As I embarked on my 28-hour journey from Uzbekistan to Hawaii, only my metal playlist had the power to soothe my 14-year-old self. I knew that this leap of faith was necessary. Attending high school in the United States with the help of my scholarship would help ensure a secure future for myself, but I was still scared. Yet, as I hit “play” my anxiety tricked away. My headphones blasted the loud, metal beats of the bands that my heart desired, and I felt my shoulders relax as my body sank into the airplane seat. Yet, I soon learned that this tumultuous trip was only the start of my self-doubt. Stepping on campus, I started to second-guess my every decision and mere existence. My heart raced during lunch, surrounded by hundreds of students. Self-deprecating thoughts filled my head, doubting each footstep. I was unsure of who I was, but music came to my rescue. The songs and melodies immersed me into another world where I was sure of myself. Listening to Of Wolf and Man from Metallica, I gained assurance, as my step aligned with the catchy beat. Hearing the strong rhythm of The Wolf Totem by The Hu, I stood straighter, filled with pride. Soon, heavy metal became a part of my identity. In addition to helping me gain self-trust, heavy metal gave me limitless avenues and possibilities for self-discovery. Crawling by Linkin Park gave me the strength to cut my hair regardless of others’ ridicule. Throne by Bring Me the Horizon inspired me to wear thick, bold eyeliner in a conservative school. Losfer Words by Iron Maiden helped me persevere through the trials of AP Chemistry and AP Physics 1, thus allowing me to discover my academic abilities. Every heavy metal song, from Psychosocial to Old School Hollywood, uncovered a unique part of my unique identity. Armed with new-found confidence, I blossomed. I had a 4.3 GPA, was in the top 10% of my class from 256 students, earned the title of National Merit Finalist and took 8 AP courses. I was the Speech and Debate captain, stage manager and advocate for minorities through TEDx talks. Yet more importantly, I found my passion for medicine through being a hospital and private clinic volunteer. Everytime I assisted a patient, whether it was through sharing jokes or enjoying a rigorous chess match, I saw my potential to change lives. Everytime I shadowed a doctor, I witnessed their knowledge and skill, increasing my fascination for the profession. Each encounter with medicine showed that I could positively impact others while challenging my intellectual abilities and continuously learning. Embarking on this pre-med path, I was accepted into my dream school, Amherst College, as an international student and neuroscience major. At Amherst, I hope to participate in STEM research, becoming an on-campus EMT and continue volunteering. Currently, my school tuition will be covered by a partial scholarship and my hard-working mother who prioritizes education. Regardless, I hope to reduce the financial burden on my family through this scholarship. The financial aid given to me as an international student is not enough to cover our needs, and it forces her to spend her savings and retirement funds on my education. Yet, she still has to take care of my autistic brother. Due to the lack of resources in my home country, his treatment costs over thirty thousand dollars annually – an unaffordable expense in Uzbekistan. As he grows older, his expenses will continue to grow, but I want to pursue higher education without dragging down my mother’s financial situation. This scholarship would help me achieve my dreams while supporting my family. It would strengthen the lessons of confidence that metal music has taught me. The Headbang for Science scholarship would allow me to keep blasting Slipknot and Bring Me The Horizon to near deafness while excelling in school because I would not worry about finances. Being awarded this scholarship would allow me to become the doctor that I strive to be.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. My brother and his peers yearn for help to reach for their potential, and I will do my best to provide them with all the opportunities they deserve. I received help from my mother when starting my path on moving to the United States. I received help from my school through their generous scholarship and never-ending trust in my potential. I received help in people who believed in me, and I will instill the same hope in Sardor and kids like him. My brother showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. He taught me the importance of love, compassion, dedication and acceptance – the values that will drive my future path and life. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy. I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I allowed myself to become a mere stranger. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid him, I can support him from a distance. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research to improve the understanding of autistic neurobiology. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my Uzbekistan by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Yet, I can only accomplish this with financial support so I could dedicate my energy and powers to my end goal. I can only help my brother when I can reach my full potential without financial worries, and this scholarship will support my success. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no specialized schools in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes warms my heart. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined it possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research` to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope and love. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

“They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. No matter how much I tried to appear Russian, my Uzbek heritage shadowed my every move. Soon, my Mamaka’s canvas was revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals, Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery and a non-binary individual. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. I will work to support Uzbekistan’s neurodivergent population after my own brother received the diagnosis of autism. My mother has struggled to find treatment for him in a country that overlooks the neurodivergent. Trying to right my country’s wrongs, I will ameliorate the lives of the autistic in Uzbekistan. I will fight for the helpless and develop an infrastructure for autism treatment in my home country. This scholarship will help me financially support my dreams and allow me to focus on giving back with minimal financial worries. This scholarship will ensure that the lesson my Mamaka taught me will be embodied. She showed me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person.

