Growing up, my dad wore the same outfit to work: scrubs engraved with the title “Prosperity Ezeanuna, MD.” Every weekday morning, he and I said our goodbyes, and he often came back home when I was already asleep. Saturdays, however, were special. While he was making his rounds, I would walk around his office, staring at seats for people undergoing dialysis and combing through PPE he stored near the operating room. My dad’s pivotal role in healing people always fascinated me. My desire for medicine solidified through a personal hardship. At the beginning of my junior year in high school, my dad had a stroke. I was in the kitchen getting ready, while he was tying his shoes. All of a sudden, he stopped and said he couldn’t see. Minutes later, he collapsed on our couch and became unresponsive. That day marked the beginning of over 2 years of recovery. The stroke caused a loss of dexterity in his right hand and foot, tremors, and double vision. Whenever I had time, we would stay in the living room, going through his list of rehab exercises. We did stretches with his arms, elevating and depressing them in cycles so that he could adapt to controlling his tremors. On other days, we targeted his penmanship, and I would guide each stroke as he adjusted to writing with his non-dominant hand. All I wanted was for him to regain normal function in his limbs again. Eventually, what I saw every morning as a girl returned—my dad in his same old scrubs. Working with him inspired me to serve my community as a patient care volunteer in the neurology unit, where he was admitted. My time in this Unit has reminded me of how important every healthcare professional is in restoring a patient’s health. Sometimes I’m hustling beside the Patient Care Technician, taking vitals and heart rhythms; other times, I’m searching for the right nurse to give medication to. There are quieter moments I enjoy, such as assisting the speech therapist in preparing thickening solutions for individuals with swallowing risks. Apart from interacting with providers, my greatest joy in each shift is connecting deeper with patients through conversation. One person I won't forget is “Mr.Robinson”.While he slowly ate his pureed lunch, we began discussing his family, and he bitterly explained the lack of care his two sisters showed him. When I shifted the conversation to his son in Vermont it greatly lifted his spirits, and he eagerly shared his hopes of reconnecting with him soon. Before I left, he thanked me for taking the time to listen to him. He taught me that patients aren’t just seeking healing; they’re seeking to be heard and seen. Navigating those difficult years with my dad and the opportunity to participate beyond that for others fuel my pursuit of medicine and challenge me to refine the character and skills needed in this field. There are two organs that I hope to embody as a physician in the future: a healing hand and a listening ear.

Growing up, my dad wore the same outfit to work: scrubs engraved with the title “Prosperity Ezeanuna, MD.” Every weekday morning, he and I said our goodbyes, and he often came back home when I was already asleep. Saturdays, however, were special. While he was making his rounds, I would walk around his office, staring at seats for people undergoing dialysis and combing through PPE he stored near the operating room. My dad’s pivotal role in healing people always fascinated me. My desire for medicine solidified through a personal hardship. At the beginning of my junior year in high school, my dad had a stroke. I was in the kitchen getting ready, while he was tying his shoes. All of a sudden, he stopped and said he couldn’t see. Minutes later, he collapsed on our couch and became unresponsive. That day marked the beginning of over 2 years of recovery. The stroke caused a loss of dexterity in his right hand and foot, tremors, and double vision. Whenever I had time, we would stay in the living room, going through his list of rehab exercises. We did stretches with his arms, elevating and depressing them in cycles so that he could adapt to controlling his tremors. On other days, we targeted his penmanship, and I would guide each stroke as he adjusted to writing with his non-dominant hand. All I wanted was for him to regain normal function in his limbs again. Eventually, what I saw every morning as a girl returned—my dad in his same old scrubs. Working with him inspired me to serve my community as a patient care volunteer in the neurology unit, where he was admitted. My time in this Unit has reminded me of how important every healthcare professional is in restoring a patient’s health. Sometimes I’m hustling beside the Patient Care Technician, taking vitals and heart rhythms; other times, I’m searching for the right nurse to give medication to. There are quieter moments I enjoy, such as assisting the speech therapist in preparing thickening solutions for individuals with swallowing risks. Apart from interacting with providers, my greatest joy in each shift is connecting deeper with patients through conversation. One person I won't forget is “Mr.Robinson”.While he slowly ate his pureed lunch, we began discussing his family, and he bitterly explained the lack of care his two sisters showed him. When I shifted the conversation to his son in Vermont I saw how it lifted his spirits, and he eagerly shared his hopes of reconnecting with him soon. Before I left, he thanked me for taking the time to listen to him. He taught me that patients aren’t just seeking healing; they’re seeking to be heard and seen. Navigating those difficult years with my dad and the opportunity to participate beyond that for others fuel my pursuit of Neurology. There are two organs that I hope to embody as a neurologist in the future: a healing hand and a listening ear.

