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.”