I am a wizard with innate, incomprehensible abilities. I can recognize another individual just by looking at their hair. I can make split-second, lifesaving decisions without any conscious realization. As humans, we posses unimaginable powers. We are creatures that hold within us magical capabilities all thanks to the power of the brain; this mysterious organ can only be described as fascinating. I attempted to understand the brain’s beauty through taking psychology and psychopathology courses. Each lesson sparked new questions. How do interneurons know the proper reaction to a stimulus before the signal reaches the brain? How is brain activity linked to thoughts which were previously considered intangible? How can we remember thousands of tiny pieces of information, with memories scattered across out brain, and recall them immediately? These wonders fueled my love for neuroscience and changed my life’s trajectory. When I left home three years ago, I thought I had to leave forever in order to ensure a successful future. I was wrong. This enlightenment arose upon my learning that Sardor, my four-year-old brother, was diagnosed with autism. Sadly, Sardor has fallen victim to the undeveloped autism treatment in Uzbekistan. Due to the underfunding of neurodivergent care, Sardor has no school to attend in the future. He has to travel to receive to Moscow to receive adequate treatment. He cannot live life normally because my society is not built for people like him. Seeing Sardor’s struggles, I decided to use my fascination with the brain and passion for public speaking to ameliorate this issue. My readings on the improvements in early detection methods of mental health disorders through focusing on physiological factors can revolutionize autism treatment. By improving diagnosing methods through discovering biological markers of autism, I can minimize misdiagnoses in Uzbekistan and help children start early treatment. Through spreading awareness, I will foster empathy for autistic children. My informative speech on applied behavior analysis therapy explores the importance of non-verbal communication and the power of visuals. Giving similar speeches can spread awareness and destigmatize autism because autistic children’s perception of the world is unknown back home. Within the next 5 years, I hope to conduct research on the physiological markers of autism to improve early detection methods. I hope to give speeches state-wide and nationally on the importance of autism care and applied behavior analysis therapy. I hope to go back home to Uzbekistan and advocate for individuals like Sardor because change starts with a shift in people’s paradigms. Thus, through my exploration of the brain and autism, I uncovered my desire to blend my education with aiding my people. I discovered that I could improve Uzbekistan while doing what I love. I do not have to leave home forever because I can utilize my intellectual passions to support Uzbekistan’s vulnerable populations. I realized my power and desire to change Uzbekistan; I will wield the magic of the brain to help Sardor and his peers.

I am a wizard with innate, incomprehensible abilities. I can recognize another individual just by looking at their hair. I can make split-second, lifesaving decisions without any conscious realization. As humans, we posses unimaginable powers. We are creatures that hold within us magical capabilities all thanks to the power of the brain; this mysterious organ can only be described as fascinating. I attempted to understand the brain’s beauty through taking psychology and psychopathology courses. Each lesson sparked new questions. How do interneurons know the proper reaction to a stimulus before the signal reaches the brain? How is brain activity linked to thoughts which were previously considered intangible? How can we remember thousands of tiny pieces of information, with memories scattered across out brain, and recall them immediately? These wonders fueled my love for neuroscience and changed my life’s trajectory. When I left home three years ago, I thought I had to leave forever in order to ensure a successful future. I was wrong. This enlightenment arose upon my learning that Sardor, my four-year-old brother, was diagnosed with autism. Sadly, Sardor has fallen victim to the undeveloped autism treatment in Uzbekistan. Due to the underfunding of neurodivergent care, Sardor has no school to attend in the future. He has to travel to receive to Moscow to receive adequate treatment. He cannot live life normally because my society is not built for people like him. Seeing Sardor’s struggles, I decided to use my fascination with the brain and passion for public speaking to ameliorate this issue. My readings on the improvements in early detection methods of mental health disorders through focusing on physiological factors can revolutionize autism treatment. By improving diagnosing methods through discovering biological markers of autism, I can minimize misdiagnoses in Uzbekistan and help children start early treatment. Through spreading awareness, I will foster empathy for autistic children. My informative speech on applied behavior analysis therapy explores the importance of non-verbal communication and the power of visuals. Giving similar speeches can spread awareness and destigmatize autism because autistic children’s perception of the world is unknown back home. Within the next 5 years, I hope to conduct research on the physiological markers of autism to improve early detection methods. I hope to give speeches state-wide and nationally on the importance of autism care and applied behavior analysis therapy. I hope to go back home to Uzbekistan and advocate for individuals like Sardor because change starts with a shift in people’s paradigms. Thus, through my exploration of the brain and autism, I uncovered my desire to blend my education with aiding my people. I discovered that I could improve Uzbekistan while doing what I love. I do not have to leave home forever because I can utilize my intellectual passions to support Uzbekistan’s vulnerable populations. I realized my power and desire to change Uzbekistan; I will wield the magic of the brain to help Sardor and his peers.

Humans are wizards with innate, incomprehensible abilities. We hold within us magical capabilities all thanks to the power of the brain; this mysterious organ can only be described as fascinating. I attempted to understand the brain’s beauty through taking psychology and psychopathology courses. Each lesson sparked new questions. How do interneurons know the proper reaction to a stimulus before the signal reaches the brain? How is brain activity linked to thoughts which were previously considered intangible? These wonders fueled my love for neuroscience and changed my life’s trajectory. When I left home three years ago, I thought I had to leave forever in order to ensure a successful future. I was wrong. This enlightenment arose upon my learning that Sardor, my four-year-old brother, was diagnosed with autism. Sadly, Sardor has fallen victim to the undeveloped autism treatment in Uzbekistan. He has no school to attend in the future. He has to travel to receive treatment. He cannot live life normally. Seeing Sardor’s struggles, I decided to use my fascination with the brain and passion for public speaking to ameliorate this issue. My readings on the improvements in early detection methods of mental health disorders through focusing on physiological factors can revolutionize autism treatment. By improving diagnosing methods through discovering biological markers of autism, I can minimize misdiagnoses in Uzbekistan and help children start early treatment. Through spreading awareness, I will foster empathy for autistic children. My informative speech on applied behavior analysis therapy explores the importance of non-verbal communication and the power of visuals. Giving similar speeches can spread awareness and destigmatize autism because autistic children’s perception of the world is unknown back home. Thus, through my exploration of the brain and autism, I uncovered my desire to blend my education with aiding my people. I discovered that I could improve Uzbekistan while doing what I love. I do not have to leave home forever because I can utilize my intellectual passions to support Uzbekistan’s vulnerable populations. I realized my power and desire to change Uzbekistan; I will wield the magic of the brain to help Sardor and his peers.

