In first grade my school hosted a Scholastic book fair. The library was full of bright displays and new books that my classmates rushed to buy. I didn't have any money, but I still had a deep love for reading and an almost stubborn curiosity. While I waited with the other students outside who couldn't buy anything, my teacher quietly called me over. Next to the library door were two carts of old books the school planned to throw away. She told me I could pick any book I wanted. Most were novels way above my reading level, but one “picture book” caught my eye. At least, that’s what I thought it was. It turned out to be a children’s anatomy book. I took it home that night, and sat at the rickety dining room table with my mother-who herself was studying for her GED. I beamed as I showed her pages of muscular models poitning out how similar it was to the drawings in her GED science books. So she told me, "let's study together whoever memorizes the most body parts gets ice cream". To a 6 year old girl, those were words of elation. So I sat there stumbling over long medical terminology, but fascinated by what was inside the human body. When I felt I was ready, I passed the book to my mother and she tested me by pointing to limbs and joints as a clumsily pronounced "tibula" as "ti-boola", and "skull" as "skool". This small game-ified study session sparked something in me. Since then, I’ve found many ways to feed that curiosity for STEM and health science. I’ve gone down different paths: EMT school, fighting fires, working at a community clinic, and sharing my love for healthcare by hosting CPR nights and blood drives. Each step has been my way of turning that childhood curiosity into real skills and real service. I’ve kept that anatomy book on my bedroom shelf ever since. As I’ve been clearing my room and packing for college, I found it again, and all I could think was: this is where it all began. Finding this book felt like rediscovering a part of myself that has grown and changed my love for health science. When I trace my story and try to understand how I got here, preparing to become a Physician Assistant, I think of first‑grade me and her decision to bring home a used anatomy book. When it comes to pursuing a professional career and going to college, my capability was never the question, affordability was. This is my 152nd scholarship submission, and it definitely won’t be the last. I know my dreams are bigger than me; I'm on track to be the first women of both my mother and father's lineage to graduate, with a masters degree at that! That curious little girl sat at the dining room table at her mom's feet deserves a future me fighting for her dreams in healthcare.

1.“Complete my degree (ideally debt-free).” That was the final item on a bucket list I made for myself before senior year. The first two steps were more straightforward: 3.Complete as many dual-enrollment classes as possible before graduation. 2.Pass my AP exams so the credits would transfer. 1. Complete my degree (ideally debt-free). By August of my senior year, I had crossed off most of the general-education requirements listed in Gannon University’s catalog for pre-med chemistry students: Intercultural Communication, Sociology, English, Theology, and Calculus I. Through my school’s dual-enrollment program, I calculated that I had completed approximately $4,500 worth of college coursework. Instead of beginning with a $45,976 tuition bill, I would begin closer to $41,476. It was a win, but it was still $41,476 I did not have, and that number did not include the eventual cost of medical school. I knew I needed to start chipping away at the cost however I could. Like many high school students, I got a summer job. For three years, I tutored New American students for $14 an hour. During school breaks, I cleaned the tutoring center’s library, shoveled snow outside the building, and picked up extra work whenever it was available. I was proud to earn my own money, but I also understood the reality: even consistent work was not making a meaningful dent in a college bill that large. So I got creative. In the few hours between school and work, I tried hair braiding, babysitting, poetry competitions, and even a short-lived YouTube channel where I attempted to give finance advice to other high school students (I know, the irony was not lost on me). Still, each attempt came from the same place: I was determined to make my education attainable. As early application deadlines approached, the financial reality of my original pre-med plan began to weigh on me. I loved medicine, but I worried about the length and cost of the traditional path. After four years of undergraduate education, I would still face medical school and years before I could earn enough to offset the cost of my training. I began asking myself whether choosing medicine meant accepting overwhelming debt. Then, while touring my dream campus, I passed Gannon’s Physician Assistant department. A presentation for prospective PA students was taking place, and although I knew little about the field, I sat down to listen. I learned about Gannon’s accelerated five-year Bachelor of Science in Physician Assistant program: a direct path into medicine that would allow me to graduate prepared for employment without taking on the cost and length of the traditional physician route. It felt like finding a path that honored both my goals and my financial reality. I applied and secured one of 58 seats in the program. My scholarship package was also stronger than what I had expected under my original plan. My bucket list had not changed completely, but I now had more reassurance that my dream of working in medicine did not have to come with decades of debt. I still have a substantial cost ahead of me. To continue reducing it, I have taken a job at a clinic, continue to apply for scholarships, and plan to work responsibly throughout college while keeping my academics at the center of my priorities. My goal is to complete my PA degree, enter the healthcare workforce quickly, and build a career serving patients with both medical skill and compassion. Bucket lists are meant to be completed. I intend to cross off that final item: "complete my degree, ideally debt-free".

