I was ten when I was diagnosed. I remember just how tense the atmosphere in the doctor’s office was—my mother by my bedside doing her best to stifle a cry. It hurt me to see her saddened by the news, and yet ten-year-old me didn’t share that fear. I had an unusual sense of calm, given I was told I’d be required to prick myself with needles for the rest of my life. Even then, I had trust: trust that my doctors knew what they were doing, trust that my mother would regain her strength and believe once again that things would be okay, trust that I would learn to make space in my life for my chronic illness, and trust that the many doctor’s visits to come wouldn’t bring anxiety and uncertainty, but confirmation that I was taking care of myself—and might one day do the same for my own patients. Living with a chronic condition has shaped every aspect of my life, from my daily routines to my long-term aspirations. It has taught me resilience, adaptability, and the importance of self-advocacy. I have learned to anticipate challenges, plan carefully, and respond with creativity when things don’t go as expected. These lessons have not only helped me manage my own health, but have also inspired me to support others facing similar obstacles. The hundreds of doctor’s visits I’ve attended over the past eight years have shown me just how essential it is for healthcare providers to work hand in hand with both child patients and their parents. I know firsthand how important it is not to dismiss or ignore a child’s presence in the exam room, but instead to empower them to speak up, ask questions, and advocate for their own care. I am forever grateful for my own providers, who made those cold, alcohol-scented offices feel warm through even the smallest interactions. I remember them treating me with respect, meeting me at eye level, and showing me compassion—simple gestures that made a profound difference in my experience and ultimately led to better care. What inspires me to excel, despite the limitations, is the knowledge that every act of perseverance can ripple outward and change lives. As a first-generation immigrant, I am deeply grateful for the support and resources that have allowed me to manage my condition and pursue my ambitions. This awareness drives me to give back. I am committed to a future in pediatric medicine, where I hope to bring the same sense of assurance to children living with chronic illnesses that my care team once gave me. I want to offer parents the relief of knowing that I understand the fear and uncertainty they may feel—and that I will do everything in my power to care for their child with empathy, dedication, and compassion. My goal is not only to treat a condition, but to support the whole family through the journey, offering both medical guidance and emotional reassurance. Ultimately, my journey with a chronic condition has taught me that empowerment comes not only from overcoming personal challenges but also from lifting others up. I strive to be a source of encouragement and practical support for those navigating similar paths, whether through mentorship, advocacy, or direct patient care. By sharing my experiences and championing continued progress, I hope to inspire others to pursue their dreams—no matter the obstacles—and to believe in the transformative power of resilience, compassion, and hope

The last time I fangirled over a Black female lead in a fantasy movie was Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella from 1997. The charm, humor, and elegance of Black female leads is what I LIVED for as a first grader when I first watched Brandy twirl in that blue ballgown, sass Whoopi Goldberg, and belt out “Impossible” like my life depended on it. There was something magical about seeing someone who looked like me take center stage in a world of glass slippers and fairy godmothers. That same fangirl in me, who wore out her VHS tape and tried (unsuccessfully) to turn a pumpkin into a carriage, was revived—no, resurrected—upon the release of Wicked. Let’s be honest: Wicked is not just a movie. It’s a cultural reset, a serotonin boost, and a masterclass in what happens when you give Black women the fantasy spotlight they’ve always deserved. The minute I saw the first trailer, I was ready to sell my soul (and maybe a sibling) for opening night tickets. Elphaba’s green skin? Iconic. Cynthia Erivo’s vocals? Otherworldly. Ariana Grande’s Glinda? A fever dream I didn’t know I needed, but now can’t live without. But let’s focus on what really matters: the sheer power, humor, and heart that a Black female lead brings to the land of Oz. Why am I a fan of Wicked? First, because it’s about time that fantasy movies realized Black girls deserve to be more than background characters or sassy sidekicks. Watching Cynthia Erivo’s Elphaba soar (literally and emotionally) is like watching every “othered” girl’s dream come true. She’s not just defying gravity—she’s defying every expectation, stereotype, and glass ceiling in sight. And let’s not forget, she does it all while serving looks, wit, and vocals that could make a flying monkey weep. Second, Wicked is the ultimate fangirl fuel. The costumes? Impeccable. The set design? A Pinterest board come to life. The drama? So deliciously over-the-top that I’ve considered adding “melodramatic cackling” to my list of hobbies. But what really gets me is the friendship between Elphaba and Glinda. It’s messy, complicated, and so, so real. I see myself in Elphaba’s awkwardness and Glinda’s desperate attempts to be liked. Their dynamic is basically every group chat I’ve ever been in—minus the flying monkeys and spontaneous musical numbers (although, never say never). Third, Wicked is the rare fantasy that actually says something about the world we live in. It’s about being misunderstood, standing up for what’s right, and finding your voice—even when it shakes. There’s something cathartic about seeing her embrace her differences and turn them into her greatest strength. It makes me want to paint myself green and belt “Defying Gravity” from my rooftop (apologies in advance to my neighbors). And let’s talk about the memes. The internet has blessed us with “Elphaba’s green skin is my new mood ring,” and “If Elphaba can survive Oz, I can survive Monday.” The fandom is a glorious, chaotic place where everyone is welcome—as long as you can quote at least three lyrics and know how to use glitter responsibly. In the end, Wicked isn’t just a movie for me—it’s a celebration. It’s proof that Black girls can be magical, messy, heroic, and hilarious. It’s a love letter to every kid who ever felt out of place and a reminder that sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is be unapologetically yourself. So, yes, I’m a fan of Wicked—and if you need me, I’ll be in my living room, singing along and dreaming of Oz, where Black girl magic is the greatest spell of all.

