Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I repeated this word over and over again as a sudden wave of intense fear raked through my body.The room was completely silent, other than the suffocating sensation of my heart pounding in my chest. My first instinct was to get up and do something, anything, but I struggled with any movement as my body began to shake uncontrollably. Each breath I took grew more difficult than the last, and everything around me no longer felt real. I wanted to scream for help, but it was 3:00AM; I didn’t want to wake my parents or my siblings. Eventually, my body gave out from exhaustion, and my next memory was waking up on my bedroom floor the following morning. I was thirteen years old when I had my first panic attack. This was the beginning of a years-long silent struggle with anxiety. For a while, I didn’t fully understand what was wrong with me. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be a burden to my parents, so I kept quiet. It didn’t help that mental illness was not openly discussed in my family, except when it came to my aunt who was diagnosed with anxiety so severe that she was no longer able to work. My family often spoke about my aunt with a mix of misunderstanding and judgment. Seeing how her struggle was viewed created a fear inside of me, and I buried my symptoms to avoid being judged the same way. It didn’t take long for the anxiety to accompany a deep depression. But eventually, the depression and anxiety got too hard to hide. My teachers and older sister were the first to notice, as their previously straight-A student suddenly stopped turning in work and participating in class. When I was unable to care for myself, they showed up for me in ways that I still carry with me today. One of my high school teachers attended my counseling sessions with me and held my hand the entire time because I didn’t want to go alone. Another teacher would forcefully feed me because she knew I wasn’t eating. In college, one of my professors took me to the movies during spring break so I didn’t stay inside the house the entire time. My older sister would physically pick me up out of my bed (cradle-style), put me in her car, and drive me to the nail salon when she noticed I’ve been in bed for far too long. Of course, during these moments, I found myself annoyed. I wanted to be left alone and let my thoughts consume every ounce of my being. However, words could never describe how thankful I am that my community looked out for me the way they did. I truly do not think I would be here today without them. It took a few years for me to open up to my parents about what I was experiencing. Initially, they struggled to understand because their only reference was my aunt’s severe illness. Over time, however, they became my biggest advocates. With their support, I began long-term therapy and medications to manage my depression and anxiety. Watching my African American parents grow in their understanding of mental health has been meaningful. When my younger sister later began experiencing similar symptoms, they were very supportive and quick to act with getting help. Our family’s experience with mental health inspired my mother to deepen her understanding of mental illness, and she is now pursuing an education in mental health counseling. My experience with my mental health also radically shaped how I show up for my community. I’m the one to make sure that everyone is adhering to their medications everyday. I’m the one that will go to my friend’s house and lay in their bed with them if they can’t get out of bed. I’ll sit and watch my friends put food in their mouths to make sure they are eating. Whenever I can, I try to show up because people showed up for me. My community taught me how to be a true villager. I truly believe that it is our responsibility as living beings to take care of each other in any way that we can, whether that is through time, emotional support, food, or even money. As a side effect of having this mindset, I’ve watched it bleed into my relationships. My friends and I have created this thing called “Wellness Checks.” When we notice someone isn’t doing well, we will schedule a wellness check in our calendars. This time is solely for checking in on everyone, giving everyone space, time, and community. We let everyone know that they are not a burden to anyone and give them the opportunity to use any resources that they need. As a career aspiration, I am working to become a psychiatrist. I am currently finishing my medical school prerequisites and preparing to apply to medical school. My own experiences with anxiety and depression have shown me how life-changing compassionate mental health care can be, particularly when it is paired with strong community support. Not only do I want to increase mental health awareness in the Black community, but I also hope to advocate for community-based mental health initiatives that make care more accessible and reduce stigma. My research experiences have further shaped this goal. Through my work examining maternal mental health, intimate partner and sexual violence, and the long-term effects of violence exposures, I have seen how deeply mental health is intertwined with social experiences and health outcomes. As a future psychiatrist, I hope to combine clinical care, research, and community engagement to support individuals facing mental health challenges, particularly survivors of violence and underserved populations. I hope to care for people in the same way that people have cared for me.

