative potential of medicine and the gaps in patient care. Throughout my childhood, I drew strength and empowerment from my mother as I navigated life with my disability. My mother was my caregiver. At the hospital, she would sleep in a chair beside me and stay with me for months at a time during each cycle of recovery. That is why, when my mom was diagnosed with spinocerebellar ataxia, I was stunned. For the first time in my life, she was the one in the patient’s chair. Being there for my mom meant watching her lose her sense of purpose after having to quit her job, supporting her through post-diagnosis depression, and taking Disability Studies classes to educate myself on the new challenges she would be facing. The difficulties I faced in my own journey allowed me to better support my mother following her diagnosis, strengthening our relationship as I accompanied her to neurology, physical and occupational therapy, and speech-language pathology appointments. With rehabilitation being the most fulfilling and empowering part of my medical journey, in addition to the complexity and lack of treatment in neurodegenerative disease, I became drawn toward a career in Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation (PM&R), a highly collaborative medical specialty that draws strength from the partnership between occupational therapists, physical therapists, speech-language pathologists, and physicians to provide an avenue for care that instills hope in patients experiencing complex neurological, cardiovascular, musculoskeletal, and traumatic conditions. Over the years, I have come to realize that it was a culmination of experiences that were constant reminders of my goal: to become the physician who sees patients as people first, who implements disability advocacy into my practice, and who seeks not only to treat, but improve healthcare through research. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my surgeons who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Now, as a Federal Work Study medical student, this scholarship would help offset costs so I can spend less time at work and more time developing into the best physician I can be.

In my fourth-grade English class, we were prompted to describe a place that made us feel safe. I wrote about the children’s hospital. At 6 years old, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. My orthopedic condition was so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone numerous reconstructive surgeries, but looking back, some of my most impactful memories emerged from my time at the hospital. With fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground, the hospital recognizes that its patients are children first. From the overnight nurses who distracted me from my pain to the Child Life specialists who got us out of our hospital beds for a game of Uno, I was continually shown immense compassion that transcended the baseline treatment expected at a hospital. Most of all, it was my team of doctors, including the anaesthesiologist who ensured my comfort and the surgeons who tackled my complex condition, who ultimately gave me back my childhood. Because of their expertise, I defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, the hospital truly was my safe space. Despite the circumstances, this sparked my early interest in medicine. As I got older, I felt an overwhelming gratitude toward those involved in my treatment, which invoked a desire to follow in their footsteps. I became an orthopedic intern, and for two weeks, I shadowed the very doctors who treated me. On my last day, curious about allied health, I helped occupational therapists modify a wheelchair for an inpatient. As the therapists talked amongst themselves about the best plan of action, I could tell that the family was feeling uneasy and that the patient, a young girl, was getting restless. I decided to distract her by helping her order lunch from the cafeteria. “I used to get mashed potatoes and Teddy Grahams with every meal,” I mentioned as she excitedly took my suggestion. Upon realizing I had been a patient, the family flooded me with questions about my experience. I tried giving them advice that I wished I had known during my recovery, and I could tell they were feeling less anxious. I left the hospital that day with many takeaways: that despite well-intentioned healthcare professionals, medical distrust is important to recognize and address; that both core and allied health professionals extensively support patients through collaboration; and that given all I have experienced, my time as a patient provides me with an unparalleled ability to holistically empathize with aspects of care both within and beyond the clinic. It was this realization of my capacity for care that solidified my desire to become a doctor. Throughout my childhood, I drew strength and empowerment from my mother as I navigated life with my disability. My mother was my caregiver. At the hospital, she would sleep in a chair beside me and stay with me for months at a time during each cycle of recovery. That is why, when my mom was diagnosed with spinocerebellar ataxia, I was stunned. For the first time in my life, she was the one in the patient’s chair, and I was left helplessly grasping onto every word the doctor uttered. Being there for my mom meant watching her lose her sense of purpose after having to quit her job, supporting her through post-diagnosis depression, and taking Disability Studies classes to educate myself on the new challenges she would be facing. Accompanying her to clinical trial appointments opened my eyes to the possibility of academic medicine, which would allow me to amplify my impact by contributing to under-researched areas, such as ataxia. In an attempt to gain control over her incurable disease, I began immersing myself in research experiences to not only learn the skills and techniques necessary to assist in neurodegenerative clinical trials in the future, but also to be able to explain new advances in ataxia research to my parents. I believe that passionate and personally affected individuals are the most powerful resources for finding a cure for these complex diseases, and after witnessing the impact of ataxia on my mom and the potential risk it poses to my brother and me, my resolve to pursue a career in medicine strengthened. Over the years, I have come to realize that it was a culmination of experiences that were constant reminders of my goal: to become the physician who sees patients as people first, who implements disability advocacy into my practice, and who seeks not only to treat, but improve healthcare through research. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my surgeons who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Now, as a Federal Work Study medical student, this scholarship would help offset costs so I can spend less time at work and more time developing into the best physician I can be.