“They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every night, my mind transformed into her canvas to paint bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage. She colored in the outline of my family’s escape from China. She detailed her canvas with the generosity of strangers who helped her survive. “We had nothing,” my Mamaka retold, “Your mom and aunt were clothed by donations.” My Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After she passed away, her canvas started to fade. When I returned to Kazakhstan, my peers looked down upon me for my culture. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing as they mocked my cultural features. I tried to stay strong, but my Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Wherever I moved, Uzbeks were not classmates nor friends. They were the traditional Muslims with arranged marriages and strict gender roles. I was ashamed of my conservative culture and felt like the only way to prove my worth was by forgetting my heritage. Moving to Honolulu for high school, I became an imposter. The freedom I sought from my Uzbek heritage only left me lost and confused. I represented a foreign identity on a distant island, but I could not escape. I rebelled against my culture with a step of self-discovery: I shaved off my hair. I tried to explore my LGBTQIA+ identity and paint a canvas of pride with non-binary colors, but my attempt came to a halt of doubt. “It is just a phase,” my family’s words echoed in my mind daily. I started to believe them. Even when I discovered my true name, Raine, I refused to reveal Raine to my school. I was not nonbinary enough. This confusion plagued me until I educated a friend on my identity. The short presentation filled me with indescribable joy and persuaded me to regain my black, yellow, purple and white paints by performing speeches about my identity and transphobia. I could make the people around me care about my identity, and I did not have to cower in fear. I needed the world to see me for who I truly was because it was not a phase, and I succeeded. In giving my speeches at tournaments and through changing the minds of others, I shifted my own perspective about my validity. My Mamaka’s canvas was brought back to life when I chose to give a speech on the discrimination that Central Asian people face. Standing in front of almost a hundred people, I realized that Uzbekistan, and our struggles, are unknown. If I wanted people to know about my people, I needed to educate them. While I may not belong to parts of my Mamaka’s canvas, I can learn to combine my new world to my culture. I am the creation of my Mamaka’s bedtime stories, I am the bustling bazaars of Uzbekistan, the snowy mountains of Kazakhstan, the stunning cathedrals of Russia and the breathtaking scenery of Hawaii, and I am a non-binary individual. I am a patchwork canvas, but I cannot embrace myself without dedicating my life to helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and they are the reason why I have the opportunity to pursue higher education. I want to give back to my people by providing accessible healthcare resources and education. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference, and I will be that one person.

I am a wizard with innate, incomprehensible abilities. I can recognize someone from a quick glance at their posture and hair color. I can make a life-saving, split-second decision without even realizing my actions. I can process hundreds of things simultaneously without being overwhelmed. These mind-blowing abilities make humans magical creatures. We hold within us unimaginable capabilities all thanks to the power of the brain. Due to all of our amazing powers, I can only describe this mysterious organ as fascinating. I attempted to understand the brain’s beauty through taking psychology and psychopathology courses during the school year or summer. Each lesson sparked new questions. How do interneurons know the proper reaction to a stimulus before the signal reaches the brain? How is brain activity linked to thoughts which were previously considered intangible? How do we form new sentences while talking, creating new syntax within milliseconds. These wonders fueled my love for neuroscience and changed my life’s trajectory. When I left home three years ago, at the age of 14, I thought I had to leave forever in order to ensure a successful future. I was wrong. This enlightenment arose upon my learning that Sardor, my four-year-old brother, was diagnosed with autism. Sadly, Sardor has fallen victim to the undeveloped autism treatment in Uzbekistan. He has no school to attend in the future. He has to travel to receive treatment. He cannot live life normally. Seeing Sardor’s struggles, I decided to use my fascination with the brain and passion for public speaking to ameliorate this issue. My readings on the improvements in early detection methods of mental health disorders through focusing on physiological factors can revolutionize autism treatment. By improving diagnosing methods through discovering biological markers of autism, I can minimize misdiagnoses in Uzbekistan and help children start early treatment. Through spreading awareness, I will foster empathy for autistic children. My informative speech on applied behavior analysis therapy explores the importance of non-verbal communication and the power of visuals. Reading my judge’s comments, about feeling seen as a neurodivergent individual or their appreciation of being educated on the experience of autistic individuals, revealed my power in influencing my world and advocating for those with neurodevelopmental disorders. I hope to give similar speeches to continue spreading awareness and destigmatizing autism because autistic children’s perception of the world is unknown back home. Thus, through my exploration of the brain and autism, I uncovered my desire to blend my education with aiding my people. I discovered that I could improve Uzbekistan while doing what I love. I do not have to leave home forever because I can utilize my intellectual passions to support Uzbekistan’s vulnerable populations. I realized my power and desire to change Uzbekistan; I will wield the magic of the brain to help Sardor and his peers.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of non-existent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no schools available for autistic children. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a basic human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes fills my heart with warmth. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined such an accomplishment possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and other families like should have the chance to experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research in order to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing much-needed healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to ensure that no parent has to live through my mother’s experiences. Giving the Uzbek autistic population the attention and care they deserve is the one change this world direly needs. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope, possibility and care. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

“They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the perseverance of my people. Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of determination. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. No matter how much I tried to appear Russian, my Uzbek heritage shadowed my every move. Soon, my Mamaka’s canvas was revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals, and Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. I have discovered myself by embodying the persevering nature of my people. My life has taught me to push myself and fight; I look forward to overcoming any obstacle that comes my way in my journey to return to Uzbekistan. I will work to support Uzbekistan’s neurodivergent population after my own brother received the diagnosis of autism. My mother has struggled to find treatment for him in a country that overlooks the neurodivergent. Trying to right my country’s wrongs, I will ameliorate the lives of the autistic in Uzbekistan. I will fight for the helpless and develop an infrastructure for autism treatment in my home country. My life has taught me the importance of grit, and I will use this lesson to help others.

“They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. No matter how much I tried to appear Russian, my Uzbek heritage shadowed my every move. Soon, my Mamaka’s canvas was revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals, Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery and a non-binary individual. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. I will work to support Uzbekistan’s neurodivergent population after my own brother received the diagnosis of autism. My mother has struggled to find treatment for him in a country that overlooks the neurodivergent. Trying to right my country’s wrongs, I will ameliorate the lives of the autistic in Uzbekistan. I will fight for the helpless and develop an infrastructure for autism treatment in my home country. I will give a single piece of advice: Persevere until you find your way. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person.