Tick. Tock. The normally neglected sound of the clock was deafening as we sat in the waiting room, the smell of iodoform surrounding us. With each tick, my airways constricted, restricting more and more air from entering my body. I was hyperventilating, but I was trying to hold it together for her. I looked over at my best friend, who was normally full of life and confidence, who now had fear clouding her eyes. It felt like ages went by until her name was called. It wasn’t until a few days later that I received the call from my best friend, and she told me her test came back HIV-positive. I felt my heart sink to the bottom of my stomach as a sob echoed from the other end of the phone. I searched my head for the right words to say, but my head was clouded with fear that I knew did not compare to what she was feeling. We were young. We were uneducated. We didn’t know what to do or who to go to. I did the best that I could to support her, but we were 15. I was powerless. There was nothing I could do to help her. I think we both thought she was going to die, either from the disease or from suicide. South Central Los Angeles is characterized by its rich history and culture, home to the Watts Towers, informal Spanish-language lessons, and community gatherings for American and cultural holidays. However, not too far down the road, the impact of social determinants of health is evident in the prevalence of cardiovascular diseases, maternal mortality, environmental hazards, and violence in many forms. These events do not occur in isolation; they are consequences of a system with a history of oppression and current-day violence against racial/ethnic minorities. From losing multiple family members with cardiovascular diseases to being victims of police brutality and sexual violence, I learned very early on how structural and social factors impact health across the lifespan. My commitment to racial health justice was inspired during my public health training at Planned Parenthood, the University of California-Irvine, and Columbia University. My experience highlighted the critical need for a more comprehensive approach to understanding the intergenerational effects of physical, sexual, reproductive, and maternal violence on health, as well as identifying potential mitigating factors. While pursuing my master’s at the Mailman School of Public Health, I worked under the guidance of Dr. Teresa Janevic, a perinatal epidemiologist committed to investigating the impact of structural racism on maternal health. As a research assistant, I analyzed common psychometric scales used to measure racism and discrimination, and contributed to manuscripts that explored how gendered racial microaggressions operate through various pathways to influence postpartum health. Additionally, I completed an internship with ICAP at Columbia, where I collaborated with the Tanzania Ministry of Health to support HIV testing and data collection in maternal and child health clinics. I also volunteered with WoteSawa, a Tanzanian organization that fights against human trafficking and sexual labor. I was fortunate to be nominated for the Mailman Doctoral Scholars Pilot Program, a competitive research mentoring program that strengthened my foundation in epidemiology research. In this role, I led a project investigating the joint effects of gendered racial microaggressions and violence—including rape, abuse, and intimate partner violence—on postpartum blood pressure. In recognition of this work and its contribution to advancing racial justice in public health, I received the William Jenkins Award in Epidemiology and Racial Justice from Columbia University. This award continues to inform my commitment to integrating research into my future medical practice. Currently, I work as a clinical research coordinator and data analyst, where I lead clinical research projects that influence the practice of in-vitro fertilization, especially among Black women, and how the black maternal health crisis and infertility are connected. As an African American student who grew up in Compton, California, my early encounters with public health and medicine were often defined by fear, uncertainty, and mistrust. Through my work in public health and clinical research, I have come to understand both my position within these systems and my responsibility to challenge and transform them. As I transition into a post-baccalaureate pre-medical program to complete my science prerequisites for medical school, I am intentionally bridging my foundation in public health with clinical training to become a physician who not only treats illness but interrogates and addresses its root causes. My long-term goal is to practice medicine while leading research that examines how structural violence—manifesting as racism, gender-based violence, and environmental inequities—shapes maternal and cardiovascular health outcomes across generations. This scholarship would directly invest in a future physician-scientist committed to serving communities like the one that raised me. I carry with me both lived experience and rigorous research training, allowing me to approach medicine with cultural humility, scientific inquiry, and a deep commitment to equity. Financial support would alleviate the burden of pursuing additional coursework and enable me to remain focused on advancing research, community engagement, and mentorship for students from backgrounds similar to mine. Ultimately, I am not preparing to enter medicine. I am preparing to challenge it, to expand it, and to ensure that those most impacted by systemic inequities are no longer overlooked in care, research, or policy. In doing so, I aim to help transform medicine into a space that not only includes but fully embraces and invests in Black and Brown students. This scholarship would affirm and accelerate that mission.

Is it possible to stare at numbers so hard that they lie to you? Because that has to be what is happening right now. I was sitting across from my computer after coming back from the field and initially, I was ecstatic. I was tasked with evaluating the fingerprint biometric identification program to provide recommendations on how to prepare for the second phase of the rollout. The biometric program was used to keep track of HIV patients and improve the healthcare system. I finally had all of the data and my SAS code written. All I have to do is run the code and write my recommendation report for CDC-Tanzania. But, there was a problem. The data was not showing what we thought it would show. Actually, NONE of the variables we collected data predicted registration rates. Maybe I ran the code wrong? So, I ran it again. I wrote it a different way. I started from scratch and imported all of the data into SAS one time because I had to have done something wrong. And nothing. Seriously? I was frustrated for two reasons. First, I had spent almost two months figuring out how to test my hypothesis only for the data NOT to support my hypothesis. Second, we were starting the second phase of the biometric program in community clinics soon. My analysis was supposed to be used to ensure the community rollout of the biometric system was more efficient than the countrywide registration. Implementing the biometric system in community settings was our chance to reach people living with HIV (PLHV) in villages, address electricity issues, and make antiretroviral medications easily accessible. But, I was failing. I could not figure out what factors were influencing registration rates. So, I threw away the data and switched my approach. Maybe it was not all about the numbers. Over the next few days, I visited 8 of our clinics and interviewed the healthcare providers to get their thoughts on the biometric system. I listened to how they felt about the system, problems that arise when rescanning patients’ fingerprints, and asked for recommendations to improve the functionality of the system. However, their words were only a piece of the story. Body language was also a communicator. Body position, arm placements, and tone of voice revealed more to me than the data ever could and I finally found what the data was not showing. In Tanzania, addresses were not accessible, which made collecting information about distance from clinics impossible. If I had relied on only the data, I would not have accounted for a significant factor in HIV treatment: stigma. Although stigma is expected, the effects of stigma manifest differently in different cultures. Patients were willingly to travel far or hire someone to pick up their medications in order to avoid stigma from those close to them, including the healthcare providers. So, I continued to listen. And you are probably thinking: doesn’t everyone listen? Unfortunately, most people don’t. Most people hear what is being said but they don’t listen. I had convinced myself that comprehension could exist on its own, without its precursor: listening. Listening made me a better researcher while I used epidemiological methods to evaluate the impact of structural racism on maternal health outcomes. I brought listening into my relationships, learning more about my friends in a few weeks than in the 12 years I had known them. My greatest achievement is learning how to listen. As a future epidemiologist and doctor, I hope to bring listening into my research and practice to address adverse health outcomes in disadvantaged populations in the United States and globally. After I learned to listen, I increased our registration rates from an average of 30% to 80%. Listening tells you a lot, even when no words are being said. And as Bryan McGill said, “One of the most sincere forms of respect is actually listening to what another has to say.”