“One prick”—that’s all it would take from now on, my endocrinologist promised. I brushed my fingers over the card-sized insulin pod beside my belly button, marveling that three days’ worth of insulin could fit in a device no bigger than a matchbox. This small, sophisticated machine could replicate the essential work of my pancreas—a remarkable stand-in for an organ my body could no longer trust. Beginning insulin pump therapy lifted a tremendous burden from my daily life. No longer did I have to perform mental gymnastics to calculate every dose at age ten, nor brace myself for the sting of finger pricks and injections multiple times a day. What I grew to appreciate most, though, was how this compact device replaced hundreds of needles and lancets, dramatically reducing medical waste while delivering insulin with greater precision and efficiency. The Omnipod isn’t just a convenience for people with diabetes; it’s a symbol of how rapidly biomedical technology has advanced. The earliest insulin pumps in the 1960s and 1970s, like Dr. Arnold Kadish’s “backpack pump” and the Biostator, were bulky and confined to hospital settings. In 1976, Dean Kamen’s “blue brick” Autosyringe made the first strides toward wearable technology, but it was still cumbersome and technically demanding. The 1980s and 1990s brought more portable pumps from companies like MiniMed in the US and Disetronic in Switzerland, but these still required tubing, which could kink or disconnect, and were prone to malfunctions. Despite these drawbacks, these innovations paved the way for today’s devices. By the 21st century, advances from companies such as Medtronic, Roche, and Tandem Diabetes Care brought smarter, more user-friendly pumps to market. The introduction of the Omnipod by Insulet Corporation marked a turning point: a tubeless, patch-style pump controlled wirelessly through an app. For the first time, people with diabetes could experience a sense of normalcy, freed from constant calculations and visible reminders of their condition. As a Somali American, I am deeply grateful for access to this technology—something that, had I still lived in a developing country, might have been out of reach and potentially life-saving. The evolution of insulin pumps, from “blue bricks” to today’s nearly invisible devices, inspires me to pursue a future in pediatric medicine and endocrinology. I want to help bring this spirit of innovation and compassion to the next generation of patients.

My mother always told me that success would find me where I was. She’d repeat an old Somali idiom: “Even in a desert, a seed will still sprout.” I was eight months old when my dad finally moved our family of eight out of the housing apartments. My mom remembers that transition to homeownership as both frightening and rewarding. We settled in Midtown, Erie, PA, where my normal was another child’s abnormal. I remember drawing flowers on the sidewalk next to cars with baseball-sized holes in their windows. I watched my neighbor get robbed by teenagers while I played on the porch. On trash nights, my mother scolded kids dragging abandoned furniture through the streets. My home was just a small piece of this ecosystem. The petty crimes and chaos didn’t scare me; by six, I understood that my environment didn’t have to define me. I watched my older siblings cross the stage for their diplomas during a time when my parents feared foreclosure. My dad took odd jobs to keep hope alive, showing us that hard times breed resilience. When we moved to the Lower East Side, just before I turned seven, I faced new challenges. My new school brought social anxiety. I struggled to be interesting enough for classmates to approach me, and when I did make friends, they drifted away for someone louder. What remained constant throughout these early years was my love for books—a love nurtured by my mother’s dedication. The first books I read for leisure weren’t picture books or fun novels. They were short stories from my mom’s GED prep book. As she studied late into the afternoon, sitting uncomfortably on our wooden dining chairs, I sat at her feet, flipping through crime reports, word problems, and riddles. Those books weren’t entertaining, but there was a sweet intimacy in sharing stories with someone you love. That love for learning grew as I entered East Middle School. From the outside, every child there seemed destined for a grim academic future. East Middle School ranked in the bottom 50% of Pennsylvania middle schools, with only 3% proficient in math and 17% in reading—well below state averages. But none of that mattered to middle school me. I took advantage of every opportunity I could find. I became class president in eighth grade and coached classmates preparing for a Model UN conference. I did my best—not out of desperation, but because I loved to learn, to challenge myself, and to grow. My parents instilled in me the virtue of resilience. I learned to be the seed growing in an intellectual desert, reaching for opportunities to blossom. I finished eighth grade with record-high scores—advanced in science, math, and English on the Pennsylvania System of School Assessment. With those scores, I entered Northwest Pennsylvania Collegiate Academy, a top high school in my city with a rich history of academic excellence—a place where my curiosity and hunger for learning could thrive. Now, as I approach my final year of high school, I’m still learning to nourish my education—not only through literature and arithmetic but also through real-world experience. I volunteer to tutor other students in my community, many of whom walk the same neighborhoods I did—new Americans and children of hardworking immigrants, all hoping to sprout from their deserts

A good book isn’t just an entertaining story—it’s comfort, refuge, and solace, an outlet for escape when the real world feels too real. My love for reading is a product of my mother’s love for me. The first books I read for leisure weren’t fun picture books like The Magic School Bus or comedic short novels like Junie B. Jones. Instead, they were a compilation of short stories in a GED prep book. As my mom studied late into the afternoon, seated uncomfortably on our wooden dining chairs, I sat by her feet, flipping through excerpts of crime reports, word problems, and riddles. Those books weren’t nearly as fun as the fictional series I would later fall in love with, but there was a sweet intimacy in simply sharing stories with someone you love. When my mother completed her GED, our late-night study sessions became less frequent. I ventured out into fictional worlds on my own—devouring Harry Potter, discovering the uncanny in A Series of Unfortunate Events, and being enchanted by the whimsy of Narnia. In those formative years, books became more than stories; they were my friends, my secret crushes, and the place where I confronted the bullies I couldn’t face in real life. Books got me through hospital nights after my Type-1 diabetes diagnosis, offered silence when arguments at home grew too loud, and absorbed my tears until they dried and disappeared. Each story offered not just an escape, but a mirror reflecting truths about identity, resilience, and the complexity of growing up. As I grew older, the stories I chose began to shape the way I understood myself and my place in the world. Reading Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie was a turning point. Ifemelu’s journey of migration and self-discovery showed me that embracing my cultural identity is not just an act of pride, but of power. Her courage to speak her truth inspired me to own my Somali-American heritage and use my voice for those who feel unseen. This resonated deeply with my own experience growing up in a Somali-American household, where faith, community, and representation were central. Books like Women Who Think Too Much taught me the value—and the challenge—of introspection. As someone who often overthinks, I learned the importance of self-compassion and letting go of perfection, a mindset I’ve carried with me in my personal life, responding to emergencies with calm and patience. Why Fish Don’t Exist challenged my understanding of chaos and order, reminding me that meaning is often found in persistence, not certainty. This lesson has helped me adapt and find purpose, even when life feels unpredictable. Stories like Tomorrow I Become a Woman and Girl Grrrl Gurl Guhl celebrate the complexities of Black womanhood and the strength found in community and vulnerability. They inspired me to seek mentorship and to uplift others. What My Mother and I Don’t Talk About encouraged me to reflect on my relationship with my mother, whose compassion and sacrifices have shaped my values of service and empathy. Books have become more than just stories to me—they are guideposts. They have taught me to embrace my identity, persist through uncertainty, and lift others as I climb. My journey, like the stories I read, is both unique and universal. Through reading, I’ve learned that I have the power to author my own future while helping others do the same with honest conversation.