You have no idea how relieving it felt to say, “We did it.” Day two of our “Weekend of Giving” had one goal, but it was a lofty one. We were 13 volunteers short, and somehow still expected to assemble 198 sub-style sandwiches in three hours. To most people, especially a group of teenagers, it sounded unrealistic. But the funny thing about teens is our stubborn belief in proving people wrong. So we got to work. We hauled in 66 baguettes, scraped what felt like bottomless tubs of mayo, and wrapped each sandwich individually. What initially felt impossible slowly transformed into proof of what can happen with determination, teamwork, and a little faith. I can’t tell this story without giving my volunteers the credit they deserve. Between laughter, complaints, and occasional yelling at the TV during the England vs. Norway FIFA match playing in the background, there was an unspoken understanding among us: this work mattered. Even in the monotony of assembly lines and sticky hands, we knew this effort was bigger than ourselves. Our “Weekend of Giving” was created in direct response to the needs of our community. Our mosque is located in the inner city, where many working families face ongoing challenges. We listened as community members shared what they needed: baby supplies for new mothers, hygiene products for unhoused individuals, clothing for children preparing for the school year, and, most urgently, food. This event was our answer. There’s often an assumption that teenagers are passive, but we are not adults in waiting. We see the same problems, feel the same urgency, and carry the same desire to create change. That “teenage stubbornness” people dismiss is a refusal to accept things as they are and a drive to make them better. As the organizer of this event, my faith wasn’t just in the mission it was in my team. I chose to work with teens not despite their inexperience, but because of their passion. I recognized that same hunger for impact in them that I see in myself. Leadership, I learned, is far less polished than it appears on social media. It’s not just about being the one who speaks or stands at the front. Leadership meant stepping into whatever role was needed at any given moment. I became the organizer, but also the cleaner, the motivator, the problem-solver, the communicator, and the person everyone turned to when things felt overwhelming. And there were moments when things did feel overwhelming. Volunteers grew tired. The energy dipped. The clock passed 5 p.m., and we were still spreading mayo and sealing sandwich bags. In those moments, leadership meant lifting morale in whatever way I could. “Alright,” I said, “if England scores the next goal, that team gets a 20-minute break. If Norway scores, the other team gets it.” If there’s one thing I know about teens, it’s that we’re competitive. Suddenly, the room shifted. What had felt slow and draining became focused and energized. The chatter quieted, replaced by the rhythmic sounds of wrapping, packing, and moving faster than before. Then came the eruption (cheers and groans) as England scored just as we completed the final sandwich. All 198 meals were finished. The next day, we distributed them to members of our community, along with the donations we had collected: children’s clothing, menstrual products, baby items, bedding, and more. What began as a stressful, understaffed effort turned into something impactful and deeply meaningful. leadership through service isn’t about recognition, t’s about responsibility. And sometimes, it’s about believing that even a group of teenagers can do something extraordinary, and proving it.

My first day of first grade ended in a fight. Seven-year-old me was persistent in correcting my friend’s pronunciation. I pleaded with Ms. Marino, insisting that “L, M, N, O, P” was not pronounced “el-em-eno-pee.” Reem, fussy and stubborn, shut down my suggestion to slow down and pronounce each letter individually. It baffled me that when Ms. Marino sang the alphabet, she fused “L-M-N-O-P” into the same jumbled sound Reem recited. Having grown up learning English with an emphasis on articulation, hearing native speakers disregard what I thought were the rules of phonics felt completely backwards. And my gripes with "proper" pronunciation didn’t stop there. In the world I grew up in, blending in was key to survival. I perfected the art of masking my accent. Years of PBS Kids and YouTube Christmas hauls taught me how to speak what I believed was “American English.” But despite my efforts, my foreignness still slipped through. In middle school, I found myself being corrected mid-presentation. Girls snickered in the back of the classroom when I pronounced “homeostasis” as “home-ee-oh-STAS-is.” As someone who loved reading, I quickly learned that even book lovers had strict expectations about pronunciation. Apparently, spells from Harry Potter don’t work if you say them wrong (something I learned the hard way at a sleepover). As I moved through school, I began to understand what my insistence on “perfect” English really meant, and where it came from. It wasn’t until my junior year sociology class that I learned the term “code-switching.” For the first time, I had language for what I had been doing all along—shifting between ways of speaking depending on where I was and who I was with. The Somali-English fusion I spoke at home, rich with accented vowels and softened consonants, was replaced with what I thought was “better” English in public. I learned that this practice, long recognized in Black American communities, developed as a way to navigate prejudice and gain credibility. If there’s anything I’ve learned from memorizing my ABCs to now, it’s this: my fear was never really about pronunciation. It was about being seen. About being othered. And, more quietly, about confronting the possibility that my English wasn’t “perfect”—and that “perfect” English doesn’t actually exist. Language is fluid. Home English isn’t the same as school English. School English isn’t the same as work English. And work English isn’t inherently better than any of the others. Language isn’t black and white, and it was never meant to be. That’s not something to hide, it’s something to honor. I’ve come to take pride in my arsenal of 'Englishes', each one shaped by context, culture, and connection. Now, in my work as an EMT, I see language differently. I listen more closely. I learn. A Caribbean woman once told me, “tank yuh,” and I carried it with me. A Middle Eastern patient said, “shukran a million,” blending languages in a way that felt both natural and beautiful. I collect these phrases, not as corrections, but as gifts. To me, English is a tapestry, stitched together from voices across the world. On its own, each thread is meaningful, but together, they create something far more powerful. And for the first time, I’m no longer trying to sound like everyone else. I’m finally learning how to sound like myself.

At six, I gave away the one thing I was most proud of owning...a Monster High backpack. I was proud when I brought home a service award, but my dad’s reaction changed everything. After a long workday, he looked at me with frustration and said, “You gave your backpack away? Don’t expect a new one.” I was confused. I had given it to a friend who was bullied for hers and needed a replacement. It felt like the right thing to do, even if I did not understand the cost. Years later, I understand. My family lived carefully because every expense mattered. My father worked long retail shifts, and my mother balanced raising six children with earning her GED. They taught me the value of sacrifice and security, even if I did not fully recognize it then. But I also learned something else: I was made to give. As I grew, that instinct became service. I tutored newly arrived students in math and writing, and later became a certified EMT, helping people in urgent moments. These experiences shaped my sense of purpose by showing me that service is not just kindness; it is commitment. That backpack was my first lesson in what it means to care for others. Now, as I pursue a career as a Physician Assistant, I carry that lesson with me. I want to use my education to serve with compassion, skill, and intention.

