Change isn’t waiting, it’s built intentionally and relentlessly by those that the system overlooks. I was thirteen, clutching my mother’s trembling hand in a cold clinic room, translating a pain I didn’t have words for yet. It wasn’t my age that mattered; it was the urgency of what I witnessed Most immigrant daughters grow up quickly. By middle school, many of us are unofficial translators, advocates, and healthcare navigators for the women who raised us. Coming to America from Ethiopia promised better care, but what we found instead was a confusing system and cultural barriers that offered little real help. Watching my mother struggle to be heard, to be properly treated, even to be acknowledged, changed my entire outlook on medicine. Public health became more than a buzzword the moment I watched her name butchered at check-in and her symptoms waved away like she was wasting time. It wasn’t a system. It was a wall. One that I decided to learn how to tear down. Health care for marginalized women, especially Black and immigrant women, isn’t just a service gap. It’s an entire ecosystem of erasure: language barriers, financial strain, cultural devaluation. And too often, those women are forced to be their own doctors, their own advocates, their own lifelines. That reality isn’t theoretical for me. It’s home. Community clinics and health fairs do more than patch holes. They show us what’s possible when people are given information they can actually use. When a mother can understand her treatment, or a grandmother finally knows what her medicine does, things change. That isn’t charity. That’s health equity. A few months ago, I helped a woman who looked confused, quiet, and on the verge of tears over a medication label. I sat with her. We read it out loud, line by line. When she smiled and said, “Now I know what to ask next time,” I realized the power wasn’t in fixing everything. It was in making her feel heard. My goal is to develop tools that make this kind of support standard. Multilingual kiosks in clinics. Medical instructions written like real language, not riddles. Offline tools for families without internet. Health campaigns that speak in a voice communities recognize. These aren’t dreams, they’re overdue infrastructure, especially for women who carry the burden of caregiving while rarely being cared for themselves. What gives life to these ideas isn’t just technology; it’s education. Studying public health through the lens of communication and design is how I turn prototypes into practice. Each clinic visit, class, and conversation is part of that blueprint. This scholarship wouldn’t just fund my education. It would give time back. Time I now spend juggling school, volunteering, and work to support my education and resources. It would turn exhaustion into energy for building what my mother never had. And what thousands of other women still don’t. Women should not have to be translators, advocates, and survivors just to be patients. I learned that lesson by holding my mother’s hand. Now, I’m building systems that speak her name correctly and answer when she does.

My first science was not learned in school. It took place in the middle of a kitchen, where family members debated remedies on intuition, trial, and family memory. It was watching my mother swap medication with fasting through illness, or drinking ginger tea to calm symptoms that no doctor ever took seriously. Where access was limited, women in my life became scientists themselves when diagnosing, testing, and curing. Those experiences did not make me want to leave my community behind. They made me want to return with tools, with language, with solutions. That's what I knew I was supposed to do with science, not memorize facts, but change realities. Today, I’m pursuing my Associate of Science degree at Dallas College, preparing to transfer into a four-year university where I’ll study public health. I’ve chosen this field because it allows me to combine science, technology, and policy with real-world impact. To me, science isn't just about discovery. It's about design. It's about engineering systems of care that actually reach people, especially those the current systems overlook. I now work at food pantries and community health clinics, helping families like mine who are immigrants navigate medical documents, understand screenings, and translate their disease with the tools that they have. I helped one diabetic mother once plan a plain old meal routine based simply on what she had in her cupboard. No fancy diets, no huge overhauls, but just tweaking things label by label. It changed me. Science that doesn't meet people where they are? It fails. And I've always loved building. As a robotics competitor, I won fifth place in a statewide competition, but the win was in watching how curiosity develops into invention. As debate captain, I didn't just debate, I mentored, organized, and led. Those skills don't stay on paper. I'm applying them to actual projects now, building concepts for offline health education apps, creating multilingual clinic kiosks, and sketching outreach campaigns that ring home, not bureaucracy. In the long term, I envision running a nonprofit organization that brings tech-enabled health access to marginalized communities through mobile clinics, translated care, and culturally relevant education. My mother's tale still drives me. Her thyroid illness was overlooked, again and again misdiagnosed. She was treated as a problem, not as a patient. That day, seeing her dismissed by the system, defined my path. Science needs new leadership. It needs women like me. This scholarship is not just cash money, it's fuel. It allows me to keep showing up, keep building, and keep envisioning a world where science belongs to all people. William Griggs was a man who believed that limits needed to be pushed further with knowledge and power. That is what I'm doing, as well. I may not be designing rockets (yet), but I am launching systems that individuals can rely on. Those that do not disremember them, silence them, or treat them as an afterthought. Science should be loud, local, and liberating. That’s the kind I’m here to build.