In my fourth-grade English class, we were prompted to describe a place that made us feel safe. I wrote about the children's hospital. At the time, I didn't understand the profound significance of that response, but now I see it as the first articulation of my life's purpose—a purpose that has been shaped by 13 years as a patient, forged through watching my mother become one, and is now being fulfilled as I pursue medicine to serve others who walk similar paths. My story begins with joint hypermobility so severe that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations. From age six to nineteen, I lived a dual existence—child and patient, student and surgery recipient, dreamer and someone who had to learn resilience before I fully understood what the word meant. The hospital wasn't just where I received treatment; it became my community, my classroom, and ultimately, my calling. With fresh popcorn, the world's largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground, Scottish Rite Hospital for Children recognized that its patients were children first—a philosophy that would profoundly shape my understanding of healthcare. What moves me most deeply is the issue of healthcare accessibility and dignity for people with disabilities, because I've experienced it from every conceivable angle. As a patient, I learned that medical expertise alone isn't enough; it's the compassion, advocacy, and holistic approach that truly heal. I witnessed how medical professionals could either empower or marginalize disabled individuals, and I experienced firsthand the difference between being seen as a condition versus being seen as a person. This understanding became even more urgent when my mother, my caregiver and strength, the woman who slept in hospital chairs beside me for months, was diagnosed with spinocerebellar ataxia, a progressive neurodegenerative disease. Suddenly, I found myself in an unfamiliar role: supporting the person who had always supported me. Watching my mother lose her sense of purpose after having to quit her job, supporting her through post-diagnosis depression, and accompanying her to clinical trial appointments opened my eyes to the devastating reality that for rare diseases like ataxia, patients often face decades without answers or hope. This personal experience with both sides of the patient-caregiver dynamic revealed to me that passionate and personally affected individuals are often the most powerful resources for finding solutions to complex medical challenges. If I had the power to create lasting change in healthcare accessibility and disability advocacy, I would implement a three-pronged approach. First, I would champion increased representation of healthcare professionals with lived disability experiences, because patient-providers bring unparalleled empathy and understanding to medical practice. Second, I would advocate for dramatically increased funding for rare disease research, particularly neurodegenerative conditions where families are left grasping for hope. Finally, I would work to transform rehabilitation medicine from a model focused on "fixing" people to one that empowers them to thrive with their conditions, shifting the entire paradigm from deficit-based to strength-based care. This vision led me to choose physiatry as my specialty, a decision informed by years of physical therapy and witnessing its transformative power on both my recovery and my mother's ongoing care. Unlike specialties that primarily rely on pharmaceuticals, physiatry focuses on restoration of function, quality of life, and maximizing human potential. It represents the perfect marriage of my experiences: disability-informed medicine that emphasizes adaptation, empowerment, and hope. Through physiatry, I plan to advance research in neurodegenerative rehabilitation, develop innovative therapy protocols, and create more accessible, patient-centered care models that recognize the full humanity and potential of every patient. My five-year goal is ambitious but clear: complete my physiatry residency and establish a research program focused on neurodegenerative rehabilitation, specifically for overlooked conditions like ataxia. I'm already building this foundation by excelling in my medical studies at the University of Texas Medical Branch, staying current with research to help explain developments to my parents, and maintaining connections with institutions like Scottish Rite Hospital where I learned the power of patient-centered care. I plan to secure a competitive residency with strong research opportunities, build partnerships with organizations like the National Ataxia Foundation, and ultimately create evidence-based protocols that other physicians can implement to improve care for patients with progressive conditions. Education has been transformative in helping me understand that my experiences weren't obstacles to overcome, but preparation for purpose. Taking Disability Studies courses while supporting my mother through her diagnosis helped me recognize that my personal struggles were part of larger systemic issues in healthcare. Every anatomy lesson connects to surgeries I've experienced, every pathophysiology concept relates to conditions I've lived with, and every clinical discussion reminds me why patient perspective is irreplaceable in medical practice. Medical school has given me the language and tools to transform my lived experience into actionable change. My identity as a woman in medicine has been profoundly shaped by witnessing strong women navigate healthcare challenges. My mother's resilience through her diagnosis taught me that leadership often means being vulnerable enough to ask for help while strong enough to advocate for what you need. As a woman pursuing physiatry, a field where I can focus on empowerment rather than just treatment, I've learned that my voice carries particular weight when advocating for patients who might otherwise be marginalized. My experiences have taught