“They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. No matter how much I tried to appear Russian, my Uzbek heritage shadowed my every move. Soon, my Mamaka’s canvas was revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals, Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery and a non-binary individual. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. I will work to support Uzbekistan’s neurodivergent population after my own brother received the diagnosis of autism. My mother has struggled to find treatment for him in a country that overlooks the neurodivergent. Trying to right my country’s wrongs, I will ameliorate the lives of the autistic in Uzbekistan. I will fight for the helpless and develop an infrastructure for autism treatment in my home country. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no schools available for autistic children. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a basic human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes fills my heart with warmth. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined such an accomplishment possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families like mine could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research in order to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope, possibility and care. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. Plagued by uncertainty and self-hatred, I tried to forget my culture and my identity but I could not. My Mamaka’s painting was revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals and Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person.

They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. Plagued by uncertainty and self-hatred, I tried to forget my culture and my identity but I could not. My Mamaka’s painting was revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals and Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. He shifted a little in his stroller before his eyelids started to close. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. Even if Sardor was my brother, I desired to protect him. I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no schools available for autistic children. Medical experts are a rarity, and my mother found that the only physician with the expertise to treat Sardor resides in Moscow. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is simply heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a basic human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes fills my heart with warmth. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined such an accomplishment possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families like mine could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research in order to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor showed me that success is helping others while pursuing my passions. Sardor showed me that success means dedicating my life to combining familial care, professional pursuits and social responsibility to my nation. I could only achieve this success with financial support, and this scholarship would be priceless in aiding my journey to helping Sardor and Uzbekistan’s autistic population. The money from this scholarship would allow me to start my research on neurodiversity, pursue clinical internships without worrying about finances as well as alleviate a major burden from my mother. This scholarship would propel me to my version of success.

1. They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, recounted. Every night, she collaborated with my imagination to paint bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage. She outlined her escape from China to Uzbekistan. She drew her hardships as a single mother during the collapse of the USSR. Mamaka and her bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of resilience. After her passing, Mamaka’s canvas began fading. My Kazakh peers mocked my cultural features by singing, “Black eyes, black hair on her back.” My strength faltered, as my pride and Mamaka’s canvas lost their colors. Cultural prejudice followed me to Yerevan and Moscow. There, Uzbeks were not classmates, but unwanted immigrants. The perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting Mamaka’s canvas. Soon, I started telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was not Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I replied, “I’m Russian.” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. Following years of shame, I was encouraged to give a speech on discrimination against Central Asians. Educating one hundred people on the obscure subject revealed my duty in advocating for my people. In becoming the role model they deserve, I revived Mamaka's canvas. I freed myself to be the full version of who I was intended to be. Today, I am Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals and Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery. I accepted my identity as a patchwork canvas of my world; I am on a journey to help others accept their own pallets of color. 2. The ability to draw connections between the mind and physical reality fascinates me because it is pure magic. There is no other way to describe this power. Neuroscientists have connected hallucinations in schizophrenic individuals to brain deformities and high dopamine levels. They have associated depression and anxiety with low serotonin levels. They have shown that my increased heart rate and irrational fears when in social situations may have a physical cause. The paradigm shift of treating psychological disorders as brain disorders opens doors to new research in every field; I want to contribute by translating this research to helping neurodivergent individuals by detecting the physiological signs of autism to improve diagnosing methods and treatment. The newfound research would ensure that autistic people, such as my brother, receive adequate care because the physiological signs of their disorder would promote early detection. The findings could help with comorbidity detection and consequently improve treatments by targeting specific disorders. The implications of this research are astonishing, and I look forward to exploring them. Just like neuroscientists have drawn connections between psychological disorders and physiological causes, I will use my undergraduate years at Amherst College to draw my own connections through different disciplines. I will pursue neuroscience while also following my passion in public speaking. Through spreading awareness, I will foster empathy for autistic children. My informative speech on applied behavior analysis therapy explores the importance of non-verbal communication and the power of visuals. Giving similar speeches can spread awareness and destigmatize autism because autistic children’s perception of the world is unknown in many parts of the world, such as Uzbekistan. 3. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance. I can conduct research in order to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals.

“They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. No matter how much I tried to appear Russian, my Uzbek heritage shadowed my every move. I tried to gain a sense of self through joining clubs or trying to fit into different identities, but nothing felt right. I was ashamed to be Uzbek and Uyghur, but only by embracing those two parts of myself could I understand who I am. My Mamaka’s paintings were soon revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals and Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. I want to dedicate my life to autism research and care in Uzbekistan after seeing that my own brother, Sardor, is subjected to unaffordable and subpar care. I want to help the voiceless and support the future neurodivergent population of Uzbekistan. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person.

“They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. No matter how much I tried to appear Russian, my Uzbek heritage shadowed my every move. I tried to gain a sense of self through joining clubs or trying to fit into different identities, but nothing felt right. I was ashamed to be Uzbek and Uyghur, but only by embracing those two parts of myself could I understand who I am. My Mamaka’s paintings were soon revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals and Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. I want to dedicate my life to autism research and care in Uzbekistan after seeing that my own brother, Sardor, is subjected to unaffordable and subpar care. I want to help the voiceless and support the future neurodivergent population of Uzbekistan. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person.