There is a blue folder atop our refrigerator. It has sat there since I was eight years old. Inside it are these outdated medical forms half-completed, blank ones filled with my sloppy handwriting, Amharic words spelled out phonetically, English guessing symptoms in secret whispered to my mother in waiting rooms which never waited for us to start. That folder was the first time I ever translated terror into words. Her thyroid betrayed my mother, but what hurt her most, aside from the illness, was how invisible it made her. Physicians spoke to her, mispronounced her name, and waved away her agony. She began to question herself eventually. Her symptoms were real, but the gaslighting allowed her to doubt that it was all in her head. Being a Black woman in a healthcare system not meant for you will do this. So I became the bridge. Not by choice, but by love. I understood her pain. Her prescriptions. Her questions. I translated things that I didn't know myself yet, but knew silence was more costly than misunderstanding. That's when I learned that understanding is care. And care that can't be understood isn't care at all. Service did not start in a volunteer log for me. It started with the trembling hand of my mother grasping mine, and it's grown far beyond that. I now volunteer at Dallas community health clinics. I help immigrant families complete insurance forms, translate side effects, and calm nerves. I interpret not just Amharic to English but medical jargon to human language. A few weeks ago, I helped an agitated older Ethiopian woman. The nurse was rushing along, and the woman spoke very little English. As soon as I greeted her in Amharic, she completely relaxed. She settled down. She told me all about her symptoms. We even laughed about how confusing the form was. But what did remain with me was the reality that she was so grateful to be seen, not just treated, of course, but truly seen. That's the magic of bringing your entire self to the situation. Being the outlier was a burden. First-gen. Black. Immigrant. The only one like me in most of my classes. But those aren't descriptors, they are tools. I've learned to read between the lines of conversation. I know what it's like to have your tone questioned or your suffering downplayed. I know the ways that people default when they don't feel safe. This informs how I show up, not just as a future medical provider, but as a person who is not going to let other people slip through. I speak out from my own experience. I break down large ideas for patients because I remember when no one did it for us. I speak to students from immigrant families who are entering college for the first time because I am them. I use every part of myself, the daughter, the interpreter, the public health student, the listener, to build a career on understanding and respect. My long-term goal is to launch a nonprofit that provides culturally competent care through mobile clinics, education programs, and advocacy for policies that center communities often ignored. But I’m not waiting to make a change, I’m already doing it. In the clinic. In my community. One interaction at a time. This scholarship would not just fund my schooling. It would legitimize where I come from and invest in where I'm headed. Because the little girl in that waiting room never lost her capacity for translation. She just found more people to speak up for.

There is a difference between being seen and being believed. Too often, the health system has mastered the former and failed at the latter, especially when the patient is Black. That reality was made starkly real not in a book, but in my own home. Witnessing a mother go through exhaustion, hair loss, and inexplicable anxiety, only to be told it was "most likely just stress." It was not. It was thyroid disease that had been ignored and diagnosed far too late. Not because the symptoms weren't present, but because her voice, and so many Black women's voices, were filtered through prejudice before concern ever reached it. The punch was personal, but the issue is systemic. Medicine's bias doesn't always come with a megaphone. It sometimes hides in data. Kidney function algorithms that exaggerate Black patients' kidneys, oxygen level monitors that misinterpret darker skin, or maternal mortality are three times higher for Black women. These outcomes aren't reverberations of the past; they're happening now, and they're killing people. That's why the dream has never been just to don the white coat. The dream is to redefine what that coat signifies. From power over human lives without compassion to advocacy with purpose. The dream is to be a doctor who does not just treat illness, but reimagines the system that permits it to go unmet. That is the work that has begun. Volunteering in clinics, waiting with patients beyond their appointment times, deconstructing perplexing instructions, and demystifying fear. Assisting seniors who were too ashamed to seek clarification. Describing side effects in languages doctors never mastered. That sort of service is not showy. It is not viral. But it's what makes people trust us, the sort of trust that can be a lifesaver. My long-term vision is bold and based on experience. A community practice centered on immigrant and Black families. Culturally responsive care that is more like a partnership, not a hierarchy. Mobile clinics to access neighborhoods abandoned by mainstream healthcare models. Health literacy and empowerment initiatives in schools and community centers so that young people can grow up healthy and well-informed. Representation is not an aesthetic concern; it's a requirement. When patients see someone who looks like them, sounds like them, and understands where they're from, things improve. Care becomes more personal. Conversations are altered. Anxiety abates. And a healthcare system that once harmed begins to heal. But the road to that kind of change is difficult and costly. Being a first-generation student means daily juggling school, work, and family responsibilities. Scholarships like MedLuxe do more than pay for things; they create space. Space to focus, to serve, to lead. Space to build something that will last longer than a piece of paper. This is not about becoming a doctor. This is about being the doctor, a younger version of myself that I never thought was possible. The doctor my mother deserved. The one too many still must wait for. It's about not only coming with answers, but with ears. Not only coming with solutions, but with accountability. And it's about making sure no patient ever leaves an exam room feeling invisible. Because in medicine, silence is already the status quo. And the cure starts with being the kind of practitioner who will not shut up.

