My plans for the future are rooted in a simple goal: I want to use technology to make people’s lives better, especially for those who are facing challenges that are often invisible or overlooked. As a Computer Science student, I am working toward a career where I can build tools that improve accessibility, strengthen cybersecurity, and support vulnerable communities. I don’t just want a job in tech—I want meaningful work that reflects my values of resilience, empathy, and service. In the long term, I hope to work as a software engineer or security engineer with a focus on building systems that are both secure and inclusive. I am especially interested in assistive technologies and platforms that help people with disabilities communicate, live more independently, and access mental health and support services. Growing up with a parent who had a serious illness, I saw firsthand how much difference the right tools, devices, and understanding systems can make. That experience continues to guide the way I think about design and problem-solving. I also plan to continue learning beyond my undergraduate degree—through certifications, research projects, internships, and possibly graduate study. Technology changes quickly, and I want to stay at the cutting edge so I can contribute solutions that are not only creative, but also safe, ethical, and sustainable. I’m particularly drawn to projects that combine data, security, and accessibility, such as secure telehealth platforms, communication aids, or AI-powered tools that help people navigate complex systems. However, pursuing these goals comes with real financial challenges. My family has faced medical and economic hardships, and paying for college has required constant balancing between work, school, and caregiving responsibilities. Every semester, I worry about how I will cover tuition, books, technology fees, and basic living expenses. That financial stress doesn’t just affect my budget—it affects my ability to fully focus on my coursework, participate in unpaid opportunities like research or mentoring, and take on projects that would help me grow academically and professionally. This scholarship would make a significant difference in my life. It would ease the burden on my family, reduce the number of hours I need to work during the semester, and allow me to invest more time into my education and future. With this support, I would be able to take on more challenging classes, join or continue with meaningful projects, and potentially participate in internships or research that I might otherwise have to turn down for financial reasons. Most importantly, this scholarship would not only help me get through school—it would help me move toward a future where I can give back. My goal is to use the opportunities I receive now to build tools and systems that support others who are struggling, just as my family once did. By investing in my education, you would be helping me become the kind of engineer who doesn’t just write code, but creates solutions that reflect compassion, resilience, and a commitment to lifting others up.

The performance of Taylor’s that I find the most moving is her “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” segment on The Eras Tour. Even though the prompt frames her career through The Life of A Showgirl, this performance from the Red (Taylor’s Version) era already feels like the emotional centerpiece of her life on stage. What moves me most is how the performance balances vulnerability with control. For ten full minutes, in a stadium filled with tens of thousands of people, she turns this massive space into something that feels almost uncomfortably intimate. The way she paces the stage slowly instead of constantly running or dancing makes it feel like we’re being invited into a private memory she’s finally ready to share on her own terms. Her voice cracks in just the right places—not in a way that seems unprofessional, but in a way that reminds you this is a story she actually lived. Visually, the red coat, the falling leaves on the screens, and the spotlight that follows her like a single, unblinking eye all deepen the mood. But what makes it most powerful to me is the growth it represents. “All Too Well” began as a fan-favorite deep cut. Seeing her now perform the 10-minute version, with an entire stadium singing along word for word, feels like watching someone reclaim a painful chapter and transform it into her greatest artistic triumph. As she hits the final “I remember it all too well,” there’s this strange mix of closure and openness. The story is over, but the emotion is still alive—and somehow, we all carry it with her. That ability to turn one person’s heartbreak into a shared, healing experience is why that performance moves me more than any other.

