In high school, I learned two major things about myself: 1) My passion for language learning and Latin culture. 2) The impeccable drive that I have to make a lasting impact in my community, specifically in the realm of mental health and counseling. My interest in mental health disparities in African-American and Latino communities led me to publish a blog, ShadeBrain, about travel and the stigmatization of mental health. In the blog, I challenge misconceptions about the mental health of Black students, to mend the stereotypes often placed upon us. However, authoring this blog requires more in-depth knowledge about Psychology, which would allow me to further the scope of research to support the ideas in ShadeBrain and to destigmatize mental health discussions within communities of color. Studying Psychology (with a Pre-Medicine focus and Spanish minor) at Howard University with the help of the Maxwell Tuan Nguyen Memorial Scholarship will provide me with the appropriate academic and research support to make ShadeBrain a sole contributor to academic databases of psychological sciences. I hope the conglomeration of my prestigious Howard education and my experiences as a person of color will diversify professional psychological perspectives, and will streamline my desire to become a psychiatrist, running an inclusive and bilingual wellness center that prioritizes the comfort and security of patients. There are unique disparities that minorities face that can contribute to psychological diagnoses, such as self-conceptual points of view. Having experienced such issues, I am sure that I can be a vital advocate for Black mental health experience in multiple spaces, including at Howard University. I am particularly drawn to research internships, as they will further my goal of establishing an inclusive mental health and wellness center. This center will meet the financial needs of all patients, employ a staff from diverse racial, cultural, and socioeconomic backgrounds, and prioritize patients' comfort and security. Also, in the near future, I plan to form a mental health-centered student union for students across the Washington, D.C., area to guide them through their own care during those crucial years. Hosting meetings at least twice a month, I will engage participants in community service, connect them with off-campus counselors to support their mental needs and build a community for those seeking new and supportive friendships. As the first person in my family to pursue education beyond a Bachelor’s degree, I aspire to serve others and make a profound contribution to the global community. My passion for helping people goes beyond packing canned goods or cleaning women’s shelters—I want to make an impact by serving others and being all-in on meaningful, lasting mental health practices. I want to add my name to the list of successful Black doctors and be able to afford the education, culture, and connections that come with being a student at Howard University. With the Maxwell Tuan Nguyen Memorial Scholarship, I can further work toward the change I want to see in the world. I hope to carry my drive to serve others throughout the rest of my life– a dream that can only be made possible with the help of this scholarship.

In high school, I learned two major things about myself: 1) My passion for language learning and Latin culture. 2) The impeccable drive that I have to make a lasting impact in my community, specifically in the realm of mental health and counseling. My interest in mental health disparities in African-American and Latino communities led me to publish a blog, ShadeBrain, about travel and the stigmatization of mental health. In the blog, I challenge misconceptions about the mental health of Black students, to mend the stereotypes often placed upon us. However, authoring this blog requires more in-depth knowledge about Psychology, which would allow me to further the scope of research to support the ideas in ShadeBrain and to destigmatize mental health discussions within communities of color. Studying Psychology (with a Pre-Medicine focus and Spanish minor) at Howard University with the help of the Maxwell Tuan Nguyen Memorial Scholarship will provide me with the appropriate academic and research support to make ShadeBrain a sole contributor to academic databases of psychological sciences. I hope the conglomeration of my prestigious Howard education and my experiences as a person of color will diversify professional psychological perspectives, and will streamline my desire to become a psychiatrist, running an inclusive and bilingual wellness center that prioritizes the comfort and security of patients. There are unique disparities that minorities face that can contribute to psychological diagnoses, such as self-conceptual points of view. Having experienced such issues, I am sure that I can be a vital advocate for Black mental health experience in multiple spaces, including at Howard University. I am particularly drawn to research internships, as they will further my goal of establishing an inclusive mental health and wellness center. This center will meet the financial needs of all patients, employ a staff from diverse racial, cultural, and socioeconomic backgrounds, and prioritize patients' comfort and security. Also, in the near future, I plan to form a mental health-centered student union for students across the Washington, D.C., area to guide them through their own care during those crucial years. Hosting meetings at least twice a month, I will engage participants in community service, connect them with off-campus counselors to support their mental needs and build a community for those seeking new and supportive friendships. As the first person in my family to pursue education beyond a Bachelor’s degree, I aspire to serve others and make a profound contribution to the global community. My passion for helping people goes beyond packing canned goods or cleaning women’s shelters—I want to make an impact by serving others and being all-in on meaningful, lasting mental health practices. I want to add my name to the list of successful Black doctors and be able to afford the education, culture, and connections that come with being a student at Howard University. With the Maxwell Tuan Nguyen Memorial Scholarship, I can further work toward the change I want to see in the world. I hope to carry my drive to serve others throughout the rest of my life– a dream that can only be made possible with the help of this scholarship.