“They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. My Mamaka’s paintings were soon revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals, Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery and a non-binary individual. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person. I hope to support Uzbekistan by becoming a neurologist. When my 4-year-old brother, Sardor, was diagnosed with autism, my family was crushed. Uzbekistan does not have the resources to support autistic youth, and my nation lacks therapists, doctors and schools for Sardor and his peers. By receiving higher education and becoming an MD, I can return to my home country and create clinics to ensure that future generations of autistic children do not have to face the same challenges that Sardor does. I will be that one person to uplift the Uzbek neurodivergent population, and I can only do so by improving the quality of my education by studying in the United States.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. He shifted a little in his stroller before his eyelids started to close. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no schools available for autistic children. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes fills my heart with warmth. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined such an accomplishment possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. I can conduct research in order to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope, possibility and care. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan. The financial support of this scholarship would help remove the roadblocks to achieving a higher level of education and fuel my efforts in helping Sardor and his peers.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity. Feeling a cold breeze passing through my neighborhood in Uzbekistan, I stopped to fix his scarf and cover his little red nose. I felt an indescribable connection between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never regain its level of intimacy, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor would be perceived by my Uzbek society as subhuman due to factors beyond his control. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, I am 7,160 miles away. I left my home to prioritize my education and future, but in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother and American education encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a student while being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of Uzbekistan. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no schools available for autistic children. Seeing my mother’s struggles in caring for my brother is simply heartbreaking. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a basic human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes fills my heart with warmth. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined such an accomplishment possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families like mine could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research in order to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. Sardor made it possible for us to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope, possibility and care. I look forward to instilling this blaze of faith in Uzbekistan.

“They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. No matter how much I tried to appear Russian, my Uzbek heritage shadowed my every move. Trying to gain control over my sense of self, I shaved off my hair. I tried to paint my own canvas of pride. However, although I continued to discover my identity by finding my real name, Raine, I refused to reveal ‘Raine’ to my school. I did not feel nonbinary enough. I lived in denial and self-doubt until I decided to write a speech on my experiences as a non-binary individual. Attending a Christian high school, I could not truly embrace being non-binary. Whether it was the school administration blocking my attempts to educate my classmates on the importance or pronouns, or teachers using me deadname without shame, I felt trapped and alone. With my passion for public speaking, I decided to change my community with my voice. I was tired of being misgendered, and I could not keep living in shame. Trying to inform others of my struggle and identity, I found confidence in sharing my story. I knew my words could make my community care about my non-binary identity. I knew that I had the power to change minds. In advocating for the LGBTQIA+ community, I gained pride in being non-binary. I allowed my own canvas to come alive. This non-binary canvas of pride was soon enriched by the revival of my Mamaka’s paintings when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals, Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery and a non-binary individual. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity as shifted a little in his stroller. Even if Sardor was my brother, I desired to protect him due to an inexplicable bond between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never be regained, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. I learned that the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, but I am 7,160 miles away. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ In leaving, I let Sardor fall victim to the lacking autism healthcare available in Uzbekistan. In Uzbekistan, treatment is scarce and expensive. There are no schools for autistic children, and Sardor’s special kindergarten costs more than the average monthly income. Therapists are rare, and the social stigma around neurodevelopmental disorders prevents the diversification of resources. The underdevelopment of treatment has led my mother to change her entire life to help my brother. Instead of focusing on her career, she travels to Moscow with Sardor to help him receive proper care. Seeing my brother improve and learn how to speak in his specialized classes filled me with unparalleled joy, but no one should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to help their children. What I felt seeing my brother improve should be universal, and I want to help share that feeling of pure delight with other families like mine. Seeing my mother’s struggles in helping him obtain treatment showed me that I can support Sardor from a distance, in my own way: through conducting research and advocating for Sardor and his peers through public speaking. My readings on the improvements in early detection methods through focusing on physiological factors can revolutionize autism treatment. By improving diagnosing methods through discovering biological markers of autism, I can help promote early autism treatment in Uzbekistan. Through spreading awareness, I will foster empathy for autistic children. My informative speech on applied behavior analysis therapy explores the importance of non-verbal communication and the power of visuals. Giving similar speeches can spread awareness and destigmatize autism back home. Autistic people are seen as subpar individuals, but persuasive speeches such as those that I have written throughout my Speech and Debate career can humanize people such as Sardor. Sardor’s autism showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. Now, I look forward to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. I will uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. I realized that it is possible for Sardor and I to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope. I look forward to instilling this blaze in Uzbekistan.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity as shifted a little in his stroller. Even if Sardor was my brother, I desired to protect him due to an inexplicable bond between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never be regained, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. I learned that the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, but I am 7,160 miles away. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ In leaving, I let Sardor fall victim to the lacking autism healthcare available in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in helping him obtain treatment showed me that I can support Sardor from a distance, in my own way: through conducting research and advocating for Sardor and his peers through public speaking. My readings on the improvements in early detection methods through focusing on physiological factors can revolutionize autism treatment. By improving diagnosing methods through discovering biological markers of autism, I can help promote early autism treatment in Uzbekistan. Through spreading awareness, I will foster empathy for autistic children. My informative speech on applied behavior analysis therapy explores the importance of non-verbal communication and the power of visuals. Giving similar speeches can spread awareness and destigmatize autism back home. Autistic people are seen as subpar individuals, but persuasive speeches such as those that I have written throughout my Speech and Debate career can humanize people such as Sardor. Sardor’s autism showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. Now, I look forward to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. I will uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. I realized that it is possible for Sardor and I to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope. I look forward to instilling this blaze in Uzbekistan. This scholarship could propel me towards my future by helping bridge the gap between my socioeconomic status and future. This scholarship could aid me in financing my education and reaching my dreams of pursuing a career in healthcare. This scholarship will help me support my brother through improving autism research and care.

They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. Plagued by uncertainty and self-hatred, I tried to forget my culture and my identity but I could not. My Mamaka’s painting was revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals and Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person.

They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. Plagued by uncertainty and self-hatred, I tried to forget my culture and my identity but I could not. My Mamaka’s painting was revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals and Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person. This scholarship can help cover the financial cost of higher education. After the Ukraine war, my mother lost her job but is still responsible for myself, my brother and my sister. My brother is autistic and his treatment costs over $30,000 annually. Meanwhile, my sister is still in university and will be pursuing a master’s degree without a source of income. My father does not contribute financially, and I want to ease the financial burden on my mother. As a future Amherst College student, I know I can change the world and Uzbekistan, but I cannot do so without financial assistance.

“They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. Plagued by uncertainty and self-hatred, I tried to forget my culture and my identity but I could not. My Mamaka’s painting was revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals and Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person.