Even when I had not yet learned the word STEM, I was already translating science in a desperate attempt to survive. Not in school, but in the corner of an awaiting room clinic, reading side effects aloud to my mom in Amharic, explaining a diagnosis that neither of us comprehended. I was the child with too big a vocabulary for her years and too heavy a weight to bear for her stature. But at that point, I learned something. Science isn't objective. It encompasses you, or it forces you out. I've existed between two worlds of healthcare. One in Ethiopia, where distance and cost decide whether you live or die. And one in America, where race and language decide whether your care is any good. And in both, I saw the same thing: systems that view access to health as a privilege, rather than a right. At home, neighbors walked for hours and were rejected. Here, I've watched my mom doubt herself, gaslighted by physicians who made her sound crazy instead of hearing from her and told her her thyroid symptoms were in her head. Her case is not unique. But it should not be acceptable. That's where my interest in STEM began. Not in a lab jacket, but in an unsatisfied human need. Public health resonated with me because it's not just science, it's systems. It's a field that lets me combine data and humanity, algorithms and advocacy. I chose it because I've had enough of seeing my community suffer in silence. I want to create models of care that aren't technically correct, but emotionally accessible, culturally fluent, multilingual, and trust-centered. As I pursue my Associate of Science at Dallas College, I've went after every chance to see this happen. I volunteer for community fairs and clinics, helping immigrants the way I needed help myself. Whether interpreting a medical questionnaire, relaying symptoms, or helping the elderly through screening reports, I'm not just serving. I'm building the future I want to live in. A world in which no child is required to explain her mother's agony. A world in which no woman is forced to validate her pain as tangible. And this is where my difference is my strength. I am a Black, immigrant, first-generation woman in STEM, and I bring to the table something a textbook cannot offer context. I know what it is like to be overtalked, doubted, and overlooked. But instead of shrinking, I have learned to speak up. And not just for me, but for every woman whose voice is still catching in her throat. One day, I'd like to lead a nonprofit that deploys mobile clinics and culture-specific health education to resource-poor communities, back home and abroad. But I'm not holding out for credentials to act. I'm busy now. With every translation, every health fair, every application I help a family fill out, I'm redefining what science is. It's not just a field, it's a language. And I speak it with ease, in English, Amharic, Arabic, and empathy. This award isn't just about covering the cost of school. It's about fueling a future that requires more women like me in STEM above all else. Not to innovate, but to interrupt. To humanize. To rebuild. Because science that forgets people like my mom isn't finished developing. And I intend to make that right.

Others aspire to make a difference. I lived it in waiting rooms where no one looked like my mother, where translation was an afterthought to time, and care was a luxury that never materialized. I grew up in rural Texas and Ethiopia, two worlds apart with a common truth. When healthcare systems fail to see people for who they are, their language, their culture, and their fears, they fall through. I remember that silence. I remember refusing to accept it, too. That choice did not start with a name. It started with a moment. A full food bank. A woman holding a bottle of medicine she didn't know. I was just a teenager, but I spoke Amharic, so I stepped in. I read the label. Her shoulders relaxed. That was the first time that I understood that sometimes the most revolutionary thing you can do is make someone feel heard. Since that time, I've made it my mission to close gaps no one talks about — the ones that never hit the headlines but alter lives. I work at neighborhood health clinics, interpreting scripts, breaking down insurance bureaucratese, and sitting beside patients who need someone to help make it all make sense. I've filled forms out line by line with people who never were given that kind of support before, not because it worked, but because it meant something to them, so it had to mean something to someone. I was eighteen years old when I became a licensed life insurance agent. That career enables me to financially support myself while studying, but still serve others. I deal with clients who've never had financial protection explained to them in a way that makes their reality understandable. Old immigrants, single moms, first-gen households, and people who get "you don't qualify" before anyone even hears their story. I change that by listening, decoding jargon, and telling them their future is worth protecting. Now, I’m pursuing my Associate of Science degree at Dallas College with plans to transfer into a Public Health program. But I’m not waiting on a degree to start building. My goal is to create an inclusive, community-centered healthcare system from the ground up. One that doesn’t rely on patients to navigate endless red tape or “figure it out” alone. I envision mobile clinics set up in church parking lots and school playgrounds. Health workshops are led in languages spoken by families. A network of culturally competent clinicians who treat patients not like charts, but like people. I strive to use digital media to share accurate, timely health information with younger generations tired of gatekeeping. And I wish to start a foundation that educates bilingual youth to be care advocates in their communities, because this labor can't rest on one individual. Scholarships like these don't simply pay for school. They make room. Room to learn without fear. To serve without exhaustion. To map out a future that isn't defined by boundaries but by potential. I've already started going down this path, one clinic, one food bank, one family at a time. I don't want to just make a difference. I want to rethink the system from the edges in, so that no one has to choose between care and understanding again. This isn’t a temporary passion. It’s a lifelong promise. To my mother. To my community. To every person who’s ever felt invisible in a place meant to heal. I’m not here to be the exception. I’m here to change the rule.