“Wal Baro, kaas shagatha laawah,” by now I’ve got my mom’s cautious advice memorized. “Learn something, your only job is to learn.” When my family landed in the States, my parents—scarred from the trauma, instability, and uncertainty that ravaged Somalia—had their eyes on a better life for themselves and their children. They knew the opportunity to start anew wasn’t something everyone had access to. They were reminded of this as they answered the influx of phone calls during every waking hour of their first few days in America. Aunties, uncles, and cousins alike badgered my parents with questions: “How are the kids?” “Have you gotten any sleep?” and “Have you eaten yet?” The greatest challenge my family faced was navigating a world where we were outsiders, balancing the pressure to succeed academically with the fear of standing out or making mistakes. My parents raised us with one responsibility: to learn. Academic excellence was our most effective tool to climb our way to the top. My parents urged us to keep our heads down and our mouths shut, believing that hard work and silence would protect us and guarantee success. And it did. At least, until it could no longer. I was thirteen when a young Somali boy, only three years older than me, was arrested—wrongfully—on suspicion of carrying a loaded firearm. I recognized the boy on the news segment. He was a friend of my older brother, someone I went to dugsii (weekend religious school) with for most of my early childhood. I remember him as extroverted, talkative, and a bit of a class clown, but nothing about him ever struck me as criminal. I watched my mom’s face closely as the reporter listed the details of his arrest. Her face read fear, confusion, and disappointment. I heard her say, “This is what happens when you don’t listen to your parents.” But the thing is, he always did. He listened to his teachers, older kids in the community, and he definitely listened to his parents. I hated seeing my mother so quickly turn against one of our own. I hated seeing her believe a child—someone I felt was so much like me—could be a monster, a criminal, nonetheless. I told my mother, “What if he wasn’t guilty?” Her face twisted into shock and offense. “You think he’s innocent? Hawo, do you hear yourself?” I wanted to continue and express how I was certain, deep inside, that what I saw wasn’t even half of the truth. The following days were filled with media coverage of protests, pleas from the boy’s parents, and an outcry from a wronged community. It wasn’t until about four months later that the boy I saw on TV that afternoon was released, on account of being wrongfully accused. He was a Black boy at the wrong place and wrong time, punished for a mistake that, if looked into sooner, would have revealed that the gun in fact wasn’t loaded—and wasn’t even a real gun at all. I remember hearing the news and feeling relieved, but then deeply disappointed. In fear of being labeled a criminal apologist myself, I didn’t speak out about my beliefs when the opportunity arose. Instead, I cowered—when I could have contributed to change. That moment made me realize how the challenge my family faced—learning to survive by staying quiet—had shaped me. I never wanted to let myself miss another opportunity to speak up, just for the sake of keeping my parents happy—“head down, mouth shut.” Instead, I vowed to take the chance next time, and call attention to injustice when I saw it.

I firmly believe that meaningful change does not always stem from grand gestures, but often from small, subtle acts—quiet efforts to help those in need that may go unnoticed by most. Too often, people lack the empathy and grace required not only to collaborate with individuals from diverse backgrounds, but also to work alongside them toward shared goals. Developing these qualities has been essential for me to become a sincere and selfless contributor to my community. It is easy to claim involvement in food pantries, clothing drives, and community clean-ups, but if your motivation is simply to boast about your participation rather than to understand the deeper purpose behind your actions, you may ultimately do more harm than good. This is a lesson I learned firsthand during my two years tutoring ESL students. Initially, I began tutoring ESL children simply to fulfill a club requirement. My intentions were far from noble; I planned to do the bare minimum and leave as soon as my hours were complete. However, this mindset quickly changed. My first day was chaotic—filled with shouting, chasing toddlers who raided the candy jar, and tending to minor injuries. It was, to say the least, overwhelming. I realized that my indifference and minimal effort were benefiting neither myself nor the students entrusted to me. During my days off, I immersed myself in research—studying educational requirements, following teachers on YouTube to discover engaging activities, and reading countless articles on classroom management and teaching theories. When I returned, my approach was transformed: I became more patient with tantrums, more composed during outbursts, and more attuned to my students’ needs. Through volunteering, I learned to genuinely care. I came to understand that it was not enough to focus solely on my own challenges; I had a responsibility to look after someone else’s child, to nurture someone else’s student. This compassion for children has inspired me to pursue a career in pediatrics. I aspire to be the physician whom both parents and children trust. I hope to use my platform as a doctor to advocate for affordable medication, combat discrimination in healthcare, and champion the movement encouraging young women and girls to pursue any career they love, sparking change in the process. Until then, I will continue to make a difference on the scale of my classroom—instilling confidence in one child and inspiring transformation in another. This is how I plan to make a positive impact on the world.