From performing ‘surgeries’ on stuffed dolls to asking my dad numerous questions about nephrology, my childhood was filled with a deep curiosity about health. Many of my relatives were physicians, and I enjoyed hearing them describe the gradual improvement of a patient’s health and the joy their families experienced. Medicine was a passion of mine, but an equal competitor was the love I had serving kids. Kids are youthful, curious, and have huge hearts. Since beginning 10th grade, I have volunteered as a 1st and 2nd-grader teacher at my church. When I walk into the classroom on the second floor, a group of excited children eagerly bombard me with stories about their week. Once everyone settles down, we dive into praise and worship, then the Sunday lesson. This routine is something I cherish deeply, especially because many of my students share the same qualities as mine: dark brown eyes, kinky-curly hair, and skin ranging from light caramel to the darkest chocolate. One July day, I entered the classroom and perched a miniature yellow chair in front of my students. As I prepared to teach them the song “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know,” I heard a loud thud in my left ear. My head turned towards the noise, and I saw my newest student, “Boston,” holding his head and stomach and crying on the floor. As I rushed downstairs with Boston in my arms, my mind raced—how could I help him? The weight of responsibility fell on me knowing that his wellbeing depended on my ability to think and act quickly. Minutes later, the emergency response team arrived, and I held onto Boston’s hand as they ushered us into a room. They brought in a blood pressure machine and other medical equipment, and I noticed that Boston stared anxiously at them, trembling in his seat. For them to take his vitals, I asked about his plans to swim with his cousins to keep him engaged and calm. Thankfully, his results returned normal, and his headache and stomach pain were due to a lack of breakfast. Hearing his results lifted a weight off my chest, and after I gave him some snacks, medication, and rest, he returned to his energetic self. Seeing Boston’s quick recovery made me realize something: while my instinct was to comfort him, it was the medicine, treatment, and attention that truly helped him heal. That made me wonder: Are there any doctors who specialize in kids? That evening, after a brief Google search, I discovered where my love for children could intersect with my passion for healthcare: pediatrics. Living in College Station, a town with no black pediatricians, I realized how important it is for black children to have access to healthcare providers who reflect their cultural identity. Growing up in a predominantly white space as a Nigerian-American, I often felt that my pediatrician’s advice didn’t take into account who I am and how my body developed in light of it. I want to provide children of all cultures and backgrounds in my area with care that’s clinically sound and culturally relatable. As I pursue a career in the medical field, I hope to be the change in an underrepresented space and build up the health and wellness of the next generation of children. Reflecting on my experience with Boston, I’m reminded of children like him in need of a healthcare provider who understands their identity. I am committed to being the pediatrician my community needs, one black child at a time.

From performing ‘surgeries’ on stuffed dolls to asking my dad numerous questions about nephrology, my childhood was filled with a deep curiosity about healing. Many of my relatives were physicians, and I enjoyed hearing them describe the gradual improvement of a patient’s health and the joy it brought their families. Interested as I was in healthcare, I hesitated. I believed the demands of being a doctor would create a barrier between me and the children I cherished working with. Kids are my favorite, they are curious and have huge hearts. Since beginning 10th grade, I have volunteered as a 1st and 2nd-grader teacher at my church, which has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. When I walk into the classrooms, a group of excited children bombard me with stories about their week. Once everyone settles down, we dive into praise and worship, then the Sunday lesson. This routine is something I cherish deeply, especially because many of my students share the same qualities as mine: dark brown eyes, kinky-curly hair, and skin ranging from light caramel to the darkest chocolate. Some tell me that I remind them of their older sister; others see me as an aunt or an older cousin. One July day, I entered the classroom and perched a miniature yellow chair in front of my students. As I prepared to teach them the song “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know,” I heard a loud thud in my left ear. My head turned towards the noise, and I saw my newest student, “Boston,” holding his head and stomach and crying on the floor. As I rushed downstairs with Boston in my arms, my mind raced—how could I help him? The weight of responsibility fell on me knowing that his wellbeing depended on my ability to think and act quickly. Minutes later, the emergency response team arrived, and I held onto Boston’s hand as they ushered us into a room. They brought in a blood pressure machine and other medical equipment, and I noticed that Boston stared anxiously at them, trembling in his seat. For them to take his vitals, I asked about his plans to swim with his cousins to keep him engaged and calm. Thankfully, his results returned normal, and his headache and stomach pain were due to a lack of breakfast. Hearing his results lifted that weight off my chest, and after I gave him some snacks, water, and rest, he returned to his energetic self. Seeing Boston’s quick recovery made me realize something: while my instinct was to comfort him, it was the medicine, treatment, and attention that truly helped him heal. That made me wonder: Are there any doctors who specialize in kids? That evening, after a brief Google search, I discovered where my love for children and my interest in healthcare could meet: pediatrics. Living in College Station, a town with no black pediatricians, I realized how important it is for black children to have access to healthcare providers who reflect their cultural identity. Growing up in a predominantly white space as a Nigerian-American, I often felt that my pediatrician’s advice didn’t take into account who I am and how my body developed in light of it. I want to provide black children in my area with care that’s clinically sound and culturally relatable, ensuring their voices are heard. Reflecting on my experience with Boston, I’m reminded of children like him who need a pediatrician who understands their needs and identity. I am committed to being the pediatrician my community needs, providing compassionate treatment to every child I serve.

From performing ‘surgeries’ on stuffed dolls, my childhood was filled with curiosity about healing. Many of my relatives were physicians, and I enjoyed hearing them describe the improvement of a patient’s health. Interested as I was in medicine, I hesitated commitment. I believed that the demands of being a doctor would create a barrier between me and the children I worked with. Kids are youthful and have huge hearts. Since beginning 10th grade, I have volunteered as a 1st and 2nd-grader teacher at my church, and it has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. When I walk into the classroom on the second floor, a group of excited children eagerly bombard me with stories about their week. Once everyone settles down, we dive into praise and worship, then the Sunday lesson. This routine is something I cherish deeply, especially because many of my students share the same qualities as mine: dark brown eyes, kinky-curly hair, and skin ranging from light caramel to the darkest chocolate. Some tell me that I remind them of their older sister; others see me as an aunt or an older cousin. I love volunteering with them because I am someone they can relate to. One July day, I entered the classroom and perched a yellow chair in front of my students. As I prepared to teach them the song “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know,” I heard a loud thud in my left ear. My head turned towards the noise, and I saw my newest student, “Boston,” holding his head and stomach and crying on the floor. As I rushed downstairs with Boston in my arms, my mind raced—how could I help him? The weight of responsibility fell on me knowing that his wellbeing depended on my ability to think and act quickly. Minutes later, the emergency response team arrived, and I held onto Boston’s hand as they ushered us into a room. They brought in a blood pressure machine and other medical equipment, and I noticed that Boston stared anxiously at them, trembling in his seat. For them to take his vitals, I asked about his plans to swim with his cousins to keep him engaged and calm. Thankfully, his results returned normal, and his headache and stomach pain were due to a lack of breakfast. Hearing his results lifted that weight off my chest, and after I gave him some snacks, water, and rest, he returned to his energetic self. Seeing Boston’s quick recovery made me realize something: while my instinct was to comfort him, it was the medicine, treatment, and attention that truly helped him heal. That made me wonder: Are there any doctors who specialize in kids? That evening, after a brief Google search, I discovered where my love for children and my interest in the health of others could meet: pediatrics. Living in College Station, a town with no black pediatricians, I realized how important it is for black children to have access to healthcare providers who reflect their cultural identity. Growing up in a predominantly white space as a Nigerian-American, I often felt that my pediatrician’s advice didn’t take into account who I am and how my body developed in light of it. I want to provide black children in my area with care that’s clinically sound and culturally relatable, ensuring their voices are heard. Reflecting on my experience with Boston, I’m reminded of children like him who need a pediatrician who understands their needs and identity. I am committed to being the pediatrician my community needs, providing compassionate treatment to every child I serve.