The burn instructor yelled for me to gear up. I leaned against the metal bleachers outside the burn tower, palms pressed into my knees, trying to summon the strength to stand. Fifty pounds of bunker gear, an oxygen tank, and protective layers weighed on my body, but it was my dropping blood sugar that truly pinned me in place. My hands trembled. My vision blurred. I forced myself up anyway. “I’m low, Captain!” I ripped off my mask and gear and staggered toward my bag, digging frantically until I found a bottle of apple Snapple. I drank it quickly, clutching my phone in my other hand, staring at my Dexcom, willing the arrow to turn upward. I needed it to rise. I needed to prove I could still do this. But the numbers moved too slowly. By the time my body stabilized, the burn exercise was over. My chance was gone. After eight weeks of training late nights in icy water practicing rescues, hours dragging heavy hoses across fields, hands calloused from tying knots, I had missed the final step needed to earn my certification. I wasn’t just tired. I was defeated. Beneath the exhaustion was a deeper frustration rooted in something I couldn’t control. "Why did it have to be diabetes?" For a moment, it felt like my diagnosis was a barrier between me and everything I had worked for. But that feeling didn’t last. I refused to let it. When the spring semester came, I signed up for the burn test again, this time with a plan. The morning of the test, I checked my blood sugar: 98. Steady. Ready. I fueled my body with eggs, toast, and yogurt, knowing preparation would be my greatest tool. At the fire ground, I carried glucose tablets in every pocket. I wasn’t just hoping I’d make it through, I had built a system to ensure I would. This time, when I geared up, I felt the same weight, but I also felt in control. I monitored my levels, listened to my body, and adjusted when needed. I completed the burn with focus and determination, proving not only to my instructors, but to myself, that diabetes would not define my limits. That moment taught me what it means to be fierce. Being fierce is not ignoring challenges or pushing through recklessly, it is adapting, preparing, and refusing to quit, even when your body works against you. It is showing up again after failure, stronger and smarter than before. But diabetes has also taught me to be kind. I understand what it feels like to struggle silently, to appear capable on the outside while fighting something unseen within. During training, I became more aware of others, checking in on teammates who looked exhausted, encouraging those who doubted themselves, and offering help without being asked. I learned that strength is not just about endurance, but about lifting others when they need it. Carolyn was described as fierce and kind, and through my journey with type 1 diabetes, I have learned to embody both. I fight for my goals with resilience and preparation, and I support others with empathy and understanding. Diabetes has challenged me, but it has also shaped me into someone stronger, more compassionate, and more determined than I ever thought possible.

The pizzas were in fact just as good as I’d imagined them to be, and my only thought after that first bite was, “I'm going to love these next four years”. UPDATE: I have, in fact, fallen out of love with the cheese pizzas, but only because I’ve grown passionate for the many other dishes of opportunity that Collegiate Academy has to offer. My first week of high school consisted of a series of unfamiliar experiences: navigating maze like hallways, decoding a schedule that felt more confusing than helpful, and learning how to introduce myself over and over again. I craved something familiar, so come lunch, as I walked past the salad bars and weekly specials I surprised myself when I parked in line for cheese pizza. The familiar smell of grease and tomato sauce reminded me of the memories of middle school which was a long, arduous, life-altering two whole months into my past. For the rest of that year I continued to play it safe. I considered joining competitive clubs after passionately defending my love for Mukbang Culture in Mr. F's government class, but I was held back by the belief that I wasn't extroverted enough, smart enough, bold enough. Things I didn't belive I could be. I lived in this self-doubt for the better half of a year until I grew tired of the taste of averageness. Seated a couple of feet from the extravagantly decorated stage at the excellence ceremony, I could feel the buzz of excitement from seniors, and nervousness from my fellow underclassman. I had never been before and didn’t know what to expect, but I left inspired. I saw hundreds of students walk the stage, beaming with pride in their Dean’s list status. I watched the medaling of national Academic Decathlon competitors, and the awarding of millions of dollars in scholarships. The accolades were more than just achievements, it was a symbol of what could be. The final remarks of the student speaker of the ceremony stuck with me. She said, “and to the incoming underclassman whose seats we once filled, don’t let the change scare you. Say yes in its face”. And so I did. Change was me evolving from timid to outspoken through my time in speech and debate where I learned to stand in front of a room and defend my ideas with confidence. Change was me taking up leadership roles in clubs like where I was responsible not just for participating, but guiding others. Change was my decision to push my academic potential-taking up college calculus, organic chemistry, and physics. Change was the quiet decision to become someone, even in my not knowing of who it is I wanted to become. In this change I let go of the last bit of familiarity in my new life. I stopped eating cheese pizza. My time at Academy has taught me that there is no harm in trying and failing. Don’t play it safe, take a bite of something new.