1. I hope to major in neuroscience after my 4-year-old brother, Sardor, was diagnosed with autism. The care accessible for autistic children in Uzbekistan is scarce and underfunded, but I hope to become a neurologist in order to help children like Sardor gain the same resources as autistic people in the United States or any other developed nation. I have been accepted to Amherst College, and I hope I will be able to conduct research and work with people who share the same passion of helping autistic individuals in order to reach my goals. 2. One of my strengths is resilience and diligence because I always keep going or find an alternative way to reach the same goal. For example, I moved across the world to Honolulu when my previous school in Moscow was on the brink of a shut down because I knew, from the age of 6, I wanted to attend an American university. My biggest weakness may be my competitiveness. Although it is often an advantage, it deprives me of my ability to enjoy my everyday or be happy for others simply because I strive to be the ‘best’. 3. I am Raine Kamilova, and I deserve this scholarship because of my journey to get where I am as well as my ambition to give back to my home country. I come from a line of Uyghur immigrants who were persecuted for their religion and had to flee China. I come from a line of refugees who never sacrificed their education and continued attending universities no matter their challenges. I come from a line of hard workers who struggled through the challenges of the Soviet Union and continue to persevere with the war in Russia and the stigma against Uzbekistan. I embody all of the traits of my ancestors. I have struggled with my religion due to the persecution I have faced living in predominantly Christian nations, but I have come to find pride in Islam. I am the only Muslim student at my school, but that does not matter to me anymore. I left Uzbekistan at the age of 14 in order to attend a boarding school on a scholarship in order to pursue my education, similar to my great-grandparents and grandparents. I have never let any challenge make me doubt my abilities. I deserve this scholarship because I am the accumulation of centuries of hard work, and I strive everyday to live up to the honor of my Uyghur ancestors. 4. My favorite song is Baka-bay by the Uzbek band, Yalla. Other than the fact that Baka-bay was the anthem of my childhood, this joyful song beautifully summarizes everything I stand for. The song talks of perseverance in regards to tight-rope walkers, urging them to stand up and keep going even if they fall. Still, the song talks of Uzbek traditions and the endless sense of community in my home country. Baka-bay touches about the communal support found in Uzbek Mahalyas, or Muslim neighborhoods, and the power that this community gives. Listening to this song, I feel pride for my nationality while being empowered to see every challenge as a step-stone to my final goal. 5. Admittedly, I have often struggled with my religion. Uzbekistan is very conservative, and I have often associated the poor qualities of my home country with Islam. I have also often been judged or discriminated against due to my religion. Therefore, my greatest achievement as a Muslim is staying true to my religion. It is in having confidence and pride in my religion even when the odds were against me.

The Spring of 2023, I learned that my 4-year-old brother, Sardor, sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that the life my family had envisioned for him would no longer exist because Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I watched grow up has to face unfathomable challenges, I cannot be there for him; I am on the other side of the globe. I left home three years ago to prioritize my future and do the right thing. Yet in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left him and the rest of my family to pursue my education and chase my dreams, but I did not realize the cost. I had always believed that family and academic success were rivals that could never coexist. I believed that I either stayed at home and fulfilled my Uzbek duties or left to attend school. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ Sardor’s diagnosis tore down the metaphorical wall between these two vital aspects of my life. I may not be physically present to help my brother, but I can still support him from a distance in my own way. Sardor lives life differently than anyone else, and I want to help improve his reality. I hope to conduct research in order to better understand the neurobiology of autistic children. I hope to ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing accessible healthcare resources. I hope to dedicate my life to studying neurodevelopmental disorder and helping underprivileged children receive the care they deserve. In Uzbekistan, treatment is scarce and expensive. There are no schools for autistic children, and Sardor’s special kindergarten costs more than the average monthly income. Therapists are rare, and the social stigma around neurodevelopmental disorders prevents the diversification of resources. The underdevelopment of treatment has led my mother to change her entire life to help my brother. Instead of focusing on her career, she travels to Moscow with Sardor to help him receive proper care. Seeing my brother improve and learn how to speak in his specialized classes filled me with unparalleled joy, but no one should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to help their children. What I felt seeing my brother improve should be universal, and I want to help share that feeling of pure delight with other families like mine. Sardor helped me bridge the gap between the two most important parts of my life. He taught me that I could help him and my family without foregoing my dreams and education. He taught me to keep an open mind because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. That is my definition of the American Dream: having the opportunity to impact one’s community and reach one’s true potential. It is the ability to take advantage of one-of-a-kind opportunities that are inaccessible elsewhere in order to build a better world. It is being the knowledge that one’s socioeconomic status or other uncontrollable factor is not a disadvantage. The American Dream is knowing that Sardor changed my life forever, and I have the opportunity to change his life as well as the lives of all autistic children in Uzbekistan.

The Spring of 2023, I learned that my 4-year-old brother, Sardor, sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that the life my family had envisioned for him would no longer exist because Sardor was diagnosed with autism. When the baby I watched grow up has to face unfathomable challenges, I cannot be there for him; I am on the other side of the globe. I left home three years ago to prioritize my future and do the right thing. Yet in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left him and the rest of my family to pursue my education and chase my dreams, but I did not realize the cost. I had always believed that family and academic success were rivals that could never coexist. I believed that I either stayed at home and fulfilled my Uzbek duties or left to attend school. I have always desired to pursue higher education due to its life-changing capabilities. A higher education could enrich me and pave my future while helping me financially support my family. A higher education is a luxury for many women in Uzbekistan, but it was my calling. A high school education helped my grandmother support her family during the collapse of the Soviet Union. A university degree helped my mother establish and international career. An MD would help me in my future pursuits, and make me reach my full potential. Yet, life back home made education and family seem as polar opposites. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ When I left my home, I left Sardor to become a victim to the poor healthcare of my home country. As a result of nonexistent government funding, Sardor’s specialized kindergarten costs more than the average income. Due to a lack of resources, my mother fears for Sardor’s future because there are no schools available for autistic children. No parent should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to assist their children. It should be a basic human right. I learned of the importance of proper treatment when Sardor started receiving medications and attending applied behavior analysis therapy sessions. Rewatching videos of him learning how to speak in his specialized classes fills my heart with warmth. Hearing Sardor remember my name for the first time over the phone led me to tears because I had never imagined such an accomplishment possible. Sardor’s progress renewed my hope for his future, and I want to ensure that other families like mine could experience that pure delight. Sardor’s autism and treatment showed me that while I may not be physically present to aid my brother, I can support him from a distance in my own way. It tore down the metaphorical wall between education and family because I can apply my schooling to change Sardor’s reality. I can conduct research in order to improve understanding of the neurobiology of autistic children. I can ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing revolutionary healthcare resources. I can study and treat neurodevelopmental disorders to provide the care that underprivileged children deserve. Sardor showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. He showed me that I have the power to uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals.