From performing ‘surgeries’ on stuffed dolls, my childhood was filled with curiosity about healing. Many of my relatives were physicians, and I enjoyed hearing them describe the improvement of a patient’s health. Interested as I was in medicine, I hesitated commitment. I believed that the demands of being a doctor would create a barrier between me and the children I worked with. Kids are youthful and have huge hearts. Since beginning 10th grade, I have volunteered as a 1st and 2nd-grader teacher at my church, and it has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. When I walk into the classroom on the second floor, a group of excited children eagerly bombard me with stories about their week. Once everyone settles down, we dive into praise and worship, then the Sunday lesson. This routine is something I cherish deeply, especially because many of my students share the same qualities as mine: dark brown eyes, kinky-curly hair, and skin ranging from light caramel to the darkest chocolate. Some tell me that I remind them of their older sister; others see me as an aunt or an older cousin. I love volunteering with them because I am someone they can relate to. One July day, I entered the classroom and perched a yellow chair in front of my students. As I prepared to teach them the song “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know,” I heard a loud thud in my left ear. My head turned towards the noise, and I saw my newest student, “Boston,” holding his head and stomach and crying on the floor. As I rushed downstairs with Boston in my arms, my mind raced—how could I help him? The weight of responsibility fell on me knowing that his wellbeing depended on my ability to think and act quickly. Minutes later, the emergency response team arrived, and I held onto Boston’s hand as they ushered us into a room. They brought in a blood pressure machine and other medical equipment, and I noticed that Boston stared anxiously at them, trembling in his seat. For them to take his vitals, I asked about his plans to swim with his cousins to keep him engaged and calm. Thankfully, his results returned normal, and his headache and stomach pain were due to a lack of breakfast. Hearing his results lifted that weight off my chest, and after I gave him some snacks, water, and rest, he returned to his energetic self. Seeing Boston’s quick recovery made me realize something: while my instinct was to comfort him, it was the medicine, treatment, and attention that truly helped him heal. That made me wonder: Are there any doctors who specialize in kids? That evening, after a brief Google search, I discovered where my love for children and my interest in the health of others could meet: pediatrics. Living in College Station, a town with no black pediatricians, I realized how important it is for black children to have access to healthcare providers who reflect their cultural identity. Growing up in a predominantly white space as a Nigerian-American, I often felt that my pediatrician’s advice didn’t take into account who I am and how my body developed in light of it. I want to provide black children in my area with care that’s clinically sound and culturally relatable, ensuring their voices are heard. Reflecting on my experience with Boston, I’m reminded of children like him who need a pediatrician who understands their needs and identity. I am committed to being the pediatrician my community needs, providing compassionate treatment to every child I serve.

From performing ‘surgeries’ on stuffed dolls as a kid, I was filled with curiosity about healing. Many of my relatives were physicians, and I enjoyed hearing them describe the improvement of a patient’s health. I was interested in medicine, but I believed that the demands of being a doctor would create a barrier between me and the children I worked with. Kids are youthful and have huge hearts. Since beginning 10th grade, I have volunteered as a 1st and 2nd-grader teacher at my church, and it has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. When I walk into the classroom on the second floor, a group of excited children eagerly bombard me with stories about their week. Once everyone settles down, we dive into praise and worship, then the Sunday lesson. This routine is something I cherish deeply, especially because many of my students share the same qualities as mine: dark brown eyes, kinky-curly hair, and skin ranging from light caramel to the darkest chocolate. Some tell me that I remind them of their older sister; others see me as an aunt or an older cousin. I love volunteering with them because I am someone they can relate to. One July day, I entered the classroom and perched a miniature yellow chair in front of my students. As I prepared to teach them the song “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know,” I heard a loud thud in my left ear. My head turned towards the noise, and I saw my newest student, “Boston,” holding his head and stomach and crying on the floor. As I rushed downstairs with Boston in my arms, my mind raced—how could I help him? The weight of responsibility fell on me knowing that his wellbeing depended on my ability to think and act quickly. Minutes later, the emergency response team arrived, and I held onto Boston’s hand as they ushered us into a room. They brought in a blood pressure machine and other medical equipment, and I noticed that Boston stared anxiously at them, trembling in his seat. For them to take his vitals, I asked about his plans to swim with his cousins to keep him engaged and calm. Thankfully, his results returned normal, and his headache and stomach pain were due to a lack of breakfast. Hearing his results lifted that weight off my chest, and after I gave him some snacks, water, and rest, he returned to his energetic self. Seeing Boston’s quick recovery made me realize something: while my instinct was to comfort him, it was the medicine, treatment, and attention that truly helped him heal. That made me wonder: Are there any doctors who specialize in kids? That evening, after a brief Google search, I discovered where my love for children and my interest in the health of others could meet: pediatrics. Living in College Station, a town with no black pediatricians, I realized how important it is for black children to have access to healthcare providers who reflect their cultural identity. Growing up in a predominantly white space as a Nigerian-American, I often felt that my pediatrician’s advice didn’t take into account who I am and how my body developed in light of it. I want to provide black children in my area with care that’s clinically sound and culturally relatable, ensuring their voices are heard. Reflecting on my experience with Boston, I’m reminded of children like him who need a pediatrician who understands their needs and identity. I am committed to being the pediatrician my community needs, providing compassionate treatment to every child I serve.