"Why does soda fizz when you pour it, yet stay still when it's not moving?" "How is alcohol in perfume different from alcohol in wine?" "What on Earth makes fireworks go BOOM!" Curious. If I had to distill the many intricacies of my life, I'd say I am insatiably curious. While I am deeply proud of my identity as a first-generation Somali American, if I’m being completely honest, that’s the least remarkable thing about me. Throughout my education, I often felt stifled by the rigid public school system and its lack of flexibility in learning. Rather than waiting for science projects in class, I brought the science home. I was eight when my mom first discovered my fairy soup concoction in our shared bathroom. The inspiration? I was attempting to create the classic baking soda volcano. It wasn’t a triumphant experiment—we had no baking soda, so I used baking powder instead, and lacking white vinegar, I grabbed the only thing I knew had vinegar: pickle juice! Since then, my scientific explorations have evolved from bathroom escapades to orchestrating reactions in the chemistry lab. In my junior year, I enrolled in organic chemistry—a challenging course that made me realize just how much I adore the world of science. In fact, that class made me want to both drop out of high school and pursue a bachelor’s degree in Chemistry. I chose the latter. I hope my undergraduate journey in chemistry will not only satisfy my hunger for answers to scientific questions but also serve as a meaningful bridge into a career in the health sciences. Professionally, I’m a certified EMT and a probationary firefighter. Preparing for my EMT certification unlocked a new passion for health sciences and anatomy. I realized just how much I relish learning about the intricate machine that is the human body. The hundreds of calls I’ve responded to in the past year working in emergency medicine have filled my life with purpose and passion. From stabilizing the broken arms of eight-year-olds to checking in with my favorite elderly patients just to give them five minutes of attention—I knew medicine would be the next step after undergrad, and I’ve never been more determined to make that dream a reality. In my quest to be among the less than 3% of Black female doctors, I hope to enrich the lives of my patients. I want to use the platform that comes with being a physician to dismantle healthcare discrimination against patients and practitioners, advocate for access to affordable medication, and contribute to the ripple effect of encouraging more young women and girls of color to pursue a career in medicine. To support women’s empowerment, I have sought out and plan to continue seeking opportunities that uplift and mentor young women interested in science and healthcare. Whether through volunteering, peer tutoring, or advocating for inclusive spaces in STEM, I am committed to making a meaningful impact and paving the way for future generations.

When the two brothers walked into my classroom last August, I braced myself for a challenge. My supervisors had warned me about this newly immigrated family whose sons had just enrolled in our after-school tutoring program. The boys, I was told, struggled to integrate into their classrooms and were already labeled as “troubled” by the very adults meant to support them. Before they even had a chance to introduce themselves, they were burdened with expectations of failure. Determined to give them a fresh start, I focused on creating a safe and welcoming environment. Instead of pressuring them to participate, I allowed the brothers to simply observe as I tutored a small group. We were reviewing two-digit multiplication, and I noticed both boys watched intently, their eyes fixed on the board, though they remained silent. It wasn’t until the second week that things began to change. One afternoon, I brought in two crates and three mini basketballs. Knowing from snack-time conversations that the brothers were passionate about sports, I decided to integrate math and basketball. I split the class into teams, and as we played, I saw the brothers light up with joy and excitement, their laughter echoing through the room. We transitioned from hands-on activities to worksheets that used basketball analogies to solve math problems. The process was neither quick nor easy. Real improvement in their math grades didn’t appear until the fourth quarter. I’ll never forget the day the brothers rushed into my classroom, each holding an envelope. Inside were their report cards: the older brother had earned a B+, and his younger brother had achieved an A. In that moment, I saw the spark of confidence and a renewed love for learning in their eyes. It was a powerful reminder that the journey to success is often long and demanding, requiring both perseverance and persistence. I would be lying if I said the time in which I tutored these two brothers was full of nothing but easy days and smooth progress. There were many tough days along the way—tables flipped over, chasing after eight-year-olds reluctant to return to class, and days when the boys didn’t show up at all. I often questioned whether my efforts were making a difference or if these students were even teachable. Throughout my three years of tutoring, I have strived to be the unwavering cheerleader my students need. But there were moments when my own confidence faltered, and I wondered if things would ever change. Yet, even in my most doubtful moments, I kept going—not only to prove my supervisors and the teachers wrong, but to prove to myself that with consistency and compassion, things do improve. Helping these two brothers reignite their passion for learning taught me that true helpfulness is rooted in patience, empathy, and the courage to persist, even when the odds seem stacked against you

"You kids are by far the most disruptive generation of young adults that I've taught." That’s what my 11th-grade history teacher told us, and honestly, he wasn’t wrong. But what made him say it? A poem, one that nearly made him leap out of his chair. Here’s the scene: My middle-aged, slightly bewildered AP African American Studies teacher, who had a reputation for being out of his depth, assigned us a project inspired by Black artists of the Harlem Renaissance. We could create a music video, poem, or dance. Most played it safe. But one classmate, known for his no-bull shit attitude, wrote a poem called “For My White Teacher Who Teaches Kids From the Hood”, a nod to Christopher Emdin’s book. From the moment he spoke, the room was silent. He painted a picture of a teacher who misunderstood how our home lives shaped everything about us: how we talk, think, dress, and dream. For the first time, I felt seen. Our experiences weren’t just dismissed as teenage angst or “Gen Z drama.” We weren’t just a bunch of trend-chasing complainers. We were a generation passionate about justice, about uncomfortable conversations, about correcting ignorance, no matter the age of the person in front of us. That’s what makes me the most Gen Z person alive. I thrive on digital chaos—seven tabs open, TikTok humming at 2 a.m., my Notes app overflowing with half-baked ideas and meme references. But beneath the memes and the multitasking is a relentless drive to be heard, to challenge outdated narratives, and to prove that our worth isn’t measured by productivity, but by our existence. We are disruptors, not for the sake of chaos, but because we know change starts with speaking up—even if it makes a teacher squirm