me that representation matters deeply, and that my presence in medicine as someone who has been both patient and caregiver brings perspectives that are desperately needed. Leadership, to me, means using your experiences to lift others, even when those experiences were painful. I embodied this when I started the "We Are More" patient-led talent show at Scottish Rite Hospital. Recognizing that young patients needed to see themselves as more than their medical conditions, I created a platform where kids could showcase their talents and celebrate their identities beyond their diagnoses. The event raised funds while fostering a celebrated disabled community among patients—proving that leadership sometimes means creating the spaces you wish had existed for you. Resilience became my teacher when I learned to navigate life with a disability while maintaining dreams that others questioned. When doctors doubted whether I could lead a normal life, I had to be resourceful in finding ways to adapt, to keep pursuing my goals, and to maintain hope when medical prognoses were uncertain. This experience taught me that resilience isn't about bouncing back unchanged—it's about using challenges to develop strengths you never knew you had. The resourcefulness I developed as a patient now serves me as a medical student and will be invaluable as a future physician working with patients facing similar uncertainties. This scholarship would be transformational for my journey. As a federal work-study student at UTMB, financial support would allow me to focus more fully on my academics and research, rather than worrying about the financial pressures of medical school. More importantly, it would validate that my unique perspective as someone who has been patient, caregiver, and future physician is valued and worth investing in. The scholarship wouldn't just support my education; it would support my mission to become the physician who sees patients as people first, implements disability advocacy into practice, and works to improve healthcare through research informed by lived experience. I am pursuing medicine not in spite of my experiences as a patient, but because of them. Every challenge I've faced, every hospital stay I've endured, every moment I've spent supporting my mother through her diagnosis has been preparation for this calling. I want to be the beacon of hope for patients and families that my doctors were for me, and I want to contribute to research that gives families like mine reasons to keep hoping. This scholarship would help me transform a lifetime of being cared for into a career of caring for others, ensuring that the compassion and advocacy I received as a patient becomes the standard of care I provide as a physician.

In my fourth-grade English class, we were prompted to describe a place that made us feel safe. I wrote about the children’s hospital. At 6 years old, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. My orthopedic condition was so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone numerous reconstructive surgeries, but looking back, some of my most impactful memories emerged from my time at the hospital. With fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground, the hospital recognizes that its patients are children first. From the overnight nurses who distracted me from my pain to the Child Life specialists who got us out of our hospital beds for a game of Uno, I was continually shown immense compassion that transcended the baseline treatment expected at a hospital. Most of all, it was my team of doctors, including the anaesthesiologist who ensured my comfort and the surgeons who tackled my complex condition, who ultimately gave me back my childhood. Because of their expertise, I defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, the hospital truly was my safe space. Despite the circumstances, this sparked my early interest in medicine. As I got older, I felt an overwhelming gratitude toward those involved in my treatment, which invoked a desire to follow in their footsteps. I became an orthopedic intern, and for two weeks, I shadowed the very doctors who treated me. On my last day, curious about allied health, I helped occupational therapists modify a wheelchair for an inpatient. As the therapists talked amongst themselves about the best plan of action, I could tell that the family was feeling uneasy and that the patient, a young girl, was getting restless. I decided to distract her by helping her order lunch from the cafeteria. “I used to get mashed potatoes and Teddy Grahams with every meal,” I mentioned as she excitedly took my suggestion. Upon realizing I had been a patient, the family flooded me with questions about my experience. I tried giving them advice that I wished I had known during my recovery, and I could tell they were feeling less anxious. I left the hospital that day with many takeaways: that despite well-intentioned healthcare professionals, medical distrust is important to recognize and address; that both core and allied health professionals extensively support patients through collaboration; and that given all I have experienced, my time as a patient provides me with an unparalleled ability to holistically empathize with aspects of care both within and beyond the clinic. It was this realization of my capacity for care that solidified my desire to become a doctor. Over the years, I have come to realize that it was a culmination of experiences that were constant reminders of my goal: to become the physician who sees patients as people first, who implements disability advocacy into my practice, and who seeks to not only treat, but improve healthcare through research. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my surgeons who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Now, as a Federal Work Study medical student, this scholarship would help offset costs so I can spend less time at work and more time developing into the best physician I can be.