At the intersection between 12th and Parade street sits a man named Joseph. People recognize him for his cheery smile and the jokes he exchanges for cash, or his iconic red beanie he wears no matter the weather. Snow, sleet, rain or sunshine. I remember the first time I saw him was in 2018. My older sister and I were walking across the street to Denny's Ice Cream Shop when we passed Joseph. He was humming to himself when he stopped, looked up and smiled at us. "It's a beautiful day, beautiful people!" he said in a sing-songy tone. "And a beautiful day to get ice cream, would you like us to grab you anything?". Joseph shook his head and declined, explaining, "I don't think my diabetic body could take anymore sugar, but thank you ladies". As a diabetic myself I was somewhat confused. With enough insulin and portion control, eating sugar is something diabetics could safely do. Once we crossed the street and found our spot in line I asked my sister. "Why did he say he couldn't eat ice cream, he can just take more insulin". She explained to me that taking insulin wasn't the issue but getting access to it. You need transportation to get to pharmacies and a home to mail in medications, and regular access to a doctor to monitor your blood sugar. And people without a home don’t always have that. Eleven year old me got her first taste of disillusionment. I realized medical resources and access to quality healthcare isn’t a right, it’s a privilege in the world we live in. Years later I began my journey as a healthcare provider. I successfully received my EMT certification at sixteen and began volunteering shortly after. My first week volunteering I shared stories in the radio room with the other EMT’s recalling memorable calls they'd gone on. My supervisory EMT recalled a call she had for an unresponsive man found on the sidewalk between 12th and Parade. She confirmed that he died of cardiovascular complications exacerbated by his diabetes. ”Was he wearing a red beanie?” I remember asking and secretly hoping her answer was no. When my EMT supervisor told me it was Joseph, who was the patient on that call my heart stopped for a moment. She’d gone on about previous calls where she had encounters with him, revealing he’d been a nurse for over a decade before his life had taken a turn for the worse, but I wasn’t listening. Anger and frustration flooded my body. His death felt so preventable. It was access and affordability. the two barriers that ultimately killed him It's been 3 years that Joseph's spot on 12th and Peach has been vacant. No one else dares take his spot because we all share this quiet understanding that people aren't replaceable. Especially someone as lovable as Joseph. A man who dedicated 10+ years in healthcare was then betrayed by the same system that he once proudly worked to build. This betrayal angers all in my community. healthcare NEEDS to be accessible. Patients without records are still patients. Patients without money are still patients. Patients without homes are still patients. While this problem is deeply systemic, I believe we can start by addressing the immediate symptoms. If I had the resources, I would create a network of mobile health clinics, buses converted into traveling medical offices equipped with essential supplies, tele-health access, and volunteer clinicians. These clinics would travel through underserved neighborhoods, offering free checkups, routine medications, diabetes management, and chronic disease education for unhoused and uninsured patients.

In the first grade my school hosted Scholastic week. The library was full of bright displays and new books that my classmates rushed to buy. I didn't have any money, but I still had a deep love for reading and an almost stubborn curiosity. While I waited with the other students outside-the ones who had already paid or couldn't buy anything-my teacher quietly called me over. Next to the library door were two carts of old books the school planned to throw away. She told me I could pick any book I wanted. Most were thick novels far above my reading level but one book caught my eye–a children's anatomy book. That afternoon, I curled up on the couch and read it cover to cover...stumbling through large medical words but fascinated by the world beneath the skin. I've kept that book ever since. As I now begin packing for college, I realize this is where it began. That moment was the spark of my love for the life sciences. When I ask, "How did I end up on the path toward medicine and STEM?", I think of first-grade me and her decision to bring home a used anatomy book. Since then I've spent years chasing that spark. At 16, I enrolled in EMT school and earned my certification. At 17 I completed firefighting (essentials) school. In school I gravitated toward chemistry – first AP Chemistry then Organic chemistry– realizing I had a genuine fascination with the building blocks of the world around us. Through these experiences, chemistry became a language I could speak fluently. I learned about medications like naloxone and epinephrine and how their molecular structures interact with the body. I discovered forensic chemistry, through fire investigation workshops, witnessing how science in action saves lives. My academic goals don’t stop at being successful in my studies despite my diabetes, but rather in spite of it. I’m deeply interested in majoring in chemistry to better understand the disease I live with. Just in this past year, there have been talks of great progress made in diabetes treatment efforts. From “immune system resets” curing diabetes in mice, to “cell transplantation" studies hinting towards a future that is rid of T1D. I want to be a part of these initiatives, provide an insider's view of what life is like with diabetes and work towards what life could be without it. I say this to show that my diabetes isn't just a part of my personal identity but is soon to be a part of my professional one as well. Now, as a senior, my decisions about life after high school are driven by both passion and necessity. I want a career that lets me stay close to science and emergency medicine, but as a diabetic, I also have to think practically. I've had countless conversations with my parents about what it will take to afford quality healthcare in the long run. That is why financial security is non-negotiable for me. Diabetes has made my academic goals sharper, my timelines more intentional, and my commitment to medicine deeply personal. When challenges come-whether it's a low blood sugar on shift or a difficult chemistry unit-what keeps me grounded is remembering where I started. I think of the little girl holding an anatomy book barely attached to its spine; I think of patients I've met; most of all I think about how living with diabetes has already taught me how to adapt, adjust, and try again the next day. That resilience is what keeps me moving even when the path is steep.