Growing up, I heard a lot about my city—it’s terribly cold in the winter and deathly hot in the summer. Too many people you know are always around, and there seems to be absolutely nothing to do. I guess a small city like Erie, tucked away in northwestern Pennsylvania, isn’t exactly a popular vacation spot or a place most people dream of visiting. Yet, I’ve grown to see the value in this small city of mine. I never set out to be deeply involved in community matters. My involvement in local organizations happened gradually as I explored new interests. It wasn’t until I pushed myself to introduce who I am to more people that a different side of Erie was revealed to me. By joining my local mosque’s youth group, I met people who shared the same religious perspective I have. Through Youth and Government, I met the politicians and policymakers who run the inner workings of our city. Working as a full-time tutor for ESL students, I became well acquainted with the many, yet relatively unknown, ethnic communities of Bosnian, Nepali, and Afghan immigrants—people I might never would have met otherwise. Joining my local fire department immersed me in the fast-paced world of first responders, who so diligently answer the calls of those in distress. These experiences shaped a broader mosaic for me—a portrait of the intricate hubs and microcommunities that make up my city. I no longer wanted to just coexist, I wanted to immerse myself in their world. These diverse communities have taught me not just to be curious, but how to express that curiosity about people. I’ve learned—through plenty of trial and, honestly, a lot of error—how to navigate cultural nuances. It’s not always a smooth journey. Most of the time, I learn as I go, figuring out how best to meet new people. Whether it’s getting into the habit of removing my shoes before entering a Malaysian household, washing my hands in a water bowl when eating with Indian friends, or memorizing the lyrics to my co-firefighter’s favorite Noah Kahan song, this city has given me so many opportunities to grow. My desire to pursue a career in medicine has been heavily influenced by these relationships I’ve formed. My love for medicine is, at its core, a love for people. My city, despite how small it may be, is far from uneventful. You just have to look. Follow the people, and you’ll find the grandest stories. I hope to become a part of these stories as I go on to become a practicing physician. Medicine is a long journey, but my city has taught me patience—patience in waiting for what’s meant for me.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve measured excellence by how thoroughly I could exhaust myself. If I stayed up until 4 a.m. cramming for a chemistry exam, that was excellence. If I volunteered for extra shifts at work to prove my reliability, that was excellence. Even collapsing at home after a relentless day—retreating to a dark room, drained but satisfied—felt like validation. If I wasn’t constantly pushing my limits to accomplish more and prove my worth, what value did I have to offer? I battered myself time and time again to always stay on task; my motto was “keep up, don’t catch up.” I sincerely believed this until my first episode of burnout. The spring semester of my junior year took a heavier toll on my mental health than I ever expected. As a first-year lead researcher, I was taking on the roles of five people just to manage my workload. I was the Principal Investigator contacting all my research participants, the Data Manager crunching numbers, the statistician analyzing and interpreting trends. And yet, while I prided myself on being the girl who “does it all,” I was failing to manage what mattered most. The first and most telling sign of burnout for me was the excessive sleeping. I’m almost embarrassed to admit it: the worst days during my burnout episode consisted of me arriving home at 6 p.m., immediately falling asleep, waking up at midnight, eating dinner at 1:30 a.m., working until 4 a.m., then sleeping again until 7 a.m.—just to repeat the cycle. I had abandoned my philosophy of treating sleep as sacred and instead ruined the one consistent pillar in my life by not prioritizing rest. With the excessive sleep came the habit of skipping meals. I was too tired to eat breakfast, too busy to enjoy lunch, and by the time dinner came around, the day had already slipped away. I knew something had to change. I desperately needed to ground myself, so I tried—one symptom at a time. Instead of forcing myself to prepare elaborate meals, I made sure I had small, nourishing foods for my earlier meals. Breakfast became a protein bar and a glass of milk, often paired with fruit. Lunch became a quick sandwich I prepared the night before, which I only had the energy to do because I was finally well-rested enough to function during the day. I stopped the excessive naps and instead spent my afternoons after work dedicated to creating. I began crocheting small beanies for NICU babies at my local women’s hospital. This new hobby filled my afternoons with purpose and reminded me that I could do great things—not at the expense of my own well-being, but because I was finally caring for myself. Through this experience, I learned that true excellence isn’t measured by how much I can endure, but by how well I can sustain myself. Prioritizing my mental, emotional, and physical health has taught me that I am most valuable when I am balanced and present. As I prepare for my future in school, work, and life, I carry this lesson with me: I can achieve meaningful things and help others, but only if I remember to help myself first.

I’ve always wished that my motivation for pursuing higher education wasn’t rooted in a desire to escape the lifestyle I saw unfolding around me. Whenever someone asks, “What do you want to do after high school?” I know my answer has to be something meaningful—something that sets me apart. Over the years, I’ve bounced from dreams of becoming a paleontologist to an astronaut, and finally found my calling in medicine. No matter the path, I’ve always been driven by the need to carve out a future far removed from the cycles of hardship and missed opportunities that could have been avoided with different choices. From a young age, I understood that education was the one tool I could cling to, the foundation on which I could build a life of purpose, stability, and hope. I was fourteen when my mother called me into our living room one evening, her face clouded with a mix of disappointment and sorrow. Without a word, she pointed to the TV, where a news segment played: a five-year-old boy from our neighborhood had been shot and killed. The anchor named two suspects—an Arab teenager and a Somali-American. My heart sank as I recognized the last name. My cousin, just a few years older than me, was facing murder charges. Shock and anger washed over me, not just at the tragedy, but at the thought of years of his parents’ sacrifices unraveling in an instant. That night, I made a promise to myself: I could not afford to compromise my future. From then on, every day carried new purpose. I became determined that the next time someone saw a Somali name in the news, it would be for something positive. The next couple of years of my schooling were dedicated to exploring what it was that I wanted to pursue. With my naturally obsessive drive, I pushed my boundaries and sought out new experiences to better understand my own potential. I took on a tutoring job to see if education was my calling, and joined competitive debate to immerse myself in law and politics. But it wasn’t until I completed EMT school that I found my true love: healthcare. The world of medicine fascinated me—it was a perfect blend of science, compassion, and the remarkable resilience of the human body. From that moment on, I knew I wanted to be part of it. I owe it not only to my family and their sacrifices, but also to that determined 14-year-old girl inside me, to prove that people who look like her are capable of extraordinary things. In the near future, I do plan to attend college, and soon after, medical school in order to be a physician. I’m so close to reaching that first step of entering college. The privilege of even having gotten this far in my academic career is testament enough that my dreams are reachable. I will make it, I know I will; that conviction inside me can’t falter. I can’t afford to give up on me when I’m so close to making it.