Violence did not always leave bruises. Sometimes it whispered, slammed, shattered, and then stopped as if nothing had happened. Unpredictability was a daily lesson learned growing up in a home where there was an abusive father. There was yelling one minute. Dishes were flying the next day. Sometimes worse. The one who was supposed to keep us safe instead became the one we had to keep ourselves safe from. And although the physical scars long since disappeared, the emotional ones remained. Imprinted in habits, responses, and phobias. When he finally did leave, peace did not come. Not the peace I'd imagined. The silence that fell was not healing but stifling. My mother, already toting decades of trauma around with her, started fighting wars within her own body. Her health fell apart in tiny but terrifying increments. Hair loss, fatigue, futile doctor's appointments that went nowhere. They said it could be her thyroid, possibly autoimmune, possibly stress, but answers never came quickly, and care never quite seemed intended for women like her. Immigrant. Ethiopian. English is not her native language. And me, a teenager barely, attempting to decipher what it all was while claiming both our pains. We never talked about mental health. Not culturally. Not at home. But it shaped everything. Her illness and the helplessness that came with it built a pressure inside me I couldn’t name back then. There was no space to fall apart. Someone had to be strong. Someone had to translate the paperwork, the prescriptions, the pity in the doctor’s tone. I was a child, but I understood that the systems that were designed to support us weren't designed with us in mind. And that remained with me. So I constructed my purpose around it. Science was a way out, yes, but also a way forward. I did not choose STEM because I wanted a lab coat, but because I wanted to rewrite the structure from the inside. I wish to create health care systems that not only address symptoms but also comprehend the stories behind them. Systems that encounter individuals where they are. Culturally, linguistically, and emotionally, and enable them to feel secure being seen. That is not a far-off dream. It is a deliberate plan. I became licensed in life insurance at age eighteen. It was one of the only ways in which I could make actual money and assist families in dealing with a system that tended to leave them in the dark. I grew used to describing coverage in simple terms, hearing stories of loss, and offering guidance without judgment. I volunteered at clinics and interpreted for patients like my mother, who required care as much as dignity, outside of work. These aren’t small steps. They’re the roadmap for leading through policy, innovation, and inclusion. This scholarship offers more than financial relief. It gives time to study without fatigue, to prepare for the MCAT with quality materials, to stay present in school and community. Each dollar I put away can be used on creating what presently does not exist: a future where no daughter will ever have to become a woman feeling disenfranchised in a system of health care that disregards individuals like her family. What mental illness took from me, I've been reclaiming. Piece by piece, action by action. This is not a story about brokenness. It's a design story. From chaos, clarity. And from pain, a path. The goal isn't just success. It's to build a model of healthcare where healing isn't a privilege. One where girls like me aren't just surviving the system, they're changing it.

