On my 13th birthday I was at my father's hospital bedside, as he'd suffered an ischemic stroke a couple days before. Terrified at the constant thought of my father dying, unveiled anxiety in my tiny 13 year old body. High blood pressure and strokes are my family's curse. Intrusive thoughts crept inside my head about my fate. Would I end up like my father, his father? The anxiety took its toll, my blood pressure spiking at the sight of a blood pressure machine. Eventually constant strokes caused the onset of dementia and depression in my father. Everyday of 9th-11th grade, before and after school I'd help my dad use the bathroom, eat, and groom. The roles were now reversed. Once during distance learning in the midst of the global pandemic, my dad had an incontinent episode that I had to clean, causing me to miss class. I cried after seeing him like that and cried even more when my teacher asked me why I wasn't on google meets. That's when I realized my dad may not recover. My dad was a biology teacher, a learner, and I wanted to be just like him. I coped by helping care for my father, exploring my interests in medicine, and focusing on school. I maintained straight A's, took AP classes, made honor roll, enrolled in Dual enrollment, and joined my school's Medical Pathway. I wanted to make him proud during the little time he had left. I couldn't control the course of life for others, but I knew I could control mine, and I made Academics and healthcare my target. Parallel to my teenage, years I watched as my once ambitious father became unrecognizable. His mental health was his demise, hindering any room for psychical recovery. On September 7, 2022, on my 17th birthday, almost a year after his death, I wished my father was still here to see all I've become. I make sure my grades are more than perfect, not letting my fathers death be a deterrent but a motivation. During my summers, I work as certified nursing assistant where I help the disabled, elderly, and individuals with mental ailments with their activities of daily living. Now I want to pursue Psychiatry where I can help hundreds of people struggling with mental health, people like myself, people who may not be able to help themselves, people like my father.

I don’t believe in magic. At least thats what I used to think. The day I saw my depressed father, once surrounded by clouds of gloom beam as he spoke of his aspirations, I became a believer . The effects of magic, a tiny anxiety pill called Ativan, taken only to help my father ease through a simple procedure, completely changed my father in that moment. Some might say “that’s just modern medicine,” to me it was everything, it was magic. It was my thirteenth birthday when my dad had his first stroke. As I sat at his hospital bedside, my only wish on that birthday was for my father to live. Strokes and high blood pressure seemed to conquer my lineage and the thought of it unveiled anxiety in my thirteen year old body. My blood pressure spiked at the sight of a blood pressure machine as the apprehension built inside me. Doctors started to consider the unusual event that an underweight thirteen year old girl could have high blood pressure. From my trembling hands to my constant headaches, I kept it to myself. Being from an African household, often times it was reiterated that mental health was an “American” thing, a weakness. I coped by focusing on school, volunteering, joining my high school’s medical program, and taking care of my dad. Once he was cleared of physical aliments he was too far gone mentally to ever recover. The constant strokes caused depression and the onset of dementia in my father. So hopeless, he made no effort to improve. A part of me used to blame him, but I know better. I know that mental alimnets can be crippling physically. In November 2021, my father suffered one last stroke and met his end. Today I realize that mental health and physical health coexist, always. If one aspect of those two things is jeopardized, equilibrium will cease to exist in our intricate systems. From my spiking blood pressure induced by emotions to my dad’s deteriorating state, one of the most important things to me in life is mental health. When I think back to the time my dad took Ativan to go through an mri, seeing the effects it had on him, how he lit up our home in an instant, I am dumbfounded . With the power to change mental state like magic, I knew I wanted to be a magician. The experiences I’ve had surrounding mental health has solidified my desire to become a Psychiatrist. I want to help talk people through their problems and find solutions that work. Solutions that save lives. I desire to help underserved communities all over the world. Back home in Sierra Leone West Africa, the whole country only has one practicing psychiatrist. The lack of communal concern in the Black and African American community regarding mental health fills me with indignation. When I pursue psychiatry I won’t forget about my people back home. In high school , I was a part of my schools medical academy where I received my Certified Nursing assistant along with graduating high school. I also took the initiative to intern at my local Adventist health hospital with the COPE health scholars program, where I shadowed nurses and doctors, discovering what I really wanted out of medicine. I make it a habit to challenge my self because I know I can do better, be better. Right now I am setting my foundation for a career in medicine. A foundation to a long road, the road to becoming a magician.