Russia’s war in Ukraine has shown me how deeply connected our world really is, even when the fighting takes place thousands of miles away. As a college student and the child of immigrants from a country that has also experienced war, watching the invasion unfold has never felt distant or abstract. Every image of families fleeing, students whose studies are interrupted, and cities destroyed reminds me how fragile safety and opportunity can be—and how easily education, dreams, and daily life can be disrupted by conflict. The war has affected my family in quieter but very real ways. Rising prices for food, gas, and basic necessities have put more pressure on our already tight budget. My parents work hard, but inflation has stretched every dollar thinner. That means I worry more about how to afford tuition, textbooks, and even small things like transportation to campus. I’ve taken on more responsibility for managing my own expenses and looking for scholarships because I don’t want my education to become another burden on my family. Emotionally, the war has changed how I look at my education. When I see students in Ukraine studying in bomb shelters or trying to attend classes between power outages, I realize what a privilege it is to sit in a classroom without worrying about air raid sirens. It makes me want to take my studies even more seriously, not just for myself, but for those who don’t currently have that chance. I also see Ukrainian families in my community trying to rebuild their lives in a new country, learning a new language, and starting over from nothing. Their resilience inspires me and reminds me why education matters so much in rebuilding lives after war. My educational goals are centered on Computer Science, with the long-term aim of working in areas like cybersecurity, infrastructure protection, or technology for social good. Russia’s war in Ukraine has highlighted how modern conflicts aren’t just fought on the ground, but also in cyberspace—through attacks on infrastructure, disinformation campaigns, and attempts to destabilize societies digitally. I want to be part of the generation that builds secure systems, protects critical networks, and uses technology to keep communities safe and informed. This scholarship would directly support those goals. With less financial stress, I could focus more on my coursework, research opportunities, and projects that explore secure systems, data protection, and tools that help vulnerable communities—such as platforms that connect refugees to resources, or educational tools that remain accessible even in crisis. It would also ease the pressure on my family, who are working against rising costs that they did not create and cannot control. Russia’s war in Ukraine has reminded me that peace, security, and education are never guaranteed—but they are worth fighting for in every way we can. My way is through learning, building, and using my skills to create technology that supports stability, resilience, and human dignity. With support for my education, I can turn the lessons I’ve learned from this war into a career focused on protecting and empowering others.

To me, resilience means adapting when life doesn’t follow the script you planned. Living with a chronic condition has taught me that strength is not about ignoring pain or pretending to be fine—it’s about showing up anyway, finding new solutions when obstacles appear, and building systems of persistence that work for you. As a Computer Science student, I see resilience the same way I see debugging: when something breaks, you don’t give up—you analyze, adjust, and try again until it works. Some days, my chronic condition feels like an endless loop of fatigue or discomfort, but I’ve learned to manage it like a program under constant refinement. I plan my study schedule around my energy levels, use assistive tools to stay organized, and communicate openly with professors about my needs. These strategies have allowed me to keep progressing even when my body demands patience. There are moments when the physical strain makes coding or focusing feel impossible. In those times, I remind myself that persistence is a form of intelligence. I’ve learned to measure success not by how fast I move, but by how consistently I keep going. This mindset has made me a better problem solver—not just in computer science, but in life. Resilience has also given me a purpose beyond academics. I want to use my CS skills to develop technology that supports people living with chronic conditions—apps that help manage symptoms, track energy patterns, or connect users to mental health and accessibility resources. I’ve experienced firsthand how isolating chronic illness can be, and I want to design tools that make support more reachable and affordable. Resilience, to me, is not just surviving—it’s creating. It’s turning struggle into innovation and pain into empathy. Every time I push through a tough day and still sit down to code, I’m reminded that strength is built one decision at a time. My journey as a computer science student with a chronic condition has taught me that resilience is not about having no limits—it’s about redefining what’s possible within them.

My goal is to contribute to a world where mental health care is as accessible as primary care. I would work to create a technology-driven platform that combines artificial intelligence with human empathy to make therapy affordable and culturally inclusive. Using AI chat support, self-guided cognitive behavioral therapy modules, and low-cost telehealth connections, individuals could receive personalized help anytime especially those in rural or underserved areas. I also believe in community-powered mental health networks. I would collaborate with schools, universities, and local organizations to train peer supporters who can provide early intervention and guidance, reducing stigma and encouraging people to seek help before crises occur. By merging data-driven solutions with human-centered design, I aim to break financial and social barriers that prevent access to care. Mental wellness should not depend on income or geography it should be a universal right supported by innovation, compassion, and collaboration.