For some, their first act of giving may have been donating a dollar, paying an extra .50 cents at the register, or buying those over priced school chocolate bars that seems to be the only fundraiser option these days. For me the first act of giving I ever did was donate a Monster High backpack. I was so incredibly proud of myself when I came home with a bronco service award. I sat on the floor as my dad held the paper up, his tired expression from a 12 hour work day showed both in his body and his expression. And then he spoke, not words of praise, but of frustration. “You gave a back pack to your friend!” I sat there confused at his disappointment. “You gave a backpack to some random girl! Just watch we’re not buying you a new backpack until you graduate”. Those last words stung, but also deepened my confusion. My parents were upset at me for being kind, something everyone from adults, teachers, and television characters told me is something we should all be. I gave away that backpack to a friend of mine who not only was bullied for hers, but desperately needed to replace the old hand me down she’d been using. As much as I loved that backpack, giving it away felt like the right thing to do, so why was my dad so mad at me? 12 years later I know why my parents were upset. The school year was nearing an end which meant summer would begin, and following it–back to school season. I was the next child entering grade school which meant a new set of uniform, pencils, books, and most importantly a backpack. This free backpack given to me for my good behavior could have alleviated my parents from one more expense. I had no concept of money, after all I was 6. The world my parents lived in meant you fend for yourself to survive. And yet, I wouldn’t stop giving. As I grew up, the way I gave changed, but the impulse stayed the same. Outside of classrooms I filled the role of a tutor, teaching arithmetic and writing to new American students. In late afternoons, I switched out of school uniform in exchange for bunker gear--attending firefighting drills and running calls on the ambulance as a newly certified EMT. These avenues have proven to me that a passion for service leads to opportunities for growth. I only hope to further satiate this passion in university. I’m on track to be the first daughter in my lineage to receive a Masters. With this education my reach in helping others only expands. Looking back, that Monster High backpack was my first lesson in what service really costs, and why it's worth it. My parents wanted security for me. I wanted to ease someone else's burden. Both were right. Today, as I prepare to be the first woman in my family to earn a master's degree and serve as a Physician Assistant, I remember service isn't just what I do; it's who I am. With this scholarship, I can keep giving from a place of abundance, not scarcity.

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 passages 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 words with someone you love. When my mother completed her GED, our study sessions became less frequent. I ventured 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. At twelve, I started writing—first by mimicking the diction of my favorite authors in short stories and murder mysteries of my own. Even now, at eighteen, I can still remember staying up late on summer nights to finish the first sci‑fi thriller I ever wrote, heavily inspired by the Divergent series by Veronica Roth. I stuffed the draft with what I proudly called “big words,” not because the story needed them, but because I hoped they would hide how young I was. Ironically, they did the opposite; they made it obvious a child was reaching for a grown‑up voice. I think back on that memory fondly. To me, it marks the beginning of my writing journey, the start of my search for a voice. Mimicry became inspiration, and inspiration slowly grew into originality. My newer pieces sound more like…me. Now, my writing is a portfolio of book reports, podcast scripts, flash fiction, and poetry written in my native tongue. My latest projects feel like an archive of a voice that is just beginning to speak authentically, a voice I’m excited to keep refining. I may not yet be where I want to be as a writer, but I’m incredibly proud of how far I’ve come. While I no longer spend my after‑school evenings on the floor by our dining room table, I still return to those roots for inspiration. My love for learning and my appreciation for literature began there. It was a privilege to have that love nurtured, and I plan to continue nurturing it to mature my writer’s voice. Writing is a fundamental skill that will shape my future in the physical sciences. Beyond research papers and lab reports, my background in writing will help me contextualize data, read between the lines, and understand the weight of each word.

My aspirations to become a physician was deeply shaped by the mentors who believed in me, when I didn't yet believe in myself. One of those mentors was Mr. P, my AP Lang, Seminar, and Classic literature teacher who once lovingly joked that I should really "have some more belief in my self". He was the kind of teacher who went beyond the role of an educator, he became a source of safety, comfort, and encouragement for all his students. I entered his class as a, quiet, introverted, reserved 10th grader tackling my first AP level class. My classmates seemed confident in their knowledge of composing argumentative essays and analyzing evidence to build theses. (I couldn't tell you what a thesis is even today!) You can imagine how intimidating it was. I often felt out of place, and lost. To bridge that gap I began attending tutoring afterschool with Mr. P. I practiced writing essays, studied structure, and revised old papers, each time inching closer to confidence. Come second semester, I had just completed presenting my research project on identity--a project born from our summer reading assignment--and I was stunned at the praise from my peers. But it was Mr. P's words that stayed with me. As I gathered my materials, he stopped me and said, "That was one of the best presentation I've seen in all my years of teaching AP Lang". For a teacher sparing with compliments, that. line meant everything. For the first time I felt equal to my peers, I believed in my abilities, and dared to dream bigger. So I chased those dreams. I joined a fire department where I became a volunteer EMT/FF. I joined my school's speech and debate team where I learned to become a skilled orator. I even joined cross country, despite being asthmatic and seriously disliking running, because I told myself, “Why not? I’ll never know if I don’t try.” I wasn’t the fastest on the team, but I was proud of my courage to try despite the fear of failure. That spark of belief Mr. P ignited transformed my outlook. I believe Mr. P is a lot like Valerie Rabb, someone whose unwavering faith in others, patience, and compassion leaves lifelong marks on every student they meet. I think I speak for the students of Mr. P and all who were lucky enough to know Valerie when I say: your belief in your students lives on in each of us, inspiring generations to come. Now as a high school senior, my curiosity and love for learning has only grown stronger. From finding a love for running , to fighting fire in my free time, I've found joy in helping others learn, grow, and thrive. As I prepare to study chemistry in college, (and a subsequent career in medicine) I’m more excited than ever for what lies ahead. I want to become a physician who advances accessible care for all, combats health misinformation through education, and contributes to the research and development of lifesaving medicine. My dreams may be ambitious--but isn't that the point? To believe, to inspire, and to turn belief into reality. It was belief that got me here, and belief that will carry me toward the future I so unapologetically envision.