Science did not begin with equations or lab coats. It started at home, alongside a mother who lacked words for what was taking place within her. Pain introduced itself quietly. It arrived in hair lost in the brush, in headaches attributed to stress, in the silences that trailed each rushed doctor's appointment. The disease was never merely physical. It was compounded by confusion, language, and systems that were never meant for families like mine. She never requested assistance. Somebody had to learn quickly, then. Medical terms were translated, not only from English to Amharic, but from terms of coldness to those of compassion. That work taught everything. It illuminated the way to STEM, not since science was abstractly fascinating, but since it was so desperately needed. Yet interest does not cover application fees. A first-generation student does not simply study for tests, they budget for them. Study materials are selected based on price, not merit. Practice exams rank below eating. Each opportunity is measured against whether or not it will contribute to debt. So when eighteen arrived, working was not an option. It was survival. Being a licensed life insurance agent was making money while making a difference, particularly for those who could not afford to be in the dark. It was not just a job, it was one of the sole means of continuing to move and not be a financial burden on the family that gave up everything. Each dollar made went back into school. Tuition. Materials. The background costs that accumulate in the background of every "opportunity." The price of presence. Volunteering at clinics was rewarding, but a paycheck was not included. Yet, time was found because giving back cannot wait on security. This scholarship would not merely remove a financial stressor, it would free up capacity. It would be time in the research lab rather than working extra shifts. It would be taking the MCAT with the appropriate preparation materials, rather than the most affordable ones. It would be proceeding into the next degree of STEM education with less anxiety and greater concentration. And the giving back? It is already happening. Each form completed for an immigrant patient, each insurance policy decoded in simple terms, each conversation that made a person feel visible. This is what giving back is already starting to look like before the degree is even conferred. In the long run, it looks like creating systems that do not require translation. It looks like leveraging science to bridge gaps, not create them. This is not a story of overcoming. It's a story of reaching back, constructing what wasn't there, and demonstrating that with the proper support, first-generation does not need to be first and last. It implies being the beginning of something greater.

Health isn't always in hospitals. Sometimes it's standing at the back of a food bank or sorting fruit, removing quietly the myths about diabetes. Sometimes it's teaching a younger family member how to read a label on a food because their parent never found the time to show them. And sometimes it's just being an ear, a real ear, when someone needs to talk about what they're going through without judgment, but with empathy. That's what public health is, where culture intersects with community. It is both individual and communal. Where access is restricted and knowledge is in short supply, public health is increasingly about people, not policies. That's where this work began. Not in a lab or classroom, but in bedrooms, clinics, and church basements, where quiet acts of compassion kept families on their feet. There weren’t headlines the first time something went right. Just an older adult who didn't know how to take their blood pressure medications. Language was an issue, directions were unclear, and anxiety had taken hold. A short Amharic exchange turned confusion into confidence. That moment proved that lived experience is a tool, not a side note. Understanding a culture, language, and rhythm could be the difference. Public health stopped being a goal and became a calling. One shaped by real people, not just textbooks. Learning science was about a sense of purpose, not just grades. I volunteer at clinics and assist with food distributions in underserved communities. Those experiences taught me the realities of public health in practice, the kind of care that lives outside of institutions.. I pursued public health because it brings all that I care about together: community, equity, and science that serves. My short-term objective is to transfer to a four-year college to study public health or biomedical sciences. My long-term vision is to develop culturally responsive health programs and tools for the underrepresented, specifically immigrant families who often fall behind. Being an Ethiopian-American woman in STEM means working in systems that weren’t designed for me. It is going into the spaces where no one looks like you and choosing to belong anyway. Underrepresentation hasn’t deterred me, it's encouraged me. I've seen how language and trust shape access to care, and I want to build systems that consider that. I've already begun that work: translating for families, educating my community about insurance, and informing about care possibilities when others would not. Alongside my service and education, I carry a full financial burden. Being a full-time student and licensed life insurance agent, I manage client calls, coursework, and community service, at the sacrifice of rest and sleep. This scholarship would lift that burden. It would give me time to engage in internships, research, and service more broadly without sacrificing income. Most of all, I think it would allow me to stay true to the mission that is not just designed in theory, but built for impact The SigaLa Scholarship would be more than economic support. It would be time to focus, space to breathe, and an opportunity to bring community work into a bigger, sustainable stage. Education is not just a dream; it's a mission already in motion. Classes are being completed. Internships are being pursued. Conversations are being had with families who never thought anyone would take the time to care. There's still work to do. More doors to open. More systems to reimagine. But it starts here. With one scholarship, one student, and one promise. To build a future where care is not just available, but accessible and trusted by those who need it most.