I come from an Afghan immigrant family, and that shapes almost everything about how we deal with struggle including mental health. My parents came here with the mindset of survival: work hard, stay grateful, don’t complain. They left a country with war, instability, and limited opportunities, so in their eyes, anything here was already “better.” Because of that, talking about feeling anxious, depressed, or overwhelmed wasn’t really part of the vocabulary at home. You pushed through. You reminded yourself how far you’d come. You compared your situation to Afghanistan and told yourself not to be weak. But mental health doesn’t disappear just because you don’t name it. I’ve seen stress sit on my family like a weight in my parents’ faces when bills were due, in the way people shut down after bad news, in the silence after we lost loved ones. Losing my grandparents was especially hard because they were a direct connection to home, to Afghanistan, to our history. We all felt it, but nobody really said, “I’m hurting.” In our culture you stay strong, especially the men, and you don’t add to other people’s burdens. That kind of silence is its own kind of pain. Growing up in the U.S., I got a different perspective. In school and online, people talked about anxiety, trauma, burnout things I recognized in my family but had never heard named in Dari or Pashto. I started to realize that what we called “tired” or “stressed” was sometimes actually depression. What we called “he has a temper” was sometimes unresolved grief from leaving everything behind. That opened my eyes and honestly made me a little sad because I could see how much my parents carried from Afghanistan, from immigration, from starting over, and how little space they had to process it. For me, that’s where mental illness has affected us most: we hold everything in. And when you hold everything in, it leaks out in other ways health issues, arguments, isolation. I’ve had to learn that it’s okay to ask for help earlier, to balance faith with counseling, and to admit that being grateful for a better life here doesn’t cancel out real emotional struggles. Both can be true: we are blessed, and we are healing. This scholarship would help because one of the biggest stressors for first- and second-generation Afghan students is money. When finances are tight, mental health is the first thing to get ignored. If I can lower that pressure, I can focus on finishing my computer science degree and use tech to build better access to information for immigrant communities in plain language, culturally aware, and not judgmental. I want Afghan families and other refugee families to have resources that say, “You’re not weak. You’ve been through a lot. Here’s help.” My family came here to give me a chance. I want to use that chance to break the silence around mental health in our community and make it easier for the next Afghan kid to say, “I need support,” without feeling like they’re dishonoring their parents’ sacrifices.

I love math because it’s the place where things actually make sense. So much of life is messy and based on opinions, but in math there’s a structure: if you follow the rules and understand the ideas, you get to the right answer. That feeling of starting with something confusing and then, step by step, watching it become clear is really satisfying to me. It’s like solving a puzzle, but every piece has a reason for being there. I also like that math is a language you can use to describe the real world. At first it’s just numbers and variables, but then you realize those same ideas can describe how fast something is moving, how interest grows, how data is distributed, or how a computer should make a decision. Once I saw how math shows up in computer science, physics, and even budgeting, it stopped feeling like a school subject and started feeling like a toolkit. Another thing I love is that math rewards effort. You don’t have to be “born good” at it if you practice, if you ask why a formula works instead of just memorizing it, you get better. Coming from a background where I’ve had to figure out a lot of things on my own, I respect subjects that are fair like that. Finally, math teaches you how to think. It forces you to slow down, check your steps, and be precise with your words and symbols. That way of thinking carries over into coding, problem-solving, and even communicating with people. So I don’t just love math for the answers I love it for the mindset it builds: logical, patient, and curious.

I became a fan of Sabrina Carpenter because she’s one of those artists who grew up in front of everyone and still found a way to keep evolving without losing herself. I first knew her from her Disney days, but what made me really pay attention was how she handled the transition from acting to being a serious musician. A lot of people get stuck in that “child star” box, but she kept releasing music, writing sharper lyrics, and slowly earning respect as a real pop artist. That kind of steady growth is something I relate to not blowing up overnight, but getting better with every project. What I love about her music is that it’s clever and emotional at the same time. She can write a line that makes you laugh and then follow it with something that hits a little too close. Songs like hers show that pop doesn’t have to be empty; it can be storytelling, it can be a way of saying “this is where I am right now.” As someone trying to build a future and figure out who I am, I like seeing an artist who isn’t afraid to show different sides funny, hurt, confident, petty, honest. It reminds me that you don’t have to be just one version of yourself to be successful. Her career has impacted me mostly in the way she handles pressure and attention. She’s had moments where the internet was loud about her, and instead of disappearing, she turned it into art. That taught me something: you can’t control what people say, but you can control what you make out of it. I think about that with my own goals in school, in tech, in life because criticism and comparison will always be there. Watching her turn drama into music, and music into performance, shows me that the best response is to keep creating. So yeah, I’m a fan because she’s talented, but also because she models resilience in a really modern way. She’s proof that you can transition, level up, and still have fun with it.