A few days before the start of my senior year of high school, I took a break from the blazing Atlanta sun to browse old tapes my mom stored in our dusty television stand. I kneeled in front of the stand and came across a videotape labeled “Eden 2009.” After loading the tape and starting the video, an image of a half-naked baby appeared, holding a lacrosse stick. Behind the camera, my mother jokingly says to the infant, “Eden, I know nothing about that lacrosse stick your Daddy gave you.” Tears swarmed my eyes as I realized that this upcoming Spring, I would take off my cleats for the last time. For almost a decade and a half, I measured my development in bi-annual lacrosse seasons. After high school, chasing a small, yellow ball down a field under stadium lights would only be a distant memory. My lacrosse stick serves as a physical representation of the resilience, self-advocacy, and confidence that the sport gifted me. Each season, much like myself, my lacrosse stick earns new battle scars. My dad would yell “Hustle! Hustle!” at every pass I would miss, which invigorated me to chase the ball down the pavement. Literally and figuratively, I found myself restlessly chasing down missed passes during high school. In my freshman year, I chose a public high school that did not challenge me academically. As a result, I became anxiously hyper-fixated on my academic performance, which took a negative toll on my mental health. I would spend hours overly perfecting my essays and over-studying for exams. In the late winter of my freshman year, I became mentally exhausted and enrolled in intensive therapy. After taking a much-needed hiatus, I bounced back as a better daughter, friend, and player. When I picked up my stick the summer before my sophomore year, I formed a stronger connection to it. My stick now serves as a reminder to practice self-care, learn from mistakes, and celebrate resilience. After overcoming these mental hurdles, new issues arose once I joined the lacrosse team at my new private school. I found myself as the only player of color on the girls’ lacrosse team. My teammates excluded me from locker-room conversations and exchanged side glances when I made a mistake. When I brought my concerns to my coach, she dismissed them. As a natural-born leader, my voice was gutted. For a year, I held back tears and often thought: I don’t belong here. When I started training for my senior season, I examined my stick for damage from the previous year. Heavy tears fell as I reminisced about a younger me, daydreaming of being a leader. In that moment, I made a promise to advocate for Black girls to use their voices for change in majority-White spaces. During my senior season, I worked with my athletic director to bring attention to the prejudices I had endured. I became a true team leader by engaging in meetings and learning to call out racism both on and off the field. After graduation, I opened my yearbook to find an enlarged photo of myself as the focal image for the girls’ lacrosse team. I stared at the page, in awe of the clear evidence of growth I had experienced through my love for the sport. I looked up to the corner of my childhood bedroom, where my lacrosse stick leaned against the wall, serving as a physical artifact of my most valuable life lessons.