The first type of healing I ever witnessed didn't come from a doctor's office. It came from watching my mother quietly navigate a poorly understood and rarely treated thyroid condition with patience, resourcefulness, and bravery. We were in rural Ethiopia, where mainstream care was in short supply and trust in medical institutions even shorter. When help wasn't available, the women in my community became the help by making herbal teas, tapping into ancestral knowledge, and creating support systems out of necessity. These weren't just cultural remedies. They were survival mechanisms. That early exposure to community-healing shaped how I understand health. Not just as science, but as a reflection of trust, accessibility, and dignity. Today, that understanding fuels my pursuit of holistic health. As a student earning my Associate of Science degree at Dallas College, I’m laying the groundwork for a career that blends natural healing, public health, and digital innovation. But I’m not waiting for graduation to start making an impact. Volunteering at local food banks and community clinics has shown me that real change doesn’t begin in research labs. It begins where people already are. At pop-up health fairs, I’ve helped first-generation families understand their prescriptions. In food distribution centers, I’ve shown clients how to manage chronic conditions like diabetes with what’s already in their pantry. These experiences are not resume-fillers, they’re testaments to what our systems are missing and what holistic health could provide. What gives me hope about holistic approaches isn’t just their cultural relevance, but their capacity to address chronic disease at its source. I envision a future where people don't have to choose between Western medicine and traditional healing, but can use both in a manner that respects their values and life experience. A future where public health services are multilingual, technologically enabled, and culturally competent. Where clinics don't just heal symptoms but teach resilience. That's the infrastructure I want to build. And the work has already started. I'm researching low-cost, offline-compatible tools that blend herbal medicine education with chronic disease management. I'm designing concepts for community-led wellness circles that blend physical, emotional, and spiritual care. These aren't pipe dreams, they're blueprints based on my lived experience and community needs. As a person who translated health information for my family when I was growing up, and too frequently had to negotiate healthcare systems with more questions than answers, I know what's at stake. Holistic health is not only about well-being, it's about justice. It's about creating a world where health is not dictated by zip code, language, or status. The Jim Coots Scholarship would directly support my training, certification, and continued education and allow me to stay active in the communities I serve while building tools that make health more just. It would offer more than financial relief. It would be an investment in someone who is committed to healing from the ground up. Jim Coots lived his life seeking nature-based, science-based, and compassion-based wellness. That is a legacy I'd like to extend by designing systems where care is proactive, not reactive; inclusive, not exclusive; and always human first.

1.I grew up in Ethiopia, where getting sick tended to mean depending on home treatments, prayers, or whatever knowledge your neighbors possessed. Hospitals were far away, expensive, or short-staffed. My mother went through years of thyroid problems before anyone was even able to tell her what was happening to her. That helplessness stuck with me. It lit a fire in me to understand the science we never had access to. That's why I came to the U.S. for school: not just to leave those hardships behind, but to study science and eventually go back with solutions. I'm currently pursuing an Associate of Science degree at Dallas College. My end goal is to bridge the large gulf that I saw between science and the people who need it most, most especially in a community like my hometown. If I could do anything with my life, I'd create public health technology that can be used offline, in multiple languages, and that actually makes sense to ordinary people. I'd create systems that not only are present but also work in low-resource communities. I'd make sure that no child must grow up seeing their parents suffer because no one in their community has the education or skills to help. What motivates me is that memory. That pain. And the belief that I can make a difference. I don't just want a STEM job; I want to rethink how we go about accessing health care and health education. And it starts with me showing up, educating myself as much as possible, and coming back with solutions that are sustainable. 2. STEM excites me because that's where art meets practical solutions. Competing in robotics taught me that technology, even with severe constraints, has the power to generate innovation and solve everyday problems. That excitement grew stronger as I personally witnessed how many of my community members struggle with barriers to grasping health information and accessing care. I am dedicated to using information technology to bridge that gap. IT is not coding or hardware to me, it's a way of breaking down walls between science and under-served communities. I envision creating offline health education apps and multi-language clinic kiosks that don't just deliver information, but communicate it in terms people understand and trust. Technology should empower and not confuse, exclude, or leave people behind. Whether someone lacks internet, formal education, or speaks another language, they still deserve access. By bringing health information in any language, connectivity, or learning, IT can transform individuals. This is the kind of influence I want to make. Maintaining inclusive infrastructure that is responsive to people's realities and enhancing their health and well-being. With STEM, I hope to design and apply these solutions, combining my technical background in robotics with passion for community health. My dream is that science and technology be made accessible to everyone, especially those far too often behind. 3. My biggest motivation was witnessing my mother suffer for years while her thyroid issues were ignored by medical professionals. I was a child and watched her fall ill as the medical system denied her symptoms and gaslit her pain. It was not just infuriating, it was traumatic. It awakened me to an ugly truth: most marginalized communities are subject to systemic dismissal, poor communication, and barriers to basic care. That experience planted a question in my mind that never disappeared. Why do those who need the most help always seem to be the last ones to get it? Instead of letting that pain make me harden or become hopeless, I used it as fuel. I started studying health science so that I might understand the biology of her illness, and I began volunteering in clinics so that I might witness the gaps firsthand. I helped families like mine navigate confusing diagnoses, incomprehensible paperwork, and intimidating healthcare bureaucracies. I learned how much power there is in the simple ability to translate health information into language people can actually understand. Outside the clinic, I found my voice and leadership skills in high school debate. Coaching my team taught me to build arguments, think analytically, and advocate effectively. In parallel, my experience in robotics pushed me to collaborate under pressure and create with limited resources. Skills I now see as essential to solving real public health problems. Yet the real transformation was internal. I no longer saw myself as a helpless bystander and started acting as a change agent of the future. Having endured that chapter in my life taught me resilience, urgency, and empathy. It established my life's mission of utilizing STEM to build tools and systems that make health information available, understandable, and empowering to the left behind. This is personal and the very reason why I won't stop.