One thing I want to build is a bridge between people in my community and the technology that runs so much of daily life now. I don’t just mean a website or an app I mean building a habit of helping people understand and use tech without feeling embarrassed or “behind.” Growing up in an immigrant, Muslim household, I watched a lot of smart, capable people get stuck on things like online forms, account logins, or cybersecurity warnings. It wasn’t because they couldn’t learn it; it was because no one had slowed down to teach it in a way that respected their time, language, and experience. I want to build a future where I am that person who slows down. Practically, that looks like using my computer science skills to create simple tools and workshops that answer real problems: how to spot phishing, how to apply for school, how to store documents, how to set up two-factor authentication. These sound small compared to “big tech,” but they make a huge difference in whether people actually feel included in the digital world. If your parents can’t access a portal, or your aunt can’t upload something for immigration, or a student can’t submit homework, they’re left out. I want to build resources that prevent that. I also want to build my own career in tech so that I have the credibility and stability to keep doing this long-term. It’s one thing to help a few people; it’s another to be in a position where I can mentor, hire, or create programs for first-gen and immigrant students. That’s the bigger version of this goal: to build a pipeline, not just a one-time favor. If I can build that kind of future where I’m writing code, explaining it, and lifting others up it will help me grow as an engineer and make my community stronger. Technology should be something our people use confidently, not something they’re afraid of. That’s the future I want to build.

Calculus is one of those subjects that can feel abstract when you first take it, but it quietly sits underneath a huge amount of what we do in STEM. At its core, calculus is about change how things grow, shrink, move, accelerate, or level off and STEM is full of problems where understanding change is the whole point. Whether you’re modeling how a disease spreads, how a signal travels through a circuit, how a rocket takes off, or how a machine learning model updates its weights, you’re really asking: “How does this quantity change when something else changes?” That is exactly what calculus was created to answer. The first big idea in calculus, the derivative, tells us the rate of change. In real terms, that means engineers can figure out how fast a temperature is rising, how quickly a chemical reaction is happening, or how the position of a robot arm changes over time. Without that tool, we’d only be able to describe where something is, not where it’s going. STEM fields don’t just care about the current state they care about the future state, the trend. Calculus gives us a language to describe and predict that. The second big idea, integration, does the opposite: it lets us add up tiny pieces to get a total. That shows up everywhere too from finding total energy used, to computing areas and volumes for design, to determining probability over a range of values. A lot of real-world things don’t come in neat, countable chunks. They come as curves, flows, and continuous data. Integration gives us a way to measure those. Calculus is also important because it’s the bridge between theory and application. Physics, for example, is full of laws written as differential equations relationships that say “the rate of change of this equals that.” Electrical engineering uses calculus to study signals and systems. Computer science even uses calculus in places people don’t expect, like optimization for machine learning: gradient descent, the method behind training many models, is literally “follow the negative derivative until you get to the minimum.” If you understand calculus, those topics stop being magic and start being logical. There’s another reason calculus matters in STEM: it trains you to think in limits and approximations. Real systems are messy. We can’t always get a perfect formula, but we can approximate behavior near a point, or over a small interval, or when a variable gets very large. That kind of thinking “what happens as this approaches that?” is crucial for doing science and engineering in the real world. It makes you precise. So, calculus isn’t just a hurdle on the way to a degree. It’s a foundational tool that lets STEM professionals model reality, design better systems, and make predictions with confidence. When you understand how and why things change, you can build technology that responds to the world instead of just describing it. That’s why calculus has stayed in the STEM toolbox for centuries because we still need to understand change.

Losing my grandpa was the first real moment in my life when I understood that time is not guaranteed. He wasn’t just a relative to me he was one of the people who believed I could do more, even when the path wasn’t clear. When he passed, it felt like a part of my support system was gone, and I had to learn how to keep moving without someone I loved cheering me on. Grief is strange because it doesn’t show up all at once; it shows up in quiet moments, in memories, in the “I wish I could tell him this” feeling. What I learned from that loss was that I had two choices: let it slow me down, or let it become fuel. I chose the second. I decided that if he believed in my future, I should live like it matters. That’s part of why this scholarship would mean a lot. My family already works hard, and every bit of financial support I get makes it easier for me to focus on school and projects instead of just worrying about how to pay for the next semester. When I have that breathing room, I can actually give back tutoring other students, helping immigrant families with tech, or building simple tools for community groups that don’t have a developer. I come from a background where people help each other even when they don’t have much, and I want to keep that going but with the skills I’m learning in computer science. This scholarship would help me turn that intention into action. The funny part is that something as small as stamp collecting also shaped how I look at life. Collecting stamps made me pay attention to little details designs, dates, countries, stories behind each stamp. It taught me patience and appreciation. You don’t always get the rare stamp right away, but the process of looking, organizing, and learning becomes the reward. That mindset spilled into other parts of my life. I started noticing the “small wins”: finishing a hard assignment, helping a classmate understand code, supporting my family. Stamp collecting reminded me that life is made of tiny, beautiful pieces and if you only chase the big moments, you miss most of it. So if you put it all together losing my grandpa, wanting to honor my family’s sacrifices, enjoying small details, and working toward a tech career my goal is pretty simple: use what I’m learning to make things better for people around me. This scholarship would take some weight off my shoulders so I can do exactly that.