Working with kids at my church is one of the highlights of my week. They are youthful, curious, and have huge hearts. Since beginning 10th grade, I have volunteered as a 1st and 2nd-grader teacher. On the 2nd floor of the church are the classrooms, and the moment I walk in an excited crowd of kids sharing stories about their week. It takes a while to settle everyone down, but once we do, we dive into praise and worship, then the Sunday lesson. This routine is something I cherish deeply, especially because many of my students share the same qualities as mine: dark brown eyes, kinky-curly hair, and skin ranging from light caramel to the darkest chocolate. Some tell me that I remind them of their older sister; others see me as an aunt or an older cousin. The intimacy with my students is something I wouldn't trade for the world. One day in mid-July, I entered the classroom and perched a miniature yellow chair in front of my students. As I prepared to teach them the song “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know,” I heard a loud thud in my left ear. My head turned towards the noise, and I saw my newest student, “Boston,” holding his head and stomach and crying on the floor. As I lifted Boston into my arms and rushed downstairs, my mind raced—how could I help him now? The weight of responsibility fell on me knowing that his wellbeing depended on my ability to think and act quickly. Minutes later, the emergency response team arrived, and I held onto Boston’s hand as they ushered us into a room. They brought in a blood pressure machine and other medical equipment, and I noticed that Boston stared anxiously at them, trembling in his seat. For them to take his vitals, I asked about his plans to swim with his cousins to keep him engaged and calm. Thankfully, his results returned normal, and his headache and stomach pain were due to a lack of breakfast. Relief washed over me, and after I gave him some snacks, water, and rest, he returned to his energetic self. Seeing Boston’s quick recovery made me realize something: while my instinct was to comfort him, it was the medicine, treatment, and care that truly helped him heal. That made me wonder: Are there any doctors who specialize in kids? That evening, after a brief Google search, I discovered where my love for children and my interest in the health of others could meet: pediatrics. Living in College Station a town with no black pediatricians, I realized how important it is for children to have access to healthcare providers who reflect their cultural identity. Growing up in a predominantly white community, I often felt that my pediatrician and I lacked a shared understanding of how my body grew in light of my background. As a Nigerian-American woman, I want to provide children in my community with care that has adequate medical treatment and cultural empathy. Reflecting on my experience with Boston fuels my drive for a change in the medical field for kids. I am excited to see where my love for children and passion for health will lead me in the coming future.

“Give your life to Christ, He’ll give you paradise.” “Paradise”, by the Sunday Service Choir, is the song that always brings tears to my eyes. I was raised in a Christian home, with two parents who loved the Lord. Despite them raising me and my four siblings with so much love and attention, there was a war in my mind. Ever since I was 6, I had been struggling with my weight, because I was so much bigger than everyone I saw. Being the only Nigerian in school did not help much either. I would constantly receive insults ranging from my weight to my name, and eventually to my outward appearance. I hated going to school because I had no friends. Nobody wanted to associate with the fat African girl. I would often eat lunch in the bathroom because I never found a group to sit with, and as each day passed it began looking darker and darker. As a result, I turned to all the wrong places to fulfill me. Fleeting relationships, over-eating, and watching explicit films were my day-to-day life. What I thought was going to satisfy me only led me to fall deeper into depression, anxiety, heartbreak, and emptiness. There was no meaning to my life, no purpose. I began having thoughts about taking my parent's medication late at night and drowning all the pills in my mouth. Until I met Jesus. My family always went to church every Sunday, and one February morning I grudgingly agreed to join them. Mind you, I had no desire to seek God. I was running away from Him, and I heavily doubted His existence. That day the pastor was preaching about people in the Bible who were imperfect. Moses had a speech impediment, and yet God used him to free His chosen people out of Egypt. King David was an adulterer, and yet God labeled Him as “a man after God’s own heart.” Peter denied Jesus three times and yet became one of the key pillars of the faith. I had known of these people, but I never knew that God could use people so broken, for His perfect will. The pastor then said a statement I will never forget: “ If The Lord could restore and utilize all these people for His glory, how much more can He restore you?” I began to start crying, because I wanted a fresh start, I wanted to know that my sins were forgiven. So when the pastor asked if there was anyone in the audience who wanted to surrender their life to Jesus, I rushed out at the call. He has given me a new hope, a song to sing because of His new mercies every morning. Depression and anxiety no longer remain my identity, I have now found identity in Christ. I am pursuing pediatric psychiatry, because no child should have to go through the darkness I once felt. I hope that by becoming a pediatric psychiatrist, I can be a voice for unheard children, whose burdens are too much to bear, and by His grace show them the salvation He had offered me so many years ago. Jesus Christ has given me the paradise that I have always wanted. By His Spirit, I am no longer who I used to be, and my mind is now filled with His peace. I pray that through the medical field I can also be used to shine that beacon of light He is for me.