I come from a household of strong, independent women. Women who provide and nurture not only at home, but in their careers as nurses. My mom who was a refugee from the west African country of Sierra Leone in the 90s came to America with many dreams. She started as a certified nursing assistant, and later on became a registered nurse. Throughout my lifetime, she has consistently told me education is one thing no one can take away from you. By nature, I believe I’m an inquisitive person. I was always the kid with the "whys" asking "How did they die?," or "What disease did they have?" My inquisitive nature is what sparked my liking for medical sciences and healthcare. Additionally, my father was sick my first few years of high school, as his strokes were never ending, causing depression and the onset of dementia. This was a rough time for my family and I not only because of the global pandemic, but because my dad just kept getting worse. I remember one day my dad had to get an MRI after a stroke. Though because he was irritated with the loud noises the machine made they had to give him Ativan. The effects of magic, taken only to help my father ease through a simple procedure, completely changed my father in that moment. My once depressed and gloomy father was beaming as he spoke of his aspirations and going back to teach high school biology. The effect of the pill eventually wore off. Some might say “that’s just modern medicine,” to me it was everything, it was magic. In that moment, I knew I wanted to be a magician. I wanted to be a Psychiatrist. In High school, I worked hard, got my certified nursing assistant license through my high school, and interned at Adventist health hospital as a Cope health scholar. During this time, I realized this is where I was meant to be. I wanted to be surrounded by medical professionals who loved saving lives, mentally and physically. Currently, I am working as a certified nursing assistant at a rehabilitation and assisted living facility. All day I am surrounded by strong, intelligent women. Because of these women, the elderly and disabled population are allowed to thrive and find strength. Every day fulfillment washes over me as I help the elderly and disabled population with their activities of daily living. The care and bonds created transcends generations of people. Presently I am a second year student at UCLA studying Psychobiology on the premed track. I am involved in clubs, where we teach people how to prevent life-threatening bleeding, research on strokes and dementia, as well as cultural clubs, serving underserved communities. The impact I hope to have as a woman in healthcare comes, not only just from being a woman, but being a woman of color. As a woman of color, I could bring different perspectives on patient care, norms and more! As a woman, I aspire to inspire others generationally just like the woman in my life have inspired me and sprinkled the passion for healthcare and helping others. We hear all the time that women and minority communities are underrepresented when it comes to medicaI developments. Advocacy is something that is very important to me. One day I also hope to advocate for women in west Africa who have high maternity death rates. I want to be a representation for my community and women all over the world who think aspiring to be a nurse, or doctor, or anything for that matter is an unattainable feat.

When it comes to academic performance, in the past, I would describe myself as a perfectionist. I now realize my perfectionist tendencies were a reflection of my fear of failure, self doubt, anxiety, and compulsiveness. I would put so much pressure on myself and the the need for academic validation was consuming. As I’ve gotten older I have slowly released the academic pressure put on me from my parents and myself. During my freshman, sophomore and junior year of high school, I watched my father‘s health declined from strokes, depression and the onset of dementia. In this moment, I truly realized tgat when we’re not doing well, physically, that affects us mentally. Likewise, not doing well mentally affect us very much so physically. As a watched my fathers health decline My mental health was also not so great. My anxiety would cause my blood pressure to skyrocket if I ever seen a blood pressure machine because I was so scared of ending up in the vulnerable position my father was in. During this time was also a global pandemic And I noticed that whenever things in my personal life may not be going to great. I focused on my academics and use my problems as a motivation to do better. After three years of being sick, my father passed and I wish he was here to see all my accomplishments I’ve made at UCLA. I wish I could tell him that I used his death as a motivation instead of a deterrent. I’ve always had an anxiety around tests like many people, but sometimes anxiety for me means being too meticulous and spending too long on one thing. Going over and over my work. In my personal life, whenever I have anxiety around school or just generally, I find myself being less disciplined and taking less care of myself. In my first year of university at UCLA I noticed that sometimes when I’m anxious, I consume more junk food. This in turn leads to things like weight gain and feeling less confident. This takes us out of the realm of academic, but personally too, when in social spaces. Currently I am a psychobiology major at UCLA so I value things like mental health and the behavioral aspects affecting us on a physical level as well. As I just finished my first year, this past June, one thing I did to make mental health a priority was becoming at mental health first aider with the National Council of Mental Well Being. I took this step to not only look after my own well being, but for those around me. Another step I took to make my mental health priority was openly talking and confiding in my close friends. There were many times my friends and I had heart-to-heart talks in the dorm room. Often times we would talk about our worries, academically, socially, or at home. It’s easy to bottle stress and problems down sometimes finding a space to openly share with those you trust, helps relieve an enormous pressure. And I don’t just do this with my friends, but recently started doing it with my mother. Growing up In a strict west African household, things such as education and image were prioritized before mental health. So reaching out to my mother about how I was feeling or venting was something that was hard to do. I soon realized confiding in my mother takes a huge boulder off my chest. These are some ways I prioritize my mental health. I will continue to do so and help others on the way!