“Begin the morning by saying to yourself, ‘I shall meet with the busybody, the ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, unsocial. All these things happen to them by reason of their ignorance of what is good and evil. But I, who have seen the nature of the good that it is beautiful, and of the bad that it is ugly, and the nature of the wrongdoer himself, that it is akin to me, not only of the same blood or seed, but that it participates in the same intelligence and the same portion of the divinity, I can neither be injured by any of them, for no one can fix on me what is ugly, nor can I be angry with my kinsman, nor hate him. For we are made for cooperation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of the upper and lower teeth. To act against one another, then, is contrary to nature; and it is acting against one another to be vexed and to turn away.’” Thesis: Marcus Aurelius is not telling us to tolerate annoying people out of mere politeness; he is arguing that other people’s faults cannot truly harm our moral core, and that the rational response to human ignorance is cooperation, not resentment, because we share the same divine rational nature. This paragraph looks, on the surface, like a pep talk for a grumpy morning. But its structure is actually philosophical: Marcus begins with a prediction (“I shall meet…”) and then gives a reason why those people behave badly (“ignorance of what is good and evil”), and ends with a conclusion about how we should act (“we are made for cooperation”). That is, he moves from expectation to explanation to obligation. He wants us to start the day already armed with the right interpretation of other people’s behavior so that we don’t surrender our character to their moods. The opening line matters: “Begin the morning by saying to yourself…” The Stoics believed that the battle for virtue starts in how we frame events. If I walk into the day assuming things should go smoothly, every interruption feels like an injustice. Marcus says: assume the opposite. Expect the ungrateful, the arrogant, the envious. Not because the world is doomed, but because people act from mistaken views of good and evil. This is crucial: he does not excuse their behavior, but he explains it. Wrongdoing, for him, is the result of ignorance, not of some rival metaphysical power. If they knew the good as the good, they would choose it. That is pure Stoic psychology. Next, he turns the lens on himself: “But I, who have seen the nature of the good…” He draws a contrast between the ignorant many and the person who has reflected on what truly matters. For Marcus, the good is “beautiful” meaning it is intrinsically worthy while evil is “ugly” meaning it is a deformation of reason. Once I recognize that, I don’t need other people’s approval to stay good. Their arrogance can’t make me arrogant; their envy can’t make me envious. This is what he means by “I can neither be injured by any of them, for no one can fix on me what is ugly.” They can insult me, exclude me, or misunderstand me, but they cannot install vice inside me without my consent. Injury, in Stoicism, is moral, not social. Then comes the most radical part: the wrongdoer “is akin to me.” Marcus widens the circle. He does not say, “I will ignore them because I am above them.” He says, “They participate in the same intelligence and the same portion of the divinity.” This is Stoic cosmopolitanism: all rational beings share in the same logos. If that’s true, then resenting them is like resenting your own hand. Their failure is a family failure. So anger which pretends that the other is alien is philosophically false. It denies our shared source. This sets up his final image: “We are made for cooperation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids…” This is a brilliant metaphor because each part of the body is different, but all work toward one life. Eyelids do not complain that hands get more attention; upper and lower teeth don’t refuse to meet. To “act against one another” is, therefore, “contrary to nature.” That’s his key claim: anger and withdrawal feel justified, but they’re actually unnatural in the Stoic sense they break the unity of rational beings. So when he says “to be vexed and to turn away” is acting against one another, he’s redefining what we usually call strength. For Marcus, strength is not snapping back; strength is maintaining rational benevolence when others lose theirs. So the underlying meaning is this: other people’s faults are a test of our philosophy, not a license to abandon it. If we truly believe humans share a rational, divine nature, then the correct response to ignorance is steady goodwill and continued cooperation. Their behavior does not excuse our anger; our nature forbids it.