In my fourth-grade English class, we were prompted to describe a place that made us feel safe. I wrote about the children’s hospital. At 6 years old, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. My orthopedic condition was so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone numerous reconstructive surgeries, but looking back, some of my most impactful memories emerged from my time at the hospital. With fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground, the hospital recognizes that its patients are children first. From the overnight nurses who distracted me from my pain to the Child Life specialists who got us out of our hospital beds for a game of Uno, I was continually shown immense compassion that transcended the baseline treatment expected at a hospital. Most of all, it was my team of doctors, including the anaesthesiologist who ensured my comfort and the surgeons who tackled my complex condition, who ultimately gave me back my childhood. Because of their expertise, I defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, the hospital truly was my safe space. Despite the circumstances, this sparked my early interest in medicine. As I got older, I felt an overwhelming gratitude toward those involved in my treatment, which invoked a desire to follow in their footsteps. I became an orthopedic intern, and for two weeks, I shadowed the very doctors who treated me. On my last day, curious about allied health, I helped occupational therapists modify a wheelchair for an inpatient. As the therapists talked amongst themselves about the best plan of action, I could tell that the family was feeling uneasy and that the patient, a young girl, was getting restless. I decided to distract her by helping her order lunch from the cafeteria. “I used to get mashed potatoes and Teddy Grahams with every meal,” I mentioned as she excitedly took my suggestion. Upon realizing I had been a patient, the family flooded me with questions about my experience. I tried giving them advice that I wished I had known during my recovery, and I could tell they were feeling less anxious. I left the hospital that day with many takeaways: that despite well-intentioned healthcare professionals, medical distrust is important to recognize and address; that both core and allied health professionals extensively support patients through collaboration; and that given all I have experienced, my time as a patient provides me with an unparalleled ability to holistically empathize with aspects of care both within and beyond the clinic. It was this realization of my capacity for care that solidified my desire to become a doctor. Over the years, I have come to realize that it was a culmination of experiences that were constant reminders of my goal: to become the physician who sees patients as people first, who implements disability advocacy into my practice, and who seeks to not only treat, but improve healthcare through research. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my surgeons who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Now, as a Federal Work Study medical student, this scholarship would help offset costs so I can spend less time at work and more time developing into the best physician I can be.