My great-grandmother was born in a small village in northern Ethiopia. She never learned to read or write, but she learned how to survive. Her dream was simple: to raise a daughter who might one day be able to live in a city, where there would be more opportunity and maybe even access to education. She did. Her daughter, my grandmother, grew up in that city. But there as well, opportunity was kept just out of reach. She was married off at a young age and pulled out of school by tradition that didn't believe women needed to know more than how to take care of others. Yet she dared to dream a dream not for herself, but for her daughter. She wished her daughter could at least graduate. My mother did. She completed her high school education, and with it came a dream bigger than anything the generations before her were allowed to dream. She did not go to college, but she made sure that I could. She moved our family to the United States so we could have a real chance to learn, to grow, and to dream out loud. Each generation of women in my family has fought for more than what they were given. They dreamed forward. And I am here today because they refused to believe that their starting point had to be their daughter's finish line. That's why I pursue education—not for myself, but for all the women who quietly placed their dreams in their daughters' hands. Their sacrifices have to mean something. I need their stories to live on through my work in life. I watched my mother navigate a healthcare system that dismissed her pain and misunderstood her illness. Her thyroid issue was mismanaged and minimized because no one took the time to learn who she was or where she came from. That experience shaped my purpose. I’m determined to be a doctor. Not for the title, but to practice the kind of care that listens first and heals second. I want to ensure women like my mother are seen, heard, and treated with dignity. Volunteering at a local health center showed me what such a future can look like. I came into contact with patients of all walks of life, many of whom had never felt seen in a healthcare setting. Whether I was scheduling their appointments or merely offering space for their fears, I found that even the slightest offer of help can be transformative. I am worthy of the dreams I carry because they are not mine. They belong to a lineage of generations who clung to hope when they had nothing else. This scholarship is greater than a financial investment. It is a tribute to that heritage, ensuring it does not end with me but instead grows through me.

I was ten years old when I stood in a packed waiting room interpreting for my mother as she winced in pain. The nurse was nice, but rushed. The doctor didn’t even glance at her chart. I remember wondering if I had not been there, would they even listen to her? That day changed how I'd view the healthcare system for the rest of my life. My mother had thyroid issues for years that no one took seriously. She was an Ethiopian immigrant who spoke very little English and she was used to pushing things under the rug. So were the doctors. I was her champion by default—learning to put symptoms into words, fight for tests, and ask the right questions. That experience planted a seed: if someone like me could make so much of a difference just by showing up, what could I achieve with training? That’s why I’m pursuing a career in healthcare. It’s not because it’s noble or in-demand, but because it’s personal. I’ve seen what broken systems look like. I’ve also seen how much power there is in simply being heard. Volunteering has strengthened that sense of purpose even more. I've spent the past two years volunteering at local pantries, interpreting for community clinics, and advising low-income families regarding basic health care options. I don't yet possess a medical degree, but I've already been a bridge. And being that bridge is what makes me strong enough to keep going. A time that stands out was helping a woman who was around my mother’s age walk through a diabetes care plan. She nodded, but I could tell she didn’t understand. I sat her down after the appointment and took her through it in simple terms, step by step. Her eyes welled with tears. Not out of fear, but because someone finally sat down with her and made her realize that she mattered. That's when I realized this isn't a side hobby. This is my life's work. I am currently pursuing my Associate of Science and aspire to transfer into a public health program. Someday, I would love to specialize in health equity. I want to develop outreach programs for underrepresented groups and improve how health systems communicate with immigrants and non-English speakers. We don’t just need more healthcare workers. We need individuals who are similar to the patients they serve, who speak their languages, and who understand their cultural fears. As a woman of color entering this field, I know that I’ll face challenges. But I also know that my experience gives me an edge. I have lived the problem, and I’m gaining the knowledge to become part of the solution. Through direct care, policy, or community programs, I would like to make a difference where it is needed most. Beginning from the inside out. This scholarship would bring me one step closer to becoming that change. Because healthcare isn’t just about medicine, it’s about people. And I’ve seen firsthand what happens when they’re finally heard.