Entering higher education as an outsider to the system feels a little like showing up to a game everyone else has been playing for years and trying to learn the rules while it’s already in motion. As a first/second-generation immigrant student, a lot of things that seem automatic for other people college visits, FAFSA, talking to parents about majors, even knowing what office to email weren’t automatic for me. My family always valued education, but the American college system is a very specific maze, and they didn’t have a map for it. That meant I had to become the person in the family who figured things out, asked questions, and translated everything back into language and context that made sense at home. One of my biggest concerns early on was, “Do I belong here as much as everyone else?” When you don’t see many students with your background, religion, or last name, it’s easy to feel like you have to prove that you’re not a mistake. On top of that, immigrant families often carry real responsibilities working while in school, helping with paperwork, supporting younger siblings so it’s not just about passing classes, it’s about balancing two worlds. At home, you’re needed. At school, you’re competing. That tension is real. But being an outsider has also become one of my strengths. Because I didn’t have everything handed to me, I learned how to ask for help, how to read official documents carefully, how to email professors, and how to advocate for myself. I became resourceful. I realized that higher education rewards the people who are willing to knock on doors, go to office hours, and find the right person and being an immigrant student already trained me to navigate unfamiliar systems. This experience has shaped my future goals in a big way. I don’t just want to get my degree in computer science and disappear into the tech industry. I want to stay connected to students like me first-gen, immigrant, Muslim, or just “new” to higher ed and make their path less confusing than mine was. I want to build tools, clubs, or mentoring spaces where students can ask the “basic” questions without feeling ashamed. I also want to show my family and community that higher education is not something “for other people,” it’s something we can claim too. I still have concerns about cost, about fitting in professionally, about being one of the few people of color in certain tech spaces but I’ve learned that being an outsider gives you perspective. You notice who gets left out. You notice when websites aren’t clear. You notice when advisors assume everyone has parents who went to college. That perspective is valuable. It means in the future I can design things whether that’s software, programs, or student support that actually include the students we usually overlook. So yes, I’m an outsider to the system. But that’s exactly why I want to stay in it long enough to change it.

I grew up watching one parent do the work of two. That shapes you. In a single-parent household, nothing “just happens” in the background — every ride, every bill, every school form, every late-night conversation is someone choosing to show up even when they’re tired. Seeing that kind of steady effort made me understand responsibility earlier than most kids. I learned that if something needed to get done, I couldn’t always wait for someone else to do it. That mindset is a big part of why I push myself now in school and why I take my future so seriously. It also made me very aware of how thin the margin can be for families like mine. One unexpected expense, one broken car, one medical bill — and everything gets tight. That’s part of why I’m driven to build a stable future. I don’t want my parent to carry that weight forever. I want to be able to say, “You took care of me. Now I can take care of you.” When you grow up like that, success isn’t just about you. It’s about easing the load for the person who carried you. At the same time, being raised this way taught me empathy. I saw how systems aren’t always built for single-parent or immigrant families — the forms assume two signatures, the school meetings assume two schedules, and tech support assumes everyone has time. That’s part of why I like the idea of using my talents to make things simpler for people. Even if I don’t have every career detail figured out yet, I know I want to be the kind of person who builds solutions that real families can use — tools that are clear, affordable, and respectful of people’s time. In a future I picture for myself, I’m working in tech or a related field, using my problem-solving skills to help people navigate life more easily — maybe building apps for students who are the first in their family to go to college, maybe creating secure, simple platforms for community organizations, maybe mentoring younger kids who are growing up the way I did. I want to make technology feel less like a barrier and more like a bridge. That’s how I can turn my experiences into impact. Most importantly, I want to stay connected to where I came from. Growing up in a single-parent household taught me to be grateful, to work hard even when no one sees it, and to remember that small acts — explaining something, building a tool, giving someone a chance — can make a big difference. Whatever career I end up in, I want to carry that forward. If I can make life a little easier for families like mine, then everything I went through will have meant something.

I chose to pursue a degree in STEM, specifically computer science, because it gives me the ability to turn problems into solutions. Growing up as the son of immigrants and a Muslim student, I saw a lot of situations where people weren’t struggling because they weren’t smart — they were struggling because the systems around them weren’t built for them. Forms were confusing, websites weren’t translated, cybersecurity wasn’t explained, and nobody in the family worked in tech. I realized early on that technology is the new infrastructure of life, and if I could learn how to build it, I could make things easier not only for myself, but for my community. STEM also attracted me because it’s honest. Code either runs or it doesn’t. A model either performs or it doesn’t. Coming from a disadvantaged background, that kind of merit-based space feels empowering. I don’t have generations of relatives in the industry or people to “pull me in,” but I can learn the skills, build projects, and show what I can do. Computer science gives me a path to economic stability, but it also gives me creative power: I can build a tool for a community center, an app that teaches digital hygiene, or a system that protects students from basic phishing attacks. That’s exciting to me — using technical skills to solve real human problems. As a person of color in STEM, I hope to make an impact in two main ways. First, by building technology that actually considers people like us. A lot of software is made for users who already have Wi-Fi, already know English, already understand privacy, and already have time. That’s not everyone. I want to work on tools that are clearer, safer, and more accessible — especially for first-generation students, immigrant families, and people who don’t have a tech background. Whether that’s in cybersecurity, ed-tech, or public-facing software, I want my work to lower the barrier to participation. Second, I want to be visible and generous with what I learn. Representation sounds like a buzzword, but it really matters. When students of color don’t see themselves in STEM classrooms, labs, or companies, it’s easy to think, “Maybe this isn’t for me.” I’ve felt that before. My goal is to get into the tech industry and then reach back — mentoring, running workshops, and showing others how to apply, interview, and build portfolios. If I can make the path clearer for the next Muslim, first-gen, or immigrant kid who likes computers but doesn’t know where to start, then my degree is doing more than just paying my bills. In short, I chose STEM because it’s the most direct way for me to turn my background into impact. I understand what it feels like to navigate systems that weren’t designed for you, so I want to be one of the people designing the next ones.