I credit so much of the young woman I am today to my mother and the values she has instilled in me—values that continue to shape my dreams and aspirations. Her countless sacrifices and unwavering love for me and my siblings are the strongest testament to unconditional love I have ever known. More than anything, my mother’s work ethic has profoundly shaped how I care for patients. For nearly 15 years, she worked as a medical interpreter for Somali-speaking patients, consistently going above and beyond her official duties. She used her personal car to drive pregnant women to OBGYN appointments, attended funeral viewings, and translated at parent-teacher conferences—all on her own time. Inspired by her dedication, I strive to bring the same compassion and commitment to my work as an EMT and aspiring physician. I have learned the importance of patience and empathy, especially during times of distress. I remember responding to a medical emergency one winter evening; when we arrived at the home, the residents, an elderly Somali couple, recognized me as my mother's daughter. What struck me most was that it wasn’t my physical appearance that reminded them of my mother, but the way I cared for my patient. As my patient anxiously recounted her emergency in broken English, I did my best to calm her and translate the situation to the best of my ability, ensuring my coworkers were culturally sensitive and able to provide the respectful care she deserved. In that moment, I realized I was carrying forward my mother’s legacy—not just through language, but through empathy and advocacy. I am blessed to still have my mother in my life, witnessing my milestones both academically and spiritually. But I recognize that not everyone is as fortunate. This is why, when I read the story of Ismat Tariq, I was deeply moved. Ismat’s life and legacy remind me so much of my mother—her selflessness, her commitment to her family, and her belief in the transformative power of education. Like my mother, Ismat prioritized her family’s dreams over her own, ensuring that her children had the chance to pursue the education she could only dream of. Their stories are a powerful reminder that the opportunities I have today are not solely my own doing—they are the result of the perseverance and sacrifices of women like them. My life’s goal is simple: to help others to the greatest capacity I am able. As it is recorded, our beloved Prophet Muhammad (SAW) said,"The most beloved of people to Allah is the one who brings the most benefit to people" (Silsilatul Ahadeethus Saheeha No. 906). This is why I have chosen a career in medicine. I see medicine as a calling to serve, to advocate for those whose voices are too often unheard, and to give back to the community that raised me. I have been blessed with opportunities—opportunities made possible by the women who came before me. I do not take this privilege lightly. I am determined to use it not only to dream big, but to work tirelessly to turn those dreams into reality. If awarded this scholarship, I will carry Ismat’s legacy, and my mother’s, with me as I pursue my studies and my career. I hope to honor their sacrifices by uplifting others, especially young Muslim women, and by extending the blessings I have received to those who come after me. May Ismat rest peacefully, and may her family’s efforts to extend her blessings to others be a source of ongoing inspiration and gratitude for all of us who are touched by her story.

1.) When the voices of Black women go unheard in hospital corridors, the consequences can be life-altering—or even life-threatening. I know this not from statistics, but from the lived experiences of my family and myself. At this point in my life, I find myself deeply reflecting on the paths I could take to achieve the idyllic life I so earnestly aspire to. The driving force behind my ambition to provide a life of quality for myself and my loved ones stems from the remarkable lineage of women who came before me. Throughout my life, I have looked up to both my mother and the endless sacrifices and unwavering resilience that she's demonstrated to pave the way for the opportunities I now enjoy. As a first-generation Somali-American, I am intimately familiar with the expressions of defeat, pain, and lost hope that can accompany adversity. In a world where Black women often face gross discrimination within hospital walls and are too frequently dismissed by physicians, I have learned the profound importance of self-advocacy—a lesson taught to me by my mother. I was ten years old when I first began to show symptoms of type 1 diabetes. My mother, a medical interpreter, was the first to recognize the warning signs: frequent urination, rapid weight loss, and persistent fatigue. She advocated for me—not once, not twice, but three times—insisting that a pediatrician properly evaluate my symptoms. Each time she was turned away, I witnessed the light in her eyes dim, yet I also saw her determination as she picked up the phone again and again, making call after call until someone finally listened to her pleas and agreed to see me. My story is not unique. I am not the first, nor will I be the last, Black girl to experience discrimination within the medical field. This reality has instilled in me a deep understanding of how crucial it is to have physicians who not only share your experiences but are also willing to advocate for you. This is the kind of physician I aspire to be. As a practicing physician, I hope to dedicate myself to serving my patients with empathy and diligence. I want to ensure that every fear is addressed, every question is answered, and each presentation of symptoms is treated with the utmost care and respect. My journey and the legacy of the women before me have shaped my resolve to be a compassionate advocate for those who need it most. 2.) As a current junior in high school, I’ve worked hard to set an example for young Black girls, showing just how capable we are. I currently serve as a volunteer EMT and probationary firefighter at a company that is mostly male-dominated and where few people of color reside. Every day, I strive to uphold dignity and grace in the way I carry myself and interact with others—treating patients with compassion, co-workers with respect, and myself with grace. I know that I am an unconventional example of what a firefighter or EMT looks like, and I own it. Sincerely and wholly, I embrace being the only person in the room who looks like me. The stares no longer make me uncomfortable; instead, they assure me that I’m doing something right. I’m expanding the perception of young Black women to include medical professionals who are respected. I am living proof that people like me are destined for more. Day in and day out, I push myself to perform with excellence in a world that expects so much less. I hope the next Black girl in line finally believes in herself enough to think, “Huh, maybe I can do that.” My efforts to inspire go beyond the fire grounds. In school, I make it a point to be involved in clubs, competitions, and assemblies as much as I can. Whether I’m competing at a debate conference or helping put on a musical production, I make sure that people like me are seen and heard. We deserve the limelight, too. It is so important to me that I grow comfortable with my differences. I’ve been alive long enough (granted, it hasn't been that long) to know that hating myself gets me nowhere. Over time, I’ve learned to be comfortable in my own skin, to like the sound of my name, to enjoy the richness of my cultural identity, and to truly begin to love who I am. There is no better inspiration than to truly love who you are. 3.) Receiving the Future Medical Leaders Scholarship would be a transformative step in my journey towards coming closer to becoming the compassionate and trailblazing physician that I so sincerely hope to be. With this scholarship money, I would be able to enroll in advanced science courses, attend pre-medical conferences, and participate in medical internships that would broaden my clinical experience. These opportunities for the longest have often been financially out of reach for students like me, yet they are essential for building the knowledge and skills necessary for success in medicine. By investing in my education through this scholarship, I am investing in my ability to serve my future patients with empathy, cultural competence, and excellence. Beyond academics, this scholarship would enable me to expand my community outreach efforts. As a volunteer EMT and probationary firefighter, I have already seen the impact of being a visible role model for young Black girls. I plan to use part of the award to organize workshops and mentorship programs at local schools, encouraging underrepresented students to pursue careers in medicine and emergency services. I want every young person who sees me in uniform to believe that they, too, can achieve their dreams no matter their background. Ultimately, this scholarship would not only alleviate the financial stress that hangs over the heads of every pre-health student but also would allow me to focus on what matters most: serving others and breaking barriers. I am determined to continue leading by example, growing into a physician who advocates for equity and inspires the next generation. With your support, I hope to turn my aspirations into action and contribute to creating a more inclusive future in healthcare.