The medium that I've decided to choose for my submission is an interview that I did with the Texas Scottish Rite Hospital for Children, a non-profit hospital that served as my second home for 13 years, as I was treated for a congenital joint hypermobility condition that altered my childhood and shaped my aspirations as a future physician. As a current medical student at the University of Texas Medical Branch, much of the way I interact with patients and those around me has been informed by my experiences as part of the disabled community. I hope to continue to foster community and show the world that we are more than our disabilities as I progress through my schooling. As a Federal Work-Study student, this scholarship would help offset costs, so I can spend less time at work and more time developing into the best physician I can be. Link to the article is included below, and I also submitted a video about my story: https://scottishriteforchildren.org/donor-spotlight-we-are-more-empowering-patients-through-their-talents/

In my fourth-grade English class, we were prompted to describe a place that made us feel safe. I wrote about the children’s hospital. At 6 years old, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. My orthopedic condition was so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone numerous reconstructive surgeries, but looking back, some of my most impactful memories emerged from my time at the hospital. With fresh popcorn, the world’s largest kaleidoscope, and an accessible playground, the hospital recognizes that its patients are children first. From the overnight nurses who distracted me from my pain to the Child Life specialists who got us out of our hospital beds for a game of Uno, I was continually shown immense compassion that transcended the baseline treatment expected at a hospital. Most of all, it was my team of doctors, including the anaesthesiologist who ensured my comfort and the surgeons who tackled my complex condition, who ultimately gave me back my childhood. Because of their expertise, I defied previous prognoses that doubted my ability to lead a normal life. My journey as a patient lasted 13 years, and looking back, the hospital truly was my safe space. Despite the circumstances, this sparked my early interest in medicine. As I got older, I felt an overwhelming gratitude toward those involved in my treatment, which invoked a desire to follow in their footsteps. I became an orthopedic intern, and for two weeks, I shadowed the very doctors who treated me. On my last day, curious about allied health, I helped occupational therapists modify a wheelchair for an inpatient. As the therapists talked amongst themselves about the best plan of action, I could tell that the family was feeling uneasy and that the patient, a young girl, was getting restless. I decided to distract her by helping her order lunch from the cafeteria. “I used to get mashed potatoes and Teddy Grahams with every meal,” I mentioned as she excitedly took my suggestion. Upon realizing I had been a patient, the family flooded me with questions about my experience. I tried giving them advice that I wished I had known during my recovery, and I could tell they were feeling less anxious. I left the hospital that day with many takeaways: that despite well-intentioned healthcare professionals, medical distrust is important to recognize and address; that both core and allied health professionals extensively support patients through collaboration; and that given all I have experienced, my time as a patient provides me with an unparalleled ability to holistically empathize with aspects of care both within and beyond the clinic. It was this realization of my capacity for care that solidified my desire to become a doctor. Over the years, I have come to realize that it was a culmination of experiences that were constant reminders of my goal: to become the physician who sees patients as people first, who implements disability advocacy into my practice, and who seeks to not only treat, but improve healthcare through research. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my surgeons who gave me back my childhood, and in the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Now, as a Federal Work Study medical student, this scholarship would help offset costs so I can spend less time at work and more time developing into the best physician I can be.

As the youngest member of my family, it was customary to give up my bed when Pati (grandma) visited. I remember looking up at her from the floor as I drifted to sleep, watching her flip through Reader’s Digest. From a country where female infanticide still prevails, the fact that Pati got a nutrition degree and started her own restaurant always amazed me. As she sprinkled ingredients into a pot, Pati would teach me about their nutritional and ayurvedic value, from the anti-inflammatory turmeric in the dal to the iron-rich drumstick in the vetha kuzhambu. Like a warm, savory curry simmering on the stove, her food filled both my tummy and the cultural void I felt as an Indian American. With age came a deepened curiosity about how food transcends the plate and intersects with various social justice issues. After reading Fast Food Nation and Eating Animals, and watching the documentary Food Inc., I learned about how food deserts, characterized by a lack of access to affordable, nutritious food, disproportionately affect low-income neighborhoods and communities of color. This inspired me to get involved in local initiatives to increase access to fresh produce, promote food justice, and minimize food waste by volunteering with non-profit organizations like Micah 6 Food Pantry and Food Not Bombs. By empowering individuals with nutritional knowledge, addressing systemic barriers, and collaborating with communities, my hope is that one day, access to healthy food is not a privilege, but a basic human right. During my freshman year of college, I attended a talk by a renowned UT Austin nutritional sciences professor comparing the role of the gut to the brain. What struck me was her emphasis on the lack of nutritional training in medical schools, which undermines its role as a vital social determinant of health. Spreading nutrition information to patients allows them to proactively take charge of their own well-being. The combination of my background and experiences have fostered a deep appreciation of cultural diversity, a passion for promoting food justice, and a drive to bridge the gap in nutritional understanding among physicians by raising awareness of these issues. As I progress through medical school and begin practicing, I aspire to provide my future patients with a comprehensive and holistic approach to health that combines both nutrition and medical education, thus recognizing the crucial role of the foods we consume. In addition to instilling the importance of nutrition within the community, I believe that it is important to facilitate discussions about lifestyle medicine within our organization to figure out effective strategies and resources that convey the importance of nutrition to patients. The combination of my background and experiences has fostered a deep appreciation of cultural diversity, a passion for promoting food justice, and a drive to bridge the gap in nutritional understanding among physicians by raising awareness of these issues.