I grew up wanting to be a professional soccer player. That was the first dream the kind where you stay after practice, watch YouTube highlights, and imagine your family in the stands. What stayed from that dream wasn’t just soccer, but the mindset: show up, work harder than people expect, don’t quit because the odds aren’t in your favor. I’ve carried that same mindset into computer science. My bigger goal now is to become a software/cybersecurity professional who builds useful tools and then opens doors for other first-gen, immigrant, and Muslim students. I already do that on a small scale helping classmates debug code, explaining tech in plain English to people who didn’t grow up with laptops, and staying active in campus/community spaces where people like me are underrepresented. That’s my way of giving back: use the skill I actually have to make things less confusing for the next person. Money and time have been the hardest parts. There isn’t a family playbook for college, and sometimes the priority is just paying for the semester. That’s what being from a disadvantaged background has looked like for me: balancing school, family, and trying to build a real portfolio with very limited resources. I haven’t had the luxury to “just focus on school,” but I’ve kept going anyway. This scholarship would give me breathing room. It would let me spend more hours building projects and applying to internships instead of working extra shifts. Personally, it would let me support my family sooner. Professionally, it would move me closer to breaking into tech where I can use that same drive I had in soccer to help my community, not just myself.

Being a first-generation college student means I’m walking into rooms my family never got to enter, carrying their hopes with me. My parents came here to give us a better chance, not because it was easy, but because they believed sacrifice would mean opportunity for their kids. As the son of immigrants and a Muslim student, I’ve grown up translating language, culture, and expectations and now I’m doing a new kind of translating: taking college, computer science, and the tech world and making it make sense for my family. It hasn’t been a straight path. I’ve had to figure out FAFSA, degree plans, and internships mostly on my own. There isn’t someone at home who can tell me, “Take this professor” or “This is how you negotiate an offer.” At the same time, I’ve had to balance school with family responsibilities, and I’ve done it while processing loss losing my grandmother and grandfather reminded me how short life is and how important it is to actually use the opportunities we’re given. That loss pushed me to stop treating school like “just classes” and start treating it like the tool it is. What drives me is simple: I want to break into the tech industry and become the person little-me would have needed. Computer science is the field where I can build things that matter secure systems, helpful apps, tools for people who don’t have a tech background. I want to show that a kid from an immigrant, Muslim household can go from “I don’t know how any of this works” to “I can ship real software.” I also want to lift others up behind me other first-gen students, other Muslims, other kids of immigrants who think tech isn’t for them. This scholarship would make a real difference. It would let me focus more on learning and projects not just on paying for school. That means more time to build my portfolio, apply to internships, and get closer to that first role in tech. It would also take pressure off my family, who have already given up a lot so I can be here. I don’t take that lightly. I’m not claiming to have it all figured out. But I do have a clear purpose: finish my degree, get into tech, and turn this first-gen experience into a pathway for others. Helping me now helps more than one person it helps the family and community standing behind me.