I don’t believe in magic. At least thats what I used to think. The day I saw my depressed father who suffered from the onset of dementia, once surrounded by clouds of gloom beam as he spoke of his aspirations, I became a believer. The effects of magic, a tiny anxiety pill called Ativan, taken only to help my father ease through a simple procedure, completely changed my father in that moment. Some might say “that’s just modern medicine,” to me it was everything, it was magic. It was my thirteenth birthday when my dad had his first stroke. As I sat at his hospital bedside, my only wish on that birthday was for my father to live. Strokes and high blood pressure seemed to conquer my lineage and the thought of it unveiled anxiety in my thirteen year old body. My blood pressure spiked at the sight of a blood pressure machine as the apprehension built inside me. Doctors started to consider the unusual event that an underweight thirteen year old girl could have high blood pressure. From my trembling hands to my constant headaches, I kept it to myself, except for the occasions I would confide in my father that would comfort me. Being from an African household, often times it was reiterated that mental health was an “American” thing, a weakness. I coped by focusing on school, volunteering, joining my high school’s medical program, and taking care of my dad. It seemed once he was cleared of physical aliments he was too far gone mentally to ever recover. The constant strokes caused depression and the onset of dementia in my father. My once ambitious father slipped through my fingers like quicksand, until he was unrecognizable. He started giving up slowly becoming non compliant. I remember having to put his medications in his mouth and making sure he swallowed it. Making sure he wouldn’t flush the very thing keeping him alive down the toilet. And I mean that literally. So hopeless, he made no effort to improve. A part of me used to blame him, but I know better. I know that mental alimnets can be crippling physically. Last November, my father suffered one last stroke and met his end. On my 17th birthday, I cried realizing my special day without the man I loved the most was anything but special. Today I realize that mental/ cognitive health and physical health coexist, always. If one aspect of those two things is jeopardized, equilibrium will cease to exist in our intricate systems. From my spiking blood pressure induced by emotions to my dad’s deteriorating state, one of the most important things to me in life is mental health. When I think back to the time my dad took Ativan to go through an mri, seeing the effects it had on him, how he lit up our home in an instant, I am dumbfounded . With the power to change mental state like magic, I knew I wanted to be a magician. The experiences I’ve had surrounding mental health has solidified my desire to become a Psychiatrist. I want to help talk people through their problems and find solutions that work. Solutions that save lives. Back home in Sierra Leone West Africa, the whole country only has one practicing psychiatrist. The lack of communal concern in the Black and African American community regarding mental health fills me with indignation. When I pursue psychiatry I wont forget about my people back home. Now I am a certified nursing assistant also took the initiative to intern at my local hospital with the COPE health scholars program, where I shadowed nurses and doctors, discovering what I really want out of medicine. Currently, I am also trying to get into research focusing on the effect strokes have on the brain in terms of dementia. I make it a habit to challenge my self because I know I can do better, be better. Right now I am setting my foundation for a career in medicine. A foundation to a long road, the road to becoming a magician.

