My story is about starting over—not once, not twice, but three times. I am a first-generation student and the oldest daughter in my family. I grew up in Afghanistan, where we heard bombs, feared kidnappings and theft, and had our home robbed multiple times. In 2021, when the Taliban took over and banned girls from school, I felt my future disappear in a single day. My mother was an English teacher, and my father ran a small pharmacy business. While many around us believed girls should marry and limit their ambitions, my parents wanted education and independence for their three daughters. We left Afghanistan in 2021, leaving behind our home, jobs, relatives, money, and everything familiar. In Tajikistan, we started from zero again. As Afghan immigrants, we had no right to work or attend school. I could not change those rules, so I created my own path. I reached out to UNICEF with an idea to help Afghan immigrant women earn income through handmade embroidery. I presented my idea before more than 100 investors. Among about 50 teams, mine was selected, and I received $300 to begin. That day, I felt like I had won the world because my idea finally had a chance to change lives. I knocked door to door and spoke with immigrant women one by