“They had 24 hours to leave, or they would die,” my Mamaka, my grandmother, told me. Every summer night, my mind transformed into her canvas and my imagination morphed into her paintbrush. She colored bright pictures depicting my Uyghur heritage with brave stories of my ancestors fighting against oppression. She outlined my family’s escape from China to Uzbekistan. She glossed her paintings with the generosity of strangers. “Your mother was clothed by donations,” Mamaka recalled, “We could not afford her education, but my employer agreed to pay.” Mamaka’s bedtime stories painted vivid colors of pride in my mind for being Muslim, Uzbek and Uyghur because my culture was one of selflessness and giving. After Mamaka’s passing, her canvas began to fade. Back in Kazakhstan, I became more vulnerable to my peers’ mocking of my nationality. “Black eyes, black hair on her back,” they would sing. Every word broke down my pride. Although I tried to stay resilient regardless of their remarks, Mamaka’s canvas started to lose its colors. Her vivid paints continued to dim wherever I moved as my admiration for my Uzbek and Uyghur cultures wavered. In Yerevan and Moscow, Uzbeks were the unwanted Muslim immigrants, and nothing more. This perceived inferiority of Uzbekistan convinced me that my worth lay in forgetting my heritage. Ashamed, I soon developed the habit of telling people that I was simply “Central Asian.” I was no longer Uzbek. My move to Honolulu years later blackened Mamaka’s canvas. Upon being asked to identify my nationality by my school, I unhesitatingly replied, “I’m Russian!” Uzbekistan was too poor, too conservative, too unknown. With this denial of my culture, I became an imposter, representing a foreign identity on a distant island. No matter how much I tried to appear Russian, my Uzbek heritage shadowed my every move. Yet, my Mamaka’s paintings soon revived when I was encouraged to give a speech on the discrimination faced by Central Asians. Educating almost one hundred people on my obscure nation revealed my privilege in making my people’s struggles known. Although my environment was clueless about Uzbekistan and the discrimination we face, I had the platform, the voice and the ability to spread awareness on the forgotten region. I had to speak up. In realizing my duty in advocating for my people, I learned to embrace my own cultural identity. Today, I am the main character of Mamaka’s bedtime stories. I am Uzbekistan’s bustling bazaars, Kazakhstan’s snowy mountains, Russia’s stunning cathedrals, Hawaii’s breathtaking scenery and a non-binary individual. I am a patchwork canvas of my world. However, I cannot embrace myself without helping the people who rescued my family. Uzbekistan saved my Mamaka, and it gave me the opportunity to pursue higher education. Uzbeks helped my family when we were struggling, and I want to help my nation during its own time of need through providing accessible healthcare and education. My Mamaka taught me that a single person can make a difference; I will be that one person.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity as shifted a little in his stroller. Even if Sardor was my brother, I desired to protect him due to an inexplicable bond between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never be regained, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. I learned that the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, but I am 7,160 miles away. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ In leaving, I let Sardor fall victim to the lacking autism healthcare available in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in helping him obtain treatment showed me that I can support Sardor from a distance, in my own way: through conducting research and advocating for Sardor and his peers through public speaking. My readings on the improvements in early detection methods through focusing on physiological factors can revolutionize autism treatment. By improving diagnosing methods through discovering biological markers of autism, I can help promote early autism treatment in Uzbekistan. Through spreading awareness, I will foster empathy for autistic children. My informative speech on applied behavior analysis therapy explores the importance of non-verbal communication and the power of visuals. Giving similar speeches can spread awareness and destigmatize autism back home. Autistic people are seen as subpar individuals, but persuasive speeches such as those that I have written throughout my Speech and Debate career can humanize people such as Sardor. Sardor’s autism showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. Now, I look forward to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. I will uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. I realized that it is possible for Sardor and I to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope. I look forward to instilling this blaze in Uzbekistan.

When the baby I watched grow up has to face unfathomable challenges, I cannot be there for him; I am on the other side of the globe. I left home three years ago to prioritize my future and do the right thing. Yet in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left him and the rest of my family to pursue my education and chase my dreams, but I did not realize the cost. I had always believed that family and academic success were rivals that could never coexist. I believed that I either stayed at home and fulfilled my Uzbek duties or left to attend school. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ Sardor’s diagnosis tore down the metaphorical wall between these two vital aspects of my life. I may not be physically present to help my brother, but I can still support him from a distance in my own way. Sardor lives life differently than anyone else, and I want to help improve his reality. I hope to conduct research in order to better understand the neurobiology of autistic children. I hope to ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing accessible healthcare resources. I hope to dedicate my life to studying neurodevelopmental disorder and helping underprivileged children receive the care they deserve. In Uzbekistan, treatment is scarce and expensive. There are no schools for autistic children, and Sardor’s special kindergarten costs more than the average monthly income. Therapists are rare, and the social stigma around neurodevelopmental disorders prevents the diversification of resources. The underdevelopment of treatment has led my mother to change her entire life to help my brother. Instead of focusing on her career, she travels to Moscow with Sardor to help him receive proper care. Seeing my brother improve and learn how to speak in his specialized classes filled me with unparalleled joy, but no one should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to help their children. What I felt seeing my brother improve should be universal, and I want to help share that feeling of pure delight with other families like mine. Sardor helped me bridge the gap between the two most important parts of my life. He taught me that I could help him and my family without foregoing my dreams and education. He taught me to keep an open mind because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. My 4-year-old brother changed my life, and I look forward to impacting his through my undergraduate studies.