I like to think of math as a shadow that creeps up on you on every corner, at every turn. The rhythm of a heartbeat, that's math. The way a chemical reaction accelerates or slows, that’s also math. When a bridge arches perfectly against the sky, there’s math again. As I began to notice how often math appeared in my everyday life, my view of calculus started to shift. Now calculus isn't so much of a mystery as it is a language. Coming to finally understand Calculus for what it is and its practical uses has allowed me to appreciate the elegance of math as a living, breathing part of everything. I now understand you don’t have to be an expert to love math, but rather a keen observer. Sometimes calculus isn’t the most explicit force affecting your life, but we often forget how deeply it shapes our world. One fascinating example I recently learned was that in healthcare, it models the rate at which medicine disperses in the bloodstream through differential equations. Similarly, in chemistry, calculus creeps up again! Scientists use calculus to calculate the reaction rates and predict molecular behaviors. For instance, the formula dN/dt = -kN is one of the fundamental exponential decay equations used to develop models for radioactive decay. Taking Calculus 1 & 2 as a junior opened my eyes to how powerful these ideas are. Now, as a senior, I look forward to Calculus 3 as a chance to charpen my problem-solving skills even more. Working through complex problems has trained me to recognize patterns and predict how they will play out. These are the same skills I will need in a STEM career and more specifically in healthcare; that means interpreting changing lab values, understanding how a drug moves through the body, or analysing data in medical research. My dream of becoming a physician and majoring in chemistry feels possible because calculus has given me both the tools and the confidence to understand the world more deeply. Calculus gives us the power to describe change, the way diseases spread, how heat transfers, population growth, and even molecular bonding. It translates chaos into comprehension. It is the quiet engine behind progress in all of STEM, turning curiosity into measurable truth. And now, I wait-excitedly-for the next time calculus plays peek-a-boo in my life, reminding me again that every discovery starts with seeing the world through numbers and patterns.

Children notice everything. And I mean everything. That ill-fitted blouse? They’ll point it out. Lettuce in your teeth? Cue the laughter. How different your siblings look from one another? You guessed it...they see that too. I’m the second youngest of seven kids. Some of us share a father, some a mother, and some neither. But for me, my blended family is especially beautiful because of how we came together. When my parents met, they understood that marrying wasn't just about starting a partnership between two people: it was about expanding and growing an entire family. My mother was a widow, raising her son while carrying the immense grief of losing her firstborn, who lived just shy of a month. In war-torn Somalia, work was scarce, and being a single mother was even harder. My father, a recent divorcee with two young daughters, was also caring for his nephew when his elderly brother neared the end of his life; my dad didn’t hesitate to adopt his nephew. When they chose to marry, they knew they weren't just building a new life together. They were building a home that would hold all their children, their histories, and their hopes for something better. Amidst the chaos of civil war, my parents left everything. Siblings, friends, careers, and parents, for the promise of safety, stability, and opportunity in America. They could’ve waited out the turmoil, but instead they chose us. That unwavering selflessness is something I admire so much in my parents. So, as a child, even when other children pointed out that my sisters were fairer than me, that our hair textures didn’t match, or that my brothers had a different nose than mine, I wasn’t bothered. I knew that the bonds in my family were much stronger than just blood. Ours was a love rooted in sacrifice, resilience, and the belief that family is built through choice, through hardship, and through putting others before yourself. Growing up in a blended household taught me not only compassion but also how to meet people where they are. I learned early that every person carries a story, sometimes hidden, sometimes written plainly across their face. My home was full of many stories, some joyful, some painful, all woven together into something whole and strong. I watched my parents navigate new beginnings with courage, and learned that you don’t grow by avoiding pain, but by pressing through it. Selflessness and adaptability are values I carry forward. When I think about my future, I want to live a life of service, whether that’s through medicine, teaching, or simply listening to someone who feels unseen. It's not about status or glory; it’s about honoring the opportunity my parents gave me, reaching higher, and helping others do the same. I want to be someone who goes beyond the call of duty, someone who treats others with kindness, even when they look or live differently from me. A career path isn’t set in stone for me yet, and honestly, I like that. I know I’ll find ways to use my talents for good, wherever I land. Whether in a hospital room, a classroom, or out in my community, I hope to bring the warmth and generosity I received growing up into every space I enter. If there’s one lesson my family taught me, it’s that healing and hope are possible—even from places of loss. And sometimes, the greatest good you can do is simply to choose love and give people the chance to belong.

I was ten years old when I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. I remember the tense atmosphere in the doctor’s office, my mother at my bedside, trying to stifle her tears. Seeing her pain hurt me, yet I was strangely calm. Despite being told I would have to prick myself with needles for the rest of my life, I trusted my doctors, trusted that my mother would find strength again, and trusted that I could learn to live fully with this chronic illness. More than that, I trusted the many doctor’s visits ahead wouldn’t be sources of fear, but affirmations that I was taking care of myself, preparing for a future in which I could do the same for others. The hundreds of doctor’s visits I’ve made over the years have shown me the critical role healthcare providers play not only in treating illness but in partnering with patients and families. Through my own experience, I understand the importance of providers who do not dismiss a child’s voice but instead empower them to ask questions and advocate for their care. I remain endlessly grateful for the small acts of kindness and respect from my providers—meeting me at eye level, listening sincerely, and showing compassion—which transformed cold, clinical spaces into places of trust and healing. What motivates me to pursue medicine is the knowledge that every act of perseverance can ripple out to change lives. As a first-generation Somali-American immigrant, I deeply appreciate the support and resources that have enabled me to thrive despite adversity. This awareness fuels a commitment to give back—to become a source of hope and support for others. Alongside managing my own condition, I carry the weight of broader injustices I have witnessed. When the voices of Black women go unheard in hospitals, the consequences can be devastating. I know this not from abstracts but from my own life and family. My mother, a tireless medical interpreter, recognized my symptoms early and repeatedly demanded care for me despite initial dismissal by healthcare providers. Her advocacy was relentless, call after call, until someone listened. Her resilience saved me. My story is one shared by too many. I will not be the last Black girl to face systemic discrimination in medicine. This reality solidified my resolve to become a physician who not only understands these struggles but actively challenges them. I want to be the kind of doctor who advocates fiercely, listens deeply, and treats every patient with dignity. Inspired by the women who came before me, especially my mother, and moved by the legacy of advocates and role models, I envision a career in pediatric medicine where I support children living with chronic illnesses and their families through every step. I want parents to feel the relief I once felt, knowing their child is in empathetic, capable hands. My goal is not simply to treat illness but to care holistically, offering medical expertise and emotional reassurance to families navigating uncertainty. Ultimately, my journey has shown me that empowerment grows when we lift others as we ascend. I am determined to mentor, advocate, and support patients and communities who have been overlooked, bringing compassion, resilience, and hope to all I serve. Through medicine, I hope to be a voice for those too often unheard and a healer who makes a tangible, lasting difference.