Most people think of public health as flu shots, clipboards, and vague definitions of “community.” I see it as infrastructure for human dignity. When I was growing up, I moved through communities where that infrastructure was hardly present. Medical care was limited in Ethiopia. When it was available, it was far and usually out of reach. Clinics would run out of supplies. People would walk for hours only to be turned away. In America, I assumed things would be better. And they were, at least on paper. Yet my family still struggled to access care that honored our culture, language, or time. By age 13, I was unofficially the translator, system navigator, and sometimes decision-maker during doctor visits. This isn’t shared for sympathy, but because it made me view medicine not as just biology, but as a dysfunctional interface between science and society. I chose public health because that's where science intersects with systems. And I'm here to rewire those systems. Degrees don’t drive me, impact does. I'd like to specialize in community-driven, multilingual, tech-facilitated solutions to health problems. Imagine smart kiosks at bus stations linking patients to on-demand health care. AI-powered tools that decode medical jargon for immigrants. Text-based health screens in resource-poor zip codes. And relevant social media PSAs with real reach. That's the world I am creating. I'm building it from the ground up. I work in community clinics and health fairs, closing cultural and linguistic gaps between patient and provider. Every time a family leaves with answers, not questions, it reveals what health equity looks like: responsive, respectful, and deeply human. I don't view healthcare as charity; I see it as a design problem. The problem isn't access, it's trust. It's UX. It's a policy. It's a narrative. And we need more individuals in the room who've actually experienced the failure points of the system in order to get it right and redesign it properly. As a first-generation Black immigrant woman in STEM, I've had to code-switch in every single space I've ever been in. Now, it’s a skill I leverage. I am fluent in science and in lived experience. I am knowledgeable about the data and knowledgeable about the pain behind the data. And I wish to lead with both. The Dr. Michael Paglia Scholarship wouldn't just assist me in funding school. It would help plant seeds for a world where people like my mom don't require a translator, a prayer, and a three-hour wait to receive assistance. Where health is predictive, not reactive. Not templated, but personalized. Dr. Paglia's legacy was one of empathetic leadership in medicine. I am going to continue that by creating tools, spaces, and systems where care actually meets people where they are. Public health is not just my career. It is my stage to disrupt, to innovate, and to achieve justice one policy, one app, one conversation at a time.

Before I ever knew the word 'public health', I was living the gap between it. First in Ethiopia, then in America. In Ethiopia, I saw what it was like for individuals to have no consistent access to medical care, where distance and cost determined who got treatment and who did not. When I came to the U.S., I thought things would be different. But then I understood how people keep falling between the cracks. Especially those who are different, unfamiliar with the system, or afraid of being judged. I've watched my own relatives struggle to get doctors, appointments, and medication. I’ve translated health forms, pushed for clearer answers, and questioned why care has to be such a fight. That was what motivated me to study public health. Not just so I could study about sickness or statistics, but so I could help change the way care is delivered. I believe healthcare is human-centered. It's about creating systems that work for everyone, not necessarily the ones who know how to ask the right questions. As a first-gen college student myself, I've had to learn by doing. I've been there, feeling like you have no idea where to begin. That's the same urgency that motivates my passion for accessible care. Because if learning college was intimidating, I can only think about what it would be like for a person who's sick, stressed out, and not a native speaker, to walk into a clinic and hope for the best. I plan to use my public health degree to bridge that gap. I would like to write health education programs in plain language and deliver them in various languages, including Amharic and Spanish, to under-resourced communities. I would like to create mobile clinics that go out to communities rather than making people come in. Working on the policy level, I want to eliminate the red tape that prevents individuals from receiving basic care. Ultimately, I wish to run a nonprofit organization that does all three: education, direct service, and advocacy. But I am not waiting until graduation to begin. As a freshman at Dallas College, I have already started volunteering with community clinics and local health fairs, interpreting for patients and guiding them through the services avaible. It may seem small, but it’s the beginning of something bigger. Every time I was able to help someone feel heard or understood, I saw how much language, patience, and understanding can change someone's experience with healthcare. Those moments showed me that being present matters just as much as being informed, and that’s something I’ll carry forward in every step of my journey. Catrina Celestine Aquilino's witness resonates with me because she believed in service that transcended barriers. That is the kind of legacy I want to leave behind, not just serving those who ask for it, but touching those who do not realize they can. I am only just starting, but I have the same fervor to use education as a tool of equality and care as a form of justice. I want to make a difference in people's lives, not by having all the answers but by being the person who listens, shows up, and creates something better for everybody else.