As my first SAT test date approaches on June 7th, 2025, I have found myself in a whirlwind of preparation and self-reflection. The SAT feels like a significant milestone, not only because of its importance in college admissions but also because of the personal and financial stakes involved. I am only allowed two free attempts at the SAT, and after that, each additional test will cost me $60, a considerable amount for my family. This reality adds an extra layer of pressure to my preparation, making every study session feel even more critical. To make the most of my limited opportunities, I have developed a rigorous and structured study routine. Every day, I challenge myself to complete 50 English and 50 math questions, focusing on both accuracy and speed. After finishing these sets, I take full-length practice tests under timed conditions to simulate the actual exam environment. This helps me manage my time better and identify areas where I need further improvement. Additionally, I regularly watch SAT test walkthroughs on YouTube, where experienced tutors break down complex problems and share valuable test-taking strategies. These free online resources have become my virtual tutors, helping me bridge the gap left by my inability to afford private tutoring or the latest SAT prep books. I also take advantage of the support available at my school. I often stay after classes to meet with my math teachers, going over concepts that have been particularly challenging for me. Their guidance has been invaluable, especially when I hit roadblocks in my self-study. Although the work can be monotonous and, at times, discouraging, especially when I see my peers boasting scores in the 1400s and 1500s. I remind myself that everyone’s journey is different. The sense of isolation can be overwhelming, but I try to use it as motivation to push myself harder. My goals for the SAT extend far beyond just achieving a high score. I see the SAT as a gateway to greater academic and professional opportunities. A strong performance on this test could open doors to scholarships and admissions at top universities, easing the financial burden on my family and bringing me a step closer to my dream of pursuing a medical career. I am keenly aware that, for students like me, standardized tests can be both a challenge and an opportunity. With limited resources and only two free chances, I am determined to make every effort count. Ultimately, my preparation for the SAT is about more than just test scores. It is a test of my resilience, discipline, and ability to overcome obstacles. Despite the challenges, I am committed to making the most of the opportunities I have. I hope that my hard work will not only pay off in terms of a higher score but also set a foundation for my future academic and professional success. No matter the outcome, I am proud of the dedication and perseverance I have shown throughout this process.

Diverse representation in STEM careers is not merely a matter of equity-it is a critical driver of innovation, problem-solving, and societal progress. When individuals from different backgrounds, cultures, and perspectives come together, they bring unique insights that can challenge conventional thinking and foster creative solutions to complex problems. This diversity of thought is especially vital in STEM fields, where the challenges we face-whether in technology, engineering, mathematics, or science-are increasingly global and multifaceted. The importance of diversity in STEM is most relevant for me in medicine, where a lack of representation can have direct consequences on patient care. Studies have shown that patients often receive more effective and empathetic treatment from providers who understand their cultural and social backgrounds. Moreover, the under-representation of certain groups in medical research can lead to gaps in knowledge that affect diagnosis and treatment for entire populations-a fact that I've grown more than familiar with in my experience as a lifelong medical patient. Despite this though, the need for diversity extends far beyond healthcare. In technology, for example, the absence of diverse voices can result in products and algorithms that unintentionally perpetuate bias or exclude significant segments of the population. In engineering, a homogeneous workforce may overlook the needs of communities that differ from their own, leading to solutions that are less effective or even inaccessible. Throughout my academic journey, I have witnessed firsthand the impact that diverse perspectives can have on learning and innovation. As a volunteer EMT and junior firefighter, I have worked alongside individuals from various backgrounds, each bringing their own approach to teamwork, problem-solving, and service. My experience teaching English, math, and science to new American students has shown me how different ways of thinking can enrich the learning environment and help students overcome barriers to success. Involvement in clubs such as speech and debate, FBLA, and HOSA has further reinforced the value of collaboration among students with varied interests and experiences. These environments curate not only academic growth but also the resilience and adaptability needed to thrive in STEM fields. Encouraging diverse representation in STEM also means inspiring the next generation to see themselves as future scientists, engineers, and innovators. When young people see role models who look like them and share similar backgrounds, they are more likely to pursue and persist in these fields. This is especially important for girls, minorities, and first-generation students, who may otherwise feel isolated or discouraged from entering STEM careers. I myself for the longest struggled to believe I was capable of successfully pursuing a career in STEM. It took years to undo this attitude and finally think of myself as equally competent.By cultivating inclusive environments and expanding opportunities, we lay the groundwork for a more dynamic, creative, and effective STEM workforce. As a final note, diversity in STEM is essential not only for fairness and representation but for the advancement of knowledge and the betterment of society as a whole. By embracing and promoting diverse voices, we ensure that the solutions we develop are relevant, equitable, and truly innovative-benefiting individuals, communities, and the world at large.