“Give your life to Christ, He’ll give you paradise.” “Paradise”, by the Sunday Service Choir, is the song that always brings tears to my eyes. I was raised in a Christian home, with two parents who loved the Lord. Despite them raising me and my four siblings with so much love and attention, there was a war in my mind. Ever since I was 6, I had been struggling with my weight, because I was so much bigger than everyone I saw. Being the only Nigerian in school did not help much either. I would constantly receive insults ranging from my weight to my name, and eventually to my outward appearance. I hated going to school because I had no friends. Nobody wanted to associate with the fat African girl. I would often eat lunch in the bathroom because I never found a group to sit with, and as each day passed it began looking darker and darker. As a result, I turned to all the wrong places to fulfill me. Fleeting relationships, over-eating, and watching explicit films were my day-to-day life. What I thought was going to satisfy me only led me to fall deeper into depression, anxiety, heartbreak, and emptiness. There was no meaning to my life, no purpose. When I woke up each morning I wanted to close my eyes and never open them again. I began having thoughts about taking my parent's medication late at night and drowning all the pills in my mouth. It seemed like an early death right after I graduated high school was something I had in store for me. Until I met Jesus. My family always went to church every Sunday, and one February morning I grudgingly agreed to join them. Mind you, I had no desire to seek God I was running away from Him, never reading my Bible, never praying, and I heavily doubted His existence. That day the pastor was preaching about people in the Bible who were imperfect. Moses had a speech impediment, and yet God used him to free His chosen people out of Egypt. King David was an adulterer, and yet God labeled Him as “a man after God’s own heart.” Elijah was so depressed after being chased by his enemies that he prayed that God would take his own life, and yet he was one of the most influential prophets in the Old Testament. Peter denied Jesus three times and yet became one of the key pillars of the faith. I had known of these people, but I had always seen them as people who God chose because they were righteous and never failed. I never knew that God could use people so broken, for His perfect will. The pastor then said a statement I will never forget: “ If The Lord could restore and utilize all these people for His glory, how much more can He restore you?” I began to just start crying, because of how much pain and hurt I had gone through as a child, because I wanted a fresh start, I wanted to know that my sins were forgiven. At that moment, I finally found purpose. So when the pastor asked if there was anyone in the audience who wanted to surrender their life to Jesus, I rushed out at the call. Poor mental health was something I thought I was going to live with. Suicide became my only option, but through the saving grace of Jesus, I no longer struggle with what I used to. He has given me a new hope, a song to sing because of His new mercies every morning. Depression and anxiety no longer remain my identity, I have now found identity in Christ. I am pursuing pediatric psychiatry, because no child should have to go through the darkness I once felt. While the Lord was always there for me, one reason I did not get help sooner was that I had no medical professionals who truly understood my pain. I hope that by becoming a pediatric psychiatrist, I can be a voice for unheard children, whose burdens are too much to bear, and by His grace show them the salvation He had offered me so many years ago. Jesus Christ has given me the paradise that I have always wanted. By His Spirit, I am no longer who I used to be, and my mind is now filled with His peace. I pray that through the medical field I can also be used to shine that beacon of light He is for me.

On a hazy June afternoon, I entered the ICU floor with a Hospitalist I had recently been shadowing, Dr. Toni Keaton. As soon as we arrived, a nurse handed her an EKG test for a 54 year old patient named “Dave”. Dave was a patient I was fond of, he was extremely kind and hilarious, and there was never a dull moment with him. Upon further examination by Dr. Keaton, his QRS showed irregular heart patterns. He had been struggling with serious heart complications for months now, and time was running out. Despite his condition, there was speculation about having to discharge him from the hospital. I was confused, based on his past medical history and current condition he needed heart surgery as soon as possible. Dr. Keaton understood my concerns, but she said that it would be nearly impossible for his insurance to cover his surgical bills. She assured me she would fight tooth and nail to appeal his case. I felt a little hope, but my heart was also distraught. This is the grim reality for the majority of Americans today when it comes to healthcare insurance. When someone needs to be admitted into the hospital for life-saving treatment, they ask the staff, “Will my insurance cover this?” Families discharge their loved ones too soon because their insurance refuses to cover the costs, and patients become hesitant to be prescribed medication out of fear that their bills will accumulate to unpayable levels. As a consequence, a growing population in our nation experiences chronic health problems that could have been easily prevented. Our healthcare system urgently needs change regarding the issue of inadequate insurance coverage. The solution is the introduction of universal healthcare for everyone. The focus isn’t on all types of treatment, but rather on essential health check-ups that help detect early warning signs before it is too late. Prevention is far better than treatment. If we can heal minor ailments before they grow worse, we can offset medical bills for millions of Americans who struggle with the cost of a serious hospital visit. Checking up on one’s vitals and physical stature early on, without the pressure of costs, pushes people to take care of themselves since they are aware of things ahead of time. Insurance should serve as a lifeline during unexpected emergencies, rather than being a financial burden during difficult times. I am grateful that our healthcare system is reliable and advanced beyond measure, but there is always room for improvement. No one should have to be stuck in such a case like Dave was. By tackling the lack of insurance coverage, I believe this would be the start of a brighter future for American healthcare, for patients and physicians alike.