From young age, I was told the one thing nobody can take away from you is your education. That comment coming from my matriarch who fled war in the west African country of Sierra Leone to give her children a better life, left a lasting impact on me. A woman who had a passion for healthcare and made a successful career out of it, sprinkled such strength, passion, and persistence onto her children. Through my passion for healthcare and helping underserved communities is how I embody the B.A.B.Y. L.O.V.E. spirit. From my time in high school I interned up my local Adventist health Hospital for over three months where I helped with simple patient care and did a lot of secretary work. During this time, I also was a part of my schools, black student union as the club secretary, where I often planned events and organized outreach in our community. At University during my first year, I was a part of UCLA Think Tourniquet, and taught my peers as well as high school students the steps to take in the event somebody is having life-threatening bleeding. We taught method such as pressure, packing, and the use of a tourniquet in the case somebody is the victim of a car crash, gun, violence, and etc. When it came to the community aspect, I was a part of UCLA’s academic supports programs spring internship, where we learned about different minority groups and their history. I then went on to shadow different organizations, catering to African-American students. I was involved in the creation of curriculum building for a four week summer program for educating young minds in the Crenshaw area. The curriculum coming from a retention program at UCLA taught the students age 12 to 18 all about college, professional etiquette, networking, and much more. Additionally, I am involved in the club UCLA healthcare for homelessness where we volunteer to help people who may be less fortunate in the LA area. Currently, I am working as a certified nursing assistant at an assisted living and rehabilitation facility. I help the elderly and disabled improve with activities of daily living, and that is how I am currently giving back to my community. I love it and I couldn’t be any happier. As I soon start my second undergraduate year at UCLA I hope to be a part of many more efforts to help my community and those in need. After my bachelors in Psychobiology, I plan on going to medical school with the ultimate goal and becoming a psychiatrist. This is how I dream of reaching and helping my community, especially as mental health is so often disregarded. I plan on serving under served areas and aiding in reducing the stigma against mental health.

On my 13th birthday I was at my father's hospital bedside, as he'd suffered an ischemic stroke a couple days before. Terrified at the constant thought of my father dying, unveiled anxiety in my tiny 13 year old body. High blood pressure and strokes are my family's curse. Intrusive thoughts crept inside my head about my fate. Would I end up like my father, his father? The anxiety took its toll, my blood pressure spiking at the sight of a blood pressure machine. Everyday of 9th-11th grade, before and after school I'd help my dad use the bathroom, eat, and groom. The roles were now reversed. Once during distance learning, my dad had an incontinent episode that I had to clean, causing me to miss class. I cried after seeing him like that and cried even more when my teacher asked me why I wasn't on google meets. That's when I realized my dad may not recover. My dad was a biology teacher, a learner, and I wanted to be just like him. I coped by helping care for my father, exploring my interests in medicine, and focusing on school. I maintained straight A's, took AP classes, made honor roll, enrolled in Dual enrollment, and joined my school's Medical Pathway. I wanted to make him proud during the little time he had left. I couldn't control the course of life for others, but I knew I could control mine, and I made Academics my target. Parallel to my teenage years I watched as my once ambitious father became unrecognizable. His mental health was his demise, hindering any room for psychical recovery. On September 7, 2022, on my 17th birthday, almost a year after his death, I wished my father was still here to see all I've become. I make sure my grades are more than perfect, not letting my fathers death be a deterrent but a motivation. Now I want to pursue Psychiatry where I can help hundreds of people struggling with mental health, people like myself, people who may not be able to help themselves, people like my father. This struggle of having a sick parent who has now passed on, has made me stronger in my desire to advocate for mental health along with physical health in minority communities. Now at UCLA I am majoring in psychobiology where I further understand behavior and cognitive function through a biological lens. My adversity gave me purpose. Now I am a part of clubs like Think Tourniquet At UCLA, where I teach fellow students and high school students how to treat an individual in the event of life-threatening bleeding. I am also currently part of UCLA Healthcare for Homelessness, and I am looking to get into research regarding the role strokes play in causing dementia. To the people out there facing the same circumstances with a sick parent or a parent who has passed on I say, let your adversity and your loss be your fuel to advocate for yourself, your loved ones, and people around the world. Use the lessons that you’ve learned from your adversities and better the communities that surround you.