When the baby I watched grow up has to face unfathomable challenges, I cannot be there for him; I am on the other side of the globe. I left home three years ago to prioritize my future and do the right thing. Yet in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left him and the rest of my family to pursue my education and chase my dreams, but I did not realize the cost. I had always believed that family and academic success were rivals that could never coexist. I believed that I either stayed at home and fulfilled my Uzbek duties or left to attend school. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ Sardor’s diagnosis tore down the metaphorical wall between these two vital aspects of my life. I may not be physically present to help my brother, but I can still support him from a distance in my own way. Sardor lives life differently than anyone else, and I want to help improve his reality. I hope to conduct research in order to better understand the neurobiology of autistic children. I hope to ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing accessible healthcare resources. I hope to dedicate my life to studying neurodevelopmental disorder and helping underprivileged children receive the care they deserve. In Uzbekistan, treatment is scarce and expensive. There are no schools for autistic children, and Sardor’s special kindergarten costs more than the average monthly income. Therapists are rare, and the social stigma around neurodevelopmental disorders prevents the diversification of resources. The underdevelopment of treatment has led my mother to change her entire life to help my brother. Instead of focusing on her career, she travels to Moscow with Sardor to help him receive proper care. Seeing my brother improve and learn how to speak in his specialized classes filled me with unparalleled joy, but no one should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to help their children. What I felt seeing my brother improve should be universal, and I want to help share that feeling of pure delight with other families like mine. Sardor helped me bridge the gap between the two most important parts of my life. He taught me that I could help him and my family without foregoing my dreams and education. He taught me to keep an open mind because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. My 4-year-old brother changed my life, and I look forward to impacting his through my undergraduate studies.

When the baby I watched grow up has to face unfathomable challenges, I cannot be there for him; I am on the other side of the globe. I left home three years ago to prioritize my future and do the right thing. Yet in doing so, I allowed myself to become a mere stranger Sardor occasionally saw on the phone. I left him and the rest of my family to pursue my education and chase my dreams, but I did not realize the cost. I had always believed that family and academic success were rivals that could never coexist. I believed that I either stayed at home and fulfilled my Uzbek duties or left to attend school. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ Sardor’s diagnosis tore down the metaphorical wall between these two vital aspects of my life. I may not be physically present to help my brother, but I can still support him from a distance in my own way. Sardor lives life differently than anyone else, and I want to help improve his reality. I hope to conduct research in order to better understand the neurobiology of autistic children. I hope to ameliorate the treatment of autism in my home country by providing accessible healthcare resources. I hope to dedicate my life to studying neurodevelopmental disorder and helping underprivileged children receive the care they deserve. In Uzbekistan, treatment is scarce and expensive. There are no schools for autistic children, and Sardor’s special kindergarten costs more than the average monthly income. Therapists are rare, and the social stigma around neurodevelopmental disorders prevents the diversification of resources. The underdevelopment of treatment has led my mother to change her entire life to help my brother. Instead of focusing on her career, she travels to Moscow with Sardor to help him receive proper care. Seeing my brother improve and learn how to speak in his specialized classes filled me with unparalleled joy, but no one should have to travel to another nation and pay a fortune to help their children. What I felt seeing my brother improve should be universal, and I want to help share that feeling of pure delight with other families like mine. Sardor helped me bridge the gap between the two most important parts of my life. He taught me that I could help him and my family without foregoing my dreams and education. He taught me to keep an open mind because life is not black and white. He guided me to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. My 4-year-old brother changed my life, and I look forward to impacting his through my undergraduate studies.

His small, brown eyes gazed up at me in innocent curiosity as shifted a little in his stroller. Even if Sardor was my brother, I desired to protect him due to an inexplicable bond between us. Yet, I knew I would soon have to leave for my school in Honolulu. I knew that our relationship could never be regained, and I was right. While on a phone call with my mother in the spring of 2023, I was told that Sardor sees the world through a different lens than myself. I learned that Sardor was diagnosed with autism. I learned that the baby I cared for faces unfathomable challenges, but I am 7,160 miles away. I left because I thought that leaving my family and home country or Uzbekistan was my only option to improve my future. My Uzbek culture taught me that women belonged at home, but my mother encouraged the pursuit of higher education. This inner battle led me to believe that I could not be a good student while still being a good sister. It was always ‘or’ but never ‘and.’ In leaving, I let Sardor fall victim to the lacking autism healthcare available in Uzbekistan. Seeing my mother’s struggles in helping him obtain treatment showed me that I can support Sardor from a distance, in my own way: through conducting research and advocating for Sardor and his peers through public speaking. My readings on the improvements in early detection methods through focusing on physiological factors can revolutionize autism treatment. By improving diagnosing methods through discovering biological markers of autism, I can help promote early autism treatment in Uzbekistan. Through spreading awareness, I will foster empathy for autistic children. My informative speech on applied behavior analysis therapy explores the importance of non-verbal communication and the power of visuals. Giving similar speeches can spread awareness and destigmatize autism back home. Autistic people are seen as subpar individuals, but persuasive speeches such as those that I have written throughout my Speech and Debate career can humanize people such as Sardor. Sardor’s autism showed me the importance of open-mindedness because life is not black and white. Now, I look forward to a career path that would fulfill my desires, aid my family and support my community. I will uplift my community and improve the quality of life for thousands of individuals. I realized that it is possible for Sardor and I to rekindle the warmth of our relationship by bridging the distance between us with a flame of hope. I look forward to instilling this blaze in Uzbekistan.

My dream future self travels the world as a doctor and helps people in underprivileged communities while pursuing the dream of discovering different cultures and countries.