Shallowly gasping for air, I strided across an empty football field towards the girls’ lacrosse locker room. My heartbeat quickened as I saw my coach, about five feet even in stature, staring me down as I hauled my backpack full of schoolwork and a bag stuffed with lacrosse gear. When I approached the locker room door, she barricaded it with her body, twiddled her blonde ponytail woven through the back of her cap with her exquisitely manicured fingers, and looked me up and down, her eyes scanning me like a metal detector. Before I could get any words out between my struggling breaths, my coach scolded me for being a minute late. I listened to her and felt immediate guilt for stretching those five extra minutes studying with my chemistry teacher for the intense unit exam the following day. As my coach continued with her mean-girl-like discourse, I registered the sound of turf squelching behind me. Two other players—white girls—brushed past me to enter the locker room, and my coach never stopped to scold them for being later than me. Tuning out my coach’s complaints, I enviously watched as the girls were excitedly greeted by other players, an experience I never once had upon entering the locker room. Following more negative experiences with my coach, I began to understand that the color of my skin attracted more scrutiny and prejudice towards me than ever before, both on and off the field. The following years after my first year of playing on a majority-White lacrosse team as the only Black girl diminished my sense of self. After being spoken to like a Kindergartener by the same coach for the previous seasons, she subsequently robbed me of my innate confidence. I stood in the back of lines for drills, did not greet anyone upon entering the locker room, and sat alone on the bus to away games with tears in my eyes. As a result, my anxiety worsened, and my insecurities heightened. On a hefty team of twenty-six girls, I felt alone on the field. I craved an environment that not only celebrated me but pushed me to stand out. At the beginning of my senior year, my mom joyfully called me to her office, her voice reverberating through the walls of our home. I got out of bed, slid my house slippers on, and headed towards my bedroom door. My gold-and-black Yorkie, Xara, opened her eyes, stretched her tiny legs, flexed her paws towards the ceiling, and jumped up after me. My bonnet slid off the top of my head and onto the carpet, barely catching a grip on my freshly silk-pressed hair. In the corner of my eye, I spotted a silver rectangle sitting on the couch in the living room. I had a feeling that I would need my laptop for this mom-and-me meeting, so I scooped it up from the couch cushion with one hand. My mom called a second time, and Xara nearly flew up the stairs, knowing that the sound of my mother’s voice meant a playful belly rub awaited. My angsty response echoed through the house, ringing like a bell in the foyer and up the stairs. By the time my voice reached my mother’s ears, I was standing in her doorway. Xara ran up to my mom’s office chair, put her paws up, and whined. My mother spun around in her chair, said “Excuse me” in a tone that scared me straight, then she asked to see my college list. On her monitor, she had around thirty open tabs—one of which was for two tickets from Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, to D.C.-area airports. I rolled my eyes at her screen and sighed, “You really want me to visit Howard?” A month and a half later, I peered out the rear window of an Uber and saw a large sign reading "Howard University." Instantaneously, a feeling of comfort that I longed for rose in my stomach. I finally knew what it was like to have an immense sense of a “perfect match,” like the ladies on Say Yes To The Dress felt when they unexpectedly found their dream dress among the racks. Even though Howard was not necessarily at the top of my list when applying to college, it pleasantly surprised me on that breezy October afternoon when I visited. That day, it made sense to attend a school where the community celebrates Blackness rather than ridicules or belittles it. At Howard, I can be my authentic, Black self. When I stepped on the lacrosse field during my senior season, I both physically and mentally powered through drills, practices, and games, knowing that even if I did not feel welcome at my high school, I had an existing community of students, professors, coaches, mentors, and alums who celebrate where I come from and where I am going. This past May, when I walked off the field for the last time, I held back tears of both sadness and hopefulness for the future. I knew that a new community awaited me beyond the walls of my preparatory school, and I would learn to cherish the new one even more than the last. Finally finding a positive space in this White-dominated world lifted me out of the sadness that enveloped my heart. The past six months at the illustrious Howard University have solidified my why: to become a lifelong leader for those with smaller voices, including students who, like me, may be the only Black kid on the field.