If you’ve ever seen determination light up a mother’s eyes in a hospital corridor, you’ll know what true hope looks like. My journey began in that tension, between fear and grit, when my mother, a medical interpreter who refused to be unheard, fought tirelessly for me as I first showed confusing symptoms of type 1 diabetes. Those moments weren’t just about medicine; they were my first lessons in the power of resilience, self-advocacy, and compassion. At ten years old, I didn’t understand the complexity of the medical system, but I saw my mother’s fierce love as she spotted every warning sign: frequent urination, rapid weight loss, constant fatigue. When doctors dismissed her concerns repeatedly, she kept calling, insisting, refusing to give up until I was finally seen. Her perseverance saved my life. That experience engraved in me the importance of a healthcare provider who listens deeply, who advocates fiercely, and treats patients with dignity. As a first-generation Somali-American and daughter of women who overcame tremendous obstacles, I know firsthand how Black women’s voices too often go unheard within medicine, sometimes with devastating effects. This reality has shaped my commitment to become a physician who not only understands these struggles but also works to dismantle the barriers behind them. I want to be the kind of doctor who listens as intently as my mother demanded, who treats every patient as human first, and who never allows a plea to be ignored. Over many visits to cold, sterile exam rooms scented with alcohol, I learned that real care is born from trust and respect. My own providers treated me with kindness, met me at eye level, and empowered me to ask questions, simple acts that transformed my fear into confidence. These experiences inspired me to pursue pediatric medicine, imagining a future where I can provide that same warmth and empowerment to children facing chronic illness and their families facing uncertainty. The hardest parts of my condition have been easier to carry because of the support and empathy I’ve received—and that support wasn’t just medical; it was human. I carry a deep gratitude not only for the care but for the strength to keep going. That strength comes from knowing every small act of perseverance creates ripples that can change lives. I want to be part of that change, using my own story to uplift others who may feel silenced or unseen. This commitment to advocacy and compassion is further fueled by the memory of Aaryn Railyn King, whose life this scholarship honors. Aaryn believed in education as a powerful tool to unlock dreams, a belief that resonates deeply with me. In a world where access to education remains uneven, I recognize my privilege and responsibility to learn and grow. Inspired by her legacy, I am determined to build on the foundation of education to become a physician who makes a positive impact not only through medicine but through mentorship, advocacy, and service. In weaving together my personal story and dreams, I understand that my journey is bigger than just me. It’s about honoring the resilience of my family, the struggles of those often unheard, and the promise of a future where every child receives the care, respect, and hope they deserve. That future is why I am dedicated to pediatric medicine and to the ongoing pursuit of justice, empathy, and healing.

My name is Hawo Ibrahim. A name I carry with immense pride. In my family, naming the first daughter after her grandmother is a tradition that has lasted six generations. For me, Hawo is more than a name; it’s a living link to my ancestry, a connection to my grandmother and great-great-grandmother, and a reminder of the strength of those who came before me. It’s also the Quranic name for Eve, the first woman on earth, and in my family, being ‘the first’ carries extraordinary weight. I am the first woman in my lineage to finish elementary school, the first to move on from middle school, the first on track to graduate high school, and the first to not only dream of college, but to actively prepare for it. Every new experience, both in the classroom and beyond, has revealed the vast world still waiting for me to discover. Shaped by this sense of heritage and responsibility, I have found purpose through service—a theme running through every chapter of my life. My early curiosity about medicine led me to pursue my EMT-B certification at 16 and complete firefighting school at 17, making me the youngest woman in my family to enter these fields. Each week, I dedicate 6 hours as a volunteer EMT with Fair Field Fire Dept., where I have learned that true leadership is rooted in compassion and teamwork, especially in high-pressure moments. The trust placed in me during emergencies underscores my determination to push past boundaries and set new standards for what is possible. My drive to help others also led me to the classroom—first as a student, then as a mentor. For the past two years, I have spent afternoons tutoring new American students in English, math, and science as part of ELEVATE, a branch of the Urban Community Development Corporation. My students, ages 7-14, remind me daily what it means to overcome obstacles and reach for new opportunities. As their ‘Miss Hawa,’ I strive to create an environment where every child feels seen and supported. I still remember the young girl who arrived with her head down and confidence shaken; her experience mirrored my own early challenges. By experimenting with interactive lessons and nurturing her individual strengths, I watched her transform—finding excitement in learning and belief in herself. In those moments, I learned that leadership isn’t just telling or teaching; it’s cheering, guiding, and walking alongside. This commitment to uplifting others is deeply rooted in my faith. Each weekend, I teach foundational Arabic and Islamic history to children at the Islamic Association of Erie. There, I help students find pride in their heritage and encourage curiosity—a reflection of the support my family’s traditions have given me throughout my life. I strive to carry this passion for growth and service into every aspect of my education. Through competitive clubs such as speech and debate and Future Business Leaders of America (FBLA), I have learned the power of communication and collaboration. By joining HOSA, I have begun to explore new dimensions of health sciences, preparing for the next stages of my academic career. All of these experiences have shaped my vision for the future: pursuing a career in medicine. I hope to deepen my understanding, amplify my ability to serve, and honor the legacy woven into my name.