Being a first-generation college student shapes almost everything about how I think of my future. I don’t just see a degree as something personal; I see it as a door that my family hasn’t had before. Because no one in my immediate family has gone through this process, I’m very aware that every class I pass and every skill I learn becomes a kind of family resource. That makes me take my career path more seriously I want a job that’s stable, pays well, and lets me help the people who helped me get here. It also makes me lean toward roles in computer science where I can create access for others. I know what it feels like to not have someone to ask, “How do I set this up?” or “How do I apply for this internship?” So I want to be the kind of engineer who not only builds things but also explains them. Long term, I’d like to work in areas like cybersecurity or educational tech, where the tools we build actually make it easier for students or communities to participate safely online. That connects back to my background: I want tech to work for people like my family, not just for people who already understand it. Finally, being first-gen gives me a sense of responsibility. I don’t want to be the only one who makes it through I want to make it easier for the next person. That means mentoring younger students, documenting what I learn, and choosing workplaces that value inclusion. My career goals aren’t just “get a good job”; they’re “use computer science to open up opportunities that weren’t there for us before.”

Most of the projects I’m proud of started because someone said, “This is taking too long,” or “We don’t really have a tool for that.” I like those moments because they’re an invitation to tinker. One of the clearest examples was when I was working on our cybersecurity bootcamp idea for first-year students at CU Boulder. The whole goal of that project was to reduce basic, preventable security incidents by giving students hands-on training phishing simulations, password hygiene, device updates but the plan was written at a high level, not wired up to something people could actually click on yet. I wanted to show that we could make it concrete fast. So I hacked together a lightweight prototype: a small web flow that sent a mock “phishing” email, tracked who clicked, and then immediately showed a short explanation page about what they missed. It wasn’t production-grade, but it closed the loop in a way people weren’t expecting. Instead of just talking about “simulated phishing exercises,” I showed them, in real time, how a student would experience it: get an email, make a choice, get feedback. Watching people try it was the fun part they went from “oh, this is theoretical” to “okay, I could actually roll this out during orientation.” That reaction surprise plus relief is the kind of delight I try to create: take something that sounds heavy and make it feel usable right now. That same mindset shows up in my software work. On our movie e-commerce project, I wasn’t just writing routes; I optimized the backend so pages loaded faster, and I added search and filtering so teammates could actually demo the site without waiting or digging for items. A 20% improvement in page load sounds small on paper, but for the team it meant, “We can show this to people without apologizing first.” I like making the experience smoother for the people around me, whether that’s classmates, instructors, or a future user. Because my career is in computer science, “giving back” often looks like this kind of rapid problem-solving: see friction, build a tool, explain it simply. The cybersecurity work especially matters to me because first-year students are the ones most likely to get hit by phishing or bad passwords, and a small interactive tool can protect a lot of people at once. That’s the engineer version of service: use code to multiply impact. Going forward, I want to keep doing exactly that building small, targeted systems that make security training and technical tasks less intimidating, and sharing those with students or campus groups who don’t have their own developer. If I can keep making people say, “Wait, we can actually do it like that?” then I know the tinkering was worth it.

Community service, to me, is the practice of using what you have—your time, skills, and position—to improve the conditions of the people around you. It isn’t just volunteering in a formal setting, though that matters; it’s a mindset that asks, “How can I make this easier for someone else?” I grew up seeing how a lack of access to technology, information, or guidance can hold people back. That made me realize that service isn’t always about money or big projects. Sometimes it’s translating something complicated into plain language, sometimes it’s helping a local group organize better, and sometimes it’s simply showing up consistently. At its core, community service is about responsibility: if I have a skill that could help someone, I shouldn’t keep it to myself. Because I am pursuing a career in computer science, I feel like I have an opportunity to serve in a way that is practical and scalable. Technology touches almost every part of life now, but not everyone benefits from it equally. There are students who are smart but don’t know where to start with coding. There are small community organizations that still use paper because no one has built them a simple tool. There are families that don’t understand basic online security. These are all areas where a computer scientist can make an immediate difference. One way I plan to give back is through tech education. I want to help younger students—especially those from underrepresented backgrounds—learn basic programming, how to set up a GitHub, how to apply for tech internships, and how to present their projects. Exposure is a huge factor in who ends up in computer science. If I can mentor or run small workshops, I can help lower that barrier for someone else the way I wish it had been lowered for me. Another way is by building tools for real local needs. Not every nonprofit or cultural center can afford a developer, but many of them need a simple website, an event sign-up form, or a way to track volunteers. Those are projects I can do alongside my main career. They may not be flashy, but they make community work smoother, and they show people that technology can work for them, not just at them. Finally, I want to give back through the kind of work I choose to do. Computer science has a huge impact on privacy, access to information, education, and security. I want to stay in spaces where my technical skills help people stay safer online, learn more easily, or access services. To me, that’s also community service—aligning my career with outcomes that help people, not just generate profit. In short, community service is about using your abilities in service of others. My ability happens to be in technology, so that’s where I plan to serve.