Angry and frustrated, I push my entire body weight into my lacrosse stick. My cleats dig into the ground, and a mixture of hair oils and sweat sting my eyes. My ears pulse from tension. I am up against a pale-skinned, red-haired girl, and the opposing team is staring into my eyes, trying to find my weak spot. I can see the micro-aggressions forming in her head. I am taking the draw in a tied lacrosse game—and my teammates' parents are watching me. The whistle blows. At this point, I feel my strongest. However, my mind will not stop fixating on the fact that I overheard the other team's coaches referring to me as "the Black girl" –a name that others have called me numerous times in the White-dominated sport. After twelve years of training and five lacrosse sticks, I have learned more about diversity and acceptance than how to win a lacrosse game. Starting lacrosse at a young age involved more than learning the basics. Until my first year of high school, I was the only Black girl on my lacrosse team and was insecure about it. However, this lack of representation did not deter me from assuming the role of a leader; I pushed past my teammates' racial barriers to drive us to victory. My resilience and determination in the face of adversity have been a source of inspiration for many. In my junior year of high school, I once again was the only Black girl on the lacrosse team, and I was sometimes met with micro-aggressions from my coaches and teammates alike. Understanding that my lacrosse skills mattered more than my flesh, I still fought for my team despite how excluded I felt. I knew what mattered was that we all wore the same team name on our chests. If someone were to got through the same as me, I would tell them to proudly wear the color of their skin the same way they wear their sports uniform. Diversity is essential not only in the classroom but also in sports. People representing different backgrounds and experiences provide opportunities for collaboration and learning. I can relate to and empathize with those who live, work, and play in spaces that lack diversity. Not having someone who looks like me and who I can look up to has been my lived experience on the lacrosse field. However, it doesn't matter because whenever I am called out my name during a game, I release my anger with every winning shot I make.

Candied yams are my favorite food because they remind me of how my Grandmother’s faith has made me faithful in God, too. When I was a little girl, Sundays had the same routine in my household. Bright and early, at 7am, I was woken up by my mom, who would open my blinds singing “Good morning Sunshine, it’s time for church!” Groggy and exhausted, I would roll out of bed. However, the excitement of Sunday dinner at Grandma’s raised me to my feet. After putting on my church dress and having coconut oil slathered on my face by my mother, I was ready for the long day ahead. First, we picked up my grandmother, who has not missed a Sunday at First Mount Pleasant Baptist Church in sixty years. At church, I sat in her lap, and the sweet smell of Blue Magic hair grease and bergamot wafted through my nostrils. As I played with her faux pearls, my grandmother tapped her heel to the beat of “Tell it on the Mountain.” In typical Southern Baptist church fashion, we walked out of the church three hours later, stomachs growling from hunger. Thoughts of Grandma’s candied yams crossed my mind, and the hunger pangs continued. After arriving at Grandma’s house, she would help my Papa with the dinner that he had already started on while we were at church. As they cleaned the turnip greens and peeled the rutabagas, static voices emitted from the small, old radio they kept in their kitchen. When my Papa turned his back, I would steal a bite of the raw candied yams on the counter. Slowly but surely, my cousins began to arrive at Grandma’s house, they were too hungry from church. Around 4pm, my grandparents’ one-level ranch house was packed with all of my immediate relatives, ready to get a taste of Grandma and Papa’s home cooking. The living room, kitchen, and dining room were bustling with genuine love, smacking lips, and loud talks about football. As I grew older, Sunday nights at Grandma’s house grew smaller and smaller in size, then ceased to exist. At twelve years old, Sunday nights were no longer surrounded by my family members, but were spent worrying about my aging grandparents. They had gotten older, and began to decline in health, so were no longer able to fix grand dinners every Sunday. As a result, I started to see them less and less, and my once close relationship with them waned. Then one day, when I was sixteen years old, I got my driver’s license. Having not been to First Mount Pleasant since Easter of that year, I decided to take my grandmother to church the next day, since my Papa was no longer strong enough to drive her there every Sunday. It was this step that not only allowed me to overcome the distance between my grandparents, but also brought me closer to God. I sat with my grandmother the entire service, and afterward, she told me how she “prayed that I would come with her [to church] someday.” With tears in my eyes, I hugged her tightly. When I brought her home and my Papa opened the front door, a sweet but familiar smell entered the atmosphere. “Candied yams!” I exclaimed, as I put the car in park, and ran to the kitchen. On the table, I found the sticky yams sitting in the same bowl I used to eat from on Sundays as a little girl.