1. My name is Hawo Ibrahim, and I’m a 17-year-old rising senior who’s proud to be a first-generation Somali-American. If I had to describe myself in two words, I’d say curious and persistent. Growing up, I watched my mother—a superhero disguised as a medical interpreter-face challenges head-on with a phone in one hand and hope in the other. When I was ten, she noticed something off about me: I couldn’t stop running to the bathroom, and suddenly all my clothes looked two sizes too big. My mother's stubbornness (I like to think I inherited a bit of it!) meant she wouldn’t take no for an answer, even after doctors brushed us off. She kept pushing, until someone finally listened, and I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. Experiencing healthcare from the patient side and seeing my mom’s determination taught me what real advocacy means. I know that listening, kindness, and standing up for others can change everything, especially for young Black women like me who deserve better in medical spaces. These experiences fuel my passion for human health and wellness. I want to be the kind of doctor who makes patients feel seen, heard, and valued, never dismissed. Every day, I try to carry forward my mom’s courage, a little bit of her humor, and a lot of her heart. 2. To me, empathy means much more than feeling for another, it is the conscious decision to listen, understand, and act with compassion, regardless of differences. As an aspiring healthcare professional, empathy forms the backbone of my interactions, shaping my approach to every human encounter. My pursuit of pediatric medicine reveals a passion for guiding children through vulnerable journeys of healing, growth, and self-acceptance. Empathy in health-related careers is vital, as it bridges the gap between provider and patient, enabling trust, open communication, and tailored care. My experiences as an EMT and junior firefighter brought me into moments of deep fear and hope, where empathy transformed patient care into true comfort. Similarly, as a full-time ESL tutor, I learned to see each person as a whole, with stories and struggles beneath the surface, which refined my understanding of individual needs and cultural nuances. In medicine, empathy ensures that we treat not the symptoms, but the person. A human-centered healthcare approach means recognizing that care should be personalized, respectful of backgrounds, identities, and beliefs. As a trilingual Black Muslim woman, I am attuned to the challenges minorities face in healthcare. My commitment to inclusivity drives me to advocate for language access, to embrace diverse cultural practices, and to address systemic disparities wherever I work. Continuous self-reflection and collaboration anchor my efforts. I seek feedback from patients and colleagues, listen actively, and adapt my methods. I partner with families to honor their priorities and dignity. For example, in tutoring, I approach lessons as partnerships rather than prescriptions, illustrating concepts through students’ contexts. In my healthcare journey, I will use this same ethic, creating environments where every child and family feels seen and heard. Empathy allows us to glimpse the world through someone else’s lens. It facilitates humility, admitting what we do not know, and being willing to learn from every encounter. Whether on an ambulance call or in a classroom, empathy guides my actions with kindness and resolve. By infusing my work with empathy and a human-centered perspective, I am determined to advance health and wellness, cultivating hope and resilience in every life I touch

A beautiful marker of greatness is the willingness to always reach higher. The kindest souls I’ve met have a remarkable trait in common — they push themselves to be stronger, smarter, and healthier, and they want the same for the people around them. This, I believe, is the kind of spirit Kalia D. Davis embodied, and it’s one I have been fortunate to witness in my own life through my childhood best friend. My earliest memories of her are filled with flashes of fierce protection and encouragement — racing boys at recess, standing up to bullies on my behalf, and always finding ways to make me feel unstoppable. When high school came around, she convinced me to join cross country. As someone with asthma, I never imagined competing in a demanding sport. I was hesitant, doubtful, and scared. But she believed in me so fiercely that I began to believe in myself. At first, I hated it. Practices left me exhausted and discouraged. I felt like I’d never measure up to my teammates. Progress seemed invisible, and quitting felt easier than pushing through. But my best friend wouldn’t let me give up. She reminded me — just like Kalia must have reminded so many around her — that showing up and giving your best matters more than being perfect. Then came districts. I had no plans to race, content to cheer from the sidelines. But the night before, our coach explained we needed another female runner. I stayed silent until a message popped up in the team group chat: "Hawo should compete." It was from my best friend. The next morning, my nerves roared. Who did I think I was, competing in a 5K with barely four months of training? The first mile went well, but by the second lap I was near the back, cramping and gasping for air. That’s when I spotted her — standing above me on the turn, fists in the air, smiling and yelling my name like I was in first place. Something in me shifted. On the third lap, I stopped looking at how far I had to go and just kept moving. I crossed the finish line exhausted… and in the bottom ten. But I didn’t feel like I’d lost. My best friend was waiting with the biggest grin, telling me how proud she was. And for the first time, I felt that pride myself. Competing at districts taught me a lesson that now shapes every part of my life: perseverance in the face of doubt is a victory in itself. Even when it burns — in academics, work, and personal challenges — the win comes when you refuse to give up. That mindset fuels my big dream: to be the first in my family to attend graduate school and become a physician for women's and children's health. Kalia’s story resonates with me deeply because I see her values — determination, encouragement, and the courage to push higher — reflected in my journey. If she were here today, I imagine she’d be standing on the sidelines for me, too, cheering just as my best friend did. This scholarship would not only help me continue my education, but it would honor her legacy by empowering me to strive for excellence while uplifting others along the way. Kalia, there are other beautiful souls in the world like you , people who inspire, empower, and remind us that the climb is worth it. Your story inspires me to keep running my race, no matter how tough the course, and to do it with a smile.

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.

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.