This past year as a high school junior, I was fortunate to take college-level classes through a free dual enrollment program at my high school. This experience inspired me to challenge myself further and continue incorporating college coursework into my schedule. However, my school does not cover the cost of college level STEM classes, and enrolling independently means covering the costs myself. To afford a $400 science class, I have taken on odd jobs such as hair braiding and working as a poll worker. Despite these efforts, the financial burden still remains significant. My guidance counselor introduced me to the KC MedBridge Scholarship, which could help make my academic goals attainable. Receiving this $1,000 scholarship would directly support my enrollment in dual enrollment science classes, each costing $400. This would contribute greatly to my post-graduate plans of majoring in Chemistry. As a dual enrollment student, I am able to take these college classes at a much lower cost than I would after high school, making this an invaluable opportunity to advance my education and reduce future college expenses. My goal is to minimize the financial barriers to higher education and to pursue my passion for STEM. Scholarships like the KC MedBridge Scholarship make it possible for students like me to access rigorous coursework and prepare for future success. With your support, I can continue my academic journey and work toward my dream of a career in medicine.

As a first-generation Somali-American and proud Muslim woman, I have always sought out opportunities where compassion, service, and academic rigor intersect. My journey has been shaped by a deep commitment to making a tangible impact on my community, particularly in the field of medicine, where I believe representation and advocacy are urgently needed. Growing up, I rarely saw women who looked like me in the healthcare field. This lack of representation inspired me to become the role model I wished I had, and to pave the way for future generations of Somali-American girls to see themselves in positions of influence and care. My passion for medicine and service led me to earn my EMT-B certification at 16 and complete firefighter school at 17. Currently, I dedicate over 12 hours a week as a volunteer EMT at Fair Field Fire Department, where I respond to emergencies and provide critical care to those in need. These experiences have reinforced my belief that access to quality healthcare is a fundamental right, not a privilege, and have shown me firsthand the importance of compassionate, culturally competent care. I am determined to become a physician who advocates for patients who are often overlooked or marginalized, and who works to address the disparities that persist in our healthcare system. Beyond medicine, I am deeply invested in education and youth empowerment. For the past two years, I have volunteered with ELEVATE, a branch of the Urban Community Development Corporation, where I teach English, Math, and Science to new American students. I spend my afterschool hours three days a week working with children ages 7-14, ensuring they have the tools and support they need to succeed academically. My commitment to service is also rooted in my faith; I serve as a Sunday School teacher at the Islamic Association of Erie, teaching classical Arabic and Islamic history to elementary and middle school students. These roles have allowed me to nurture the next generation, foster inclusivity, and build bridges across cultures. In school, I strive for excellence and leadership. I am active in competitive clubs such as Speech and Debate, where I earned first place in a seasonal competition, FBLA (Future Business Leaders of America), where my team placed first in "Introduction to Business Presentation" in 2024, and HOSA (Health Occupation Students of America), which has further fueled my interest in health professions. These experiences have taught me the value of teamwork, communication, and perseverance. Receiving this scholarship would empower me to continue my academic journey in an environment where potential is nurtured and dreams are transformed into reality. I am committed to using my education and experiences to advocate for health equity, inspire underrepresented youth, and expand our collective understanding of how racial and cultural differences impact healthcare. By investing in me, you are investing in a future physician who will work tirelessly to ensure that every patient is seen, heard, and cared for-regardless of their background. I am ready to make a lasting, positive impact on my community and the world.

In my search for a meaningful career path, I have consistently gravitated toward roles that combine interpersonal communication, research, compassion, and the ability to make a tangible impact. Medicine, with its unique blend of science and service, is the perfect fit for me. I am determined to become a physician who advocates for patients who are often overlooked or marginalized within the healthcare system. I firmly believe that access to quality healthcare is a fundamental right, not a privilege, and I am committed to upholding the immense responsibility that comes with caring for others. My goal is to be the best physician I can be, one who listens, understands, and advocates for every patient. As a first-generation Somali-American, I am more than aware of the lack of representation of women like me in medicine. Growing up, I rarely saw anyone who looked like me working in the field I dreamed of entering. Now, as I move closer to my goal, I am motivated by the opportunity to change that narrative. My journey into medicine is not just about personal achievement; it is about paving the way for future generations. I hope to be a source of inspiration for another Somali-American girl who dreams of wearing a white coat, showing her that her aspirations are valid and achievable. I carry with me the legacy of the countless women who came before me, whose perseverance has made it possible for me to pursue this path. Their sacrifices and achievements inspire me to reach higher and to give back to my community. It is time for young girls like me to transform their dreams into reality and to see themselves reflected in every corner of the healthcare field. The need for a racially diverse pool of physicians has never been more urgent. Diversity in medicine is essential, not only for representation but for the advancement of patient care. I have heard too many stories of women whose symptoms were dismissed, or whose diagnoses were missed, simply because of a lack of understanding or diversity in medical literature. These experiences highlight the critical importance of having physicians who can recognize and address the unique needs of patients from all backgrounds. The implementation of racial diversity in healthcare is long overdue. We must not only encourage minorities to pursue careers in medicine but also expand our understanding of how racial and ethnic differences impact health. By doing so, we can ensure that all patients are properly diagnosed, treated, and truly cared for.