Diagnosed with anxiety at the age of eight and ADHD at 14, I struggled to manage these conditions without medication until recently. While it was challenging, it forced me to develop coping mechanisms and strategies that helped me manage these disorders without being dependent on amphetamines, serotonin, or therapy. As a current medical student, I believe in the importance of exploring treatment options beyond the pharmaceutical, as different recommendations benefit different people. The greatest way that I have helped others with their mental health is by listening. From a young age, close friends recounted challenges that were beyond my years, from being abused at home, to losing parents, attempting suicide, and much more. As I got older, I realized that what provided the most solace in those moments was not pretending like I understood, or trying to fix their problems, or suggesting their next course of action, but rather nodding my head, holding their hands, and not saying a word until they had no more words to say. Now, as a medical student, I am able to support those with mental health struggles in different ways, from tutoring peers who are feeling anxious or overwhelmed to providing resources to patients who are struggling financially or lacking support. In many ways, the healthcare industry requires providers to have a nuanced understanding of mental health that includes not taking interactions at face value, but instead evaluating why and how patients are expressing themselves the way that they are. I am fortunate to be exposed to a variety of patient populations at my university, from uninsured to incarcerated, so that I am able to anticipate the curveballs that will be thrown at me in the future.

At the age of six, my life was upended by joint hypermobility. My orthopedic condition was so extreme that even walking resulted in excruciating knee dislocations, and I lived in fear of running, playing, and doing the very things that made me a kid. By the time I turned 19, I had undergone numerous reconstructive surgeries, but looking back, my mother was the one person who remained by my side. Throughout my childhood, I drew strength and empowerment from my mother as I navigated life with my disability. My mother was my caregiver. At the hospital, she would sleep in a chair beside me and stay with me for months at a time during each cycle of recovery. That is why, when my mom was diagnosed with spinocerebellar ataxia, I was stunned. For the first time in my life, she was the one in the patient’s chair, and I was left helplessly grasping onto every word the doctor uttered. Being there for my mom meant watching her lose her sense of purpose after having to quit her job, supporting her through post-diagnosis depression, and taking Disability Studies classes to educate myself on the new challenges she would be facing. Accompanying her to clinical trial appointments opened my eyes to the possibility of academic medicine, which would allow me to amplify my impact by contributing to under-researched areas, such as ataxia. In an attempt to gain control over her incurable disease, I began immersing myself in research experiences to not only learn the skills and techniques necessary to assist in neurodegenerative clinical trials in the future, but also to be able to explain ataxia papers to my parents. I believe that passionate and personally affected individuals are the most powerful resources in finding a cure for these complex diseases, and after witnessing the impact of ataxia on my mom and the potential risk it poses to my brother and me, my resolve to pursue a career in medicine strengthened. Over the years I have come to realize that it was a culmination of experiences that were constant reminders of my goal: to become the physician who sees patients as people first, who implements disability advocacy into my practice, and who seeks to not only treat, but improve healthcare through research. As a young girl in and out of a wheelchair, it was my mother who taught me compassion, resilience, and strength. In the future, I hope to be that same beacon of hope for my patients and their families. Now, as a federal work-study student, I find it challenging to find time to drive to Dallas and visit my mom on top of school, work, and research. This scholarship would provide me with more financial freedom so that I can work fewer hours, allowing me to finish more schoolwork during the week, so that I can make the 12-hour round-trip to visit my mom on the weekends, as her disease has limited her mobility and independence. Having only applied to medical school in-state, I am fortunate to be close to my mother. With residency, however, comes a new set of challenges, with the uncertainty of matching in Texas. Because of this, it is important to me that I can spend time with my mother while I have the chance, as her disease results in a rapid degeneration, making the coming years even less predictable.