On a cool Sunday morning I entered the small brightly colored classroom I loved. I perched up my miniature yellow chair in front of thirty eager 1st and 2nd graders, ready to begin praise and worship for the day. My students looked in anticipation as I was about to teach them a song from my childhood, “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know.” Before I could ask them to stand up, I heard a loud thud through my left ear. My head turned towards where the noise came from, and to my horror, I saw my newest student, a young black boy named “Boston”, holding his chest writhing on the floor. I grabbed him in my arms and ran downstairs to call the EMT. He was responsive whenever I talked to him, but his speech slowly became faint. Soon afterward, the EMTs arrived, and I held onto Boston’s hand as they ushered us into an empty classroom. While they took his vitals, it was hard for him to answer questions because he was crying and holding his head in pain. I tried to ease his nerves by asking him about his plans after church, and his face lit up instantly as he told me his plans to go swimming with his family. His vitals were normal, and the EMTs explained that his body had experienced an immune response caused by the breakfast he had eaten. After they left, I stayed with him in the main lobby, still holding his hand as we played a board game to pass the time. Eventually, his mom showed up and he hugged me before following her. After such an experience, I began to wonder how many kids like Boston were in a similar situation, and yet ignored out of the claim that they were just “being dramatic.” What happened to Boston is not uncommon, but many pediatricians often brush over the medical needs of black children out of the misconception that they are “stronger” and “more resilient” than other kids their age. Thus, they develop serious issues later in their adolescent and adult years, like high blood pressure, hypertension, and diabetes which could have been prevented sooner. This is why I want to be a pediatrician. While studying Biomedical Sciences at Texas A&M, I aim to enter medical school in the state of Texas after I graduate, where I desire to specialize in Pediatrics. Upon completing my residency and fellowship, I plan to start a chain of pediatric clinics in locations across Texas where there is a lack of proper healthcare for children, specifically in areas of predominantly-black neighborhoods. Regardless of one’s skin color, every child should be able to receive the treatment and resources needed to prevent a life-threatening illness or complication from happening to them. Due to my father suffering an ischemic stroke in 2021, our family has been struggling to make ends meet. We have had many visits to the ER, so my parents have to use our family's savings to pay for his rehab, medications, and clinical tests. I currently work at H-E-B to finance myself through college expenses, around 20-25 hours a week. Getting this scholarship would release the financial burden on my family of 6, opening the door to accomplishing my dream.

On a cool Sunday morning I entered the small brightly colored classroom I loved. I perched up my miniature yellow chair in front of thirty eager 1st and 2nd graders, ready to begin praise and worship for the day. My students looked in anticipation as I was about to teach them a song from my childhood, “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know.” Before I could ask them to stand up, I heard a loud thud through my left ear. My head turned towards where the noise came from, and to my horror, I saw my newest student, a young black boy named “Boston”, holding his chest writhing on the floor. I grabbed him in my arms and ran downstairs to call the EMT. He was responsive whenever I talked to him, but his speech slowly became faint. Soon afterward, the EMTs arrived, and I held onto Boston’s hand as they ushered us into an empty classroom. While they took his vitals, it was hard for him to answer questions because he was crying and holding his head in pain. I tried to ease his nerves by asking him about his plans after church, and his face lit up instantly as he told me his plans to go swimming with his family. His vitals were normal, and the EMTs explained that his body had experienced an immune response caused by the breakfast he had eaten. After they left, I stayed with him in the main lobby, still holding his hand as we played a board game to pass the time. Eventually, his mom showed up and he hugged me before following her. After such an experience, I began to wonder how many kids like Boston were in a similar situation, and yet ignored out of the claim that they were just “being dramatic.” What happened to Boston is not uncommon, but many pediatricians often brush over the medical needs of black children out of the misconception that they are “stronger” and “more resilient” than other kids their age. Thus, they develop serious issues later in their adolescent and adult years, like high blood pressure, hypertension, and diabetes which could have been prevented sooner. This is why I want to be a pediatrician. While studying Biomedical Sciences at Texas A&M, I aim to enter medical school in the state of Texas after I graduate, where I desire to specialize in Pediatrics. Upon completing my residency and fellowship, I plan to start a chain of pediatric clinics in locations across Texas where there is a lack of proper healthcare for children, specifically in areas of predominantly-black neighborhoods. Regardless of one’s skin color, every child should be able to receive the treatment and resources needed to prevent a life-threatening illness or complication from happening to them. Due to my father suffering an ischemic stroke in 2021, our family has been struggling to make ends meet. We have had many visits to the ER, so my parents have to use our family's savings to pay for his rehab, medications, and clinical tests. I currently work at H-E-B to finance myself through college expenses, around 20-25 hours a week. Getting this scholarship would release the financial burden on my family of 6, opening the door to accomplishing my dream.

September 21st 2021 is a day I will never forget. My dad was under recovery for a heart surgery he underwent a few months before, and while he was in recovery my family were optimistic and certain that he would someday be able to go back to treating patients, a career he loved. However, life took a turn for the worse when my dad suddenly had an ischemic stroke that morning. It was the day he finally got cleared and was allowed to go back to work. My family was in complete devastation. At the bus stop, I gazed behind with tears as my father was rolled away on a stretcher. The first few weeks after the stroke were rough, my mom had to stay with my dad at the hospital. The hospital was hours away, so I was left by myself to take care of my three younger siblings. I prepared meals for them, made sure all of their homework was in check, and had to monitor them every night. I also had to maintain a job at my local grocery stores in order to support myself during that time, since our household income drastically decreased. It felt like the world had just collapsed on me, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Despite this burdening hardship, one thing positive came out of it. I began to see areas of my character that needed improvement truly. I used to be extremely lazy, selfish, and pessimistic, often thinking only about my own needs and ungrateful for everything. My father’s stroke taught me how to manage household affairs like chores and appliance repairs. It taught me how to be physically, mentally, and emotionally present for those who are dependent on someone, my younger siblings. Most importantly, it also taught me how to maintain order and discipline amidst disorder and the desire for self-pity. I learned that at times, I had to stop seeing life through my lens, but consider others, something I never did prior to the stroke. By the grace of God, after several years, my dad did not pass away from the stroke, but life hasn’t been the same. When I reflect on that period, the stroke truly blessed me because it forced me to change my character for the better, and to see that life. If I could tell someone going through a hardship similar to mine, I would tell them to keep fighting. It is hard, and the easiest state of mind to fall into is self-pity, I know I did when my dad was sick. But you can’t stay there, you have to keep going, for your loved ones, and for your future. Allow yourself to grieve, allow yourself to feel bitter and angry, but don’t bask in it. It may seem hard now, but it will get better. Life will not always be this way.

“Give your life to Christ, He’ll give you paradise.” “Paradise”, by the Sunday Service Choir, is the song that always brings tears to my eyes. I was raised in a Christian home, with two parents who loved the Lord. Despite them raising me and my four siblings with so much love and attention, there was a war in my mind. Ever since I was 6, I had been struggling with my weight, because I was so much bigger than everyone I saw. Being the only Nigerian in school did not help much either. I would constantly receive insults ranging from my weight to my name, and eventually to my outward appearance. I hated going to school because I had no friends. Nobody wanted to associate with the fat African girl. I would often eat lunch in the bathroom because I never found a group to sit with, and as each day passed it began looking darker and darker. As a result, I turned to all the wrong places to fulfill me. Fleeting relationships, over-eating, and watching explicit films were my day-to-day life. What I thought was going to satisfy me only led me to fall deeper into depression, anxiety, heartbreak, and emptiness. There was no meaning to my life, no purpose. When I woke up each morning I wanted so badly to just close my eyes and never open them again. I began having thoughts about taking my parents' medication late at night and drowning all the pills in my mouth. It seemed like an early death right after I graduated high school was something I had in store for me. Until I met Jesus. My family always went to church every Sunday, and one February morning I grudgingly agreed to join them. Mind you, I had no desire to seek God, I was running away from Him, never reading my Bible, never praying, and I heavily doubted His existence. That day the pastor was preaching about people in the Bible who were imperfect. Moses had a speech impediment, and yet God used him to free His chosen people out of Egypt. King David was an adulterer, and yet God labeled Him as “a man after God’s own heart.” Elijah was so depressed after being chased by his enemies that he prayed that God would take his own life, and yet he was one of the most influential prophets in the Old Testament. Peter denied Jesus three times and yet became one of the key pillars of the faith. I had known of these people, but I had always seen them as people who God chose because they were righteous and never failed. I never knew that God could use people so broken, for His perfect will. The pastor then said a statement I will never forget: “ If The Lord could restore and utilize all these people for His glory, how much more can He restore you?” I began to just start crying, because of how much pain and hurt I had gone through as a child, because I wanted a fresh start, I wanted to know that my sins were forgiven. At that moment, I finally found purpose. So when the pastor asked if there was anyone in the audience who wanted to surrender their life to Jesus, I rushed out at the call. Poor mental health was something I thought I was going to live with. Suicide became my only option, but through the saving grace of Jesus, I no longer struggle with what I used to. He has given me a new hope, a song to sing because of His new mercies every morning. Depression and anxiety no longer remain my identity, I have now found identity in Christ. I am pursuing pediatric psychiatry, because no child should have to go through the darkness I once felt. While the Lord was always there for me, one reason I did not get help sooner was that I had no medical professionals who truly understood my pain. I hope that by becoming a pediatric psychiatrist, I can be a voice for unheard children, whose burdens are too much to bear, and by His grace show them the salvation He had offered me so many years ago. Jesus Christ has given me the paradise that I have always wanted. By His Spirit, I am no longer who I used to be, and my mind is now filled with His peace. I pray that through the medical field I can also be used to shine that beacon of light He is for me.

On a cool Sunday morning I entered the small brightly colored classroom I loved. I perched up my miniature yellow chair in front of thirty eager 1st and 2nd graders, ready to begin praise and worship for the day. My students looked in anticipation as I was about to teach them a song from my childhood, “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know.” Before I could ask them to stand up, I heard a loud thud through my left ear. My head turned towards where the noise came from, and to my horror, I saw my newest student, a young black boy named “Boston”, holding his chest writhing on the floor. I grabbed him in my arms and ran downstairs to call the EMT. He was responsive whenever I talked to him, but his speech slowly became faint. Soon afterward, the EMTs arrived, and I held onto Boston’s hand as they ushered us into an empty classroom. While they took his vitals, it was hard for him to answer questions because he was crying and holding his head in pain. I tried to ease his nerves by asking him about his plans after church, and his face lit up instantly as he told me his plans to go swimming with his family. His vitals were normal, and the EMTs explained that his body had experienced an immune response caused by the breakfast he had eaten. After they left, I stayed with him in the main lobby, still holding his hand as we played a board game to pass the time. Eventually, his mom showed up and he hugged me before following her. After such an experience, I began to wonder how many kids like Boston were in a similar situation, and yet ignored out of the claim that they were just “being dramatic.” What happened to Boston is not uncommon, but many pediatricians often brush over the medical needs of black children out of the misconception that they are “stronger” and “more resilient” than other kids their age. Thus, they develop serious issues later in their adolescent and adult years, like high blood pressure, hypertension, and diabetes which could have been prevented sooner. This is why I want to be a pediatrician. While studying Biomedical Sciences at Texas A&M, I aim to enter medical school in the state of Texas after I graduate, where I desire to specialize in Pediatrics. Upon completing my residency and fellowship, I plan to start a chain of pediatric clinics in locations across Texas where there is a lack of proper healthcare for children, specifically in areas of predominantly-black neighborhoods. Regardless of one’s skin color, every child should be able to receive the treatment and resources needed to prevent a life-threatening illness or complication from happening to them. Due to my father suffering an ischemic stroke in 2021, our family has been struggling to make ends meet. We have had many visits to the ER, so my parents have to use our family's savings to pay for his rehab, medications, and clinical tests. I currently work at H-E-B to finance myself through college expenses, around 20-25 hours a week. Getting this scholarship would release the financial burden on my family of 6, opening the door to accomplishing my dream.

September 21st 2021 is a day I will never forget. My dad was under recovery for a heart surgery he underwent a few months before, and while he was in recovery my family were optimistic and certain that he would someday be able to go back to treating patients, a career he loved. However, life took a turn for the worse when my dad suddenly had an ischemic stroke that morning. It was the day he finally got cleared and was allowed to go back to work. My family was in complete devastation. At the bus stop, I gazed behind with tears as my father was rolled away on a stretcher. The first few weeks after the stroke were rough, my mom had to stay with my dad at the hospital. The hospital was hours away, so I was left by myself to take care of my three younger siblings. I prepared meals for them, made sure all of their homework was in check, and had to monitor them every night. I also had to maintain a job at my local grocery stores in order to support myself during that time, since our household income drastically decreased. It felt like the world had just collapsed on me, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Despite this burdening hardship, there was one thing positive that came out of it. I began to truly see areas of my character that needed improvement. I used to be extremely lazy, selfish, and pessimistic, often thinking only about my own needs and ungrateful for everything. My father’s stroke taught me how to manage household affairs like chores and appliance repairs. It taught me how to be physically, mentally, and emotionally present for those who are dependent on someone, my younger siblings. But most importantly, it also taught me how to maintain order and discipline amidst disorder and the want for self-pity. I learned that at times, I had to stop seeing life through my lens, but consider others, something I never did prior to the stroke. By the grace of God, after several years, my dad did not pass away from the stroke, but life hasn’t been the same. When I reflect on that period, the stroke truly blessed me because it forced me to change my character for the better, and to see that life. If I could tell someone going through a hardship similar to mine, I would tell them to keep fighting. It is hard, and the easiest state of mind to fall into is self-pity, I know I did when my dad was sick. But you can’t stay there, you have to keep going, for your loved ones, and for your future. Allow yourself to grieve, allow yourself to feel bitter and angry, but don’t bask in it. It may seem hard now, but it will get better. Life will not always be this way.

Most people have never seen someone who looks like me wanting to pursue pediatric psychiatry. However, it is one of my biggest goals I wish to achieve in my life. I lived in an environment where I was usually the only black girl in my room, and I used to struggle with depression and anxiety. However, the pediatricians in my town lacked knowledge on how to properly treat me, since they have only been trained to see their white counterparts. We have only just begun to scratch the surface regarding mental issues with children of color, but I want to go deeper than that. I plan on changing the field surrounding BIPOC children struggling with mental illness. I currently attend Texas A&M University, and their medical program has always been a goal of mine to be able to attend after graduation. I am currently a Lead officer of the Biomedical Sciences Association, an organization that specializes in training and informing undergraduate students that are looking o to pursue the pre-med track. There we have many doctors established in College Station and Bryan speaks further into their personal journey through medical school, and it was in one of those meetings where a black pediatrician actually spoke to me, further solidifying my desire to pursue pediatric psychiatry. Apart from presentations, there are also a plethora of service opportunities that allow me to get hands-on experience with children at local hospitals at St. Joseph as well as Baylor Scott and White. Not just any type of children though, but children often coming from low-income households that cannot afford insurance. I am able to expand my horizons beyond just the everyday person, but also nurture and care for marginalized kids in need. I also serve as a teacher for 3rd and 4th graders at my local church. There it has grown me in how I am able to interact emotionally when a child is in distress, or has a severe underlying behavioral problem, further expanding my awareness of childhood mental illness. After I finish medical school, I will begin my residency and fellowship in Houston, Texas, focusing primarily on populations of majority Black children that are in need of psychiatric care. Every child deserves help, and currently in the medical field there are children of color that have been overlooked and unseen. No matter what, I want to ensure that no BIPOC child is forgotten in the battle of mental health.

As an aspiring healthcare professional, my passion stems from a deep commitment to improving the well-being and overall life of all individuals , but specifically in the realm of women's healthcare. I believe in the importance of providing comprehensive and compassionate care that addresses the unique needs and challenges faced by women throughout their lives. I lost my aunt on June 26th,2022, due to breast cancer. She was a real fighter, and from first glance you couldn't tell she was facing such a struggle. She always carried a smile on her face, and even after chemotherapy she did her very best to make sure me and my siblings had tons of fun while we were over at her house. Ever since then I wanted to show up not for just the women in my personal life, but for all women who may be struggling with their own body, whether it may be expecting a child, cancer, or dealing with stress in motherhood. My experiences have equipped me with a diverse skill set, combining academic knowledge with practical applications. Whether through shadowing an OB/GYN at my local hospital, volunteering with Postpartum and Delivery of mothers with their babies, or college coursework like women and gender studies plus biology and chemistry, I have actively sought opportunities to understand the intricacies of women's health issues. This has allowed me to engage with different aspects of healthcare, from preventive care to reproductive health, with a focus on empowering women to make informed decisions about their health. Balancing work and school has been a challenging yet rewarding aspect of my journey. While pursuing my education at Texas A&M University, I have concurrently worked in healthcare settings, such as Baylor Scott and White, and CHI St. Joesph, to gain real-world experience. This has required meticulous time management and a commitment to prioritizing tasks. I have faced obstacles, such as tight schedules, occasional stress, and having to say no to a lot of activities I enjoy, but these challenges have strengthened my resilience and organizational skills. The combination of my academic pursuits and practical experiences has provided me with a holistic understanding of healthcare, enabling me to contribute meaningfully to the well-being of the population I aim to serve. My dedication to women's healthcare reflects not only a professional commitment but also a personal belief in the importance of promoting health equity and ensuring that all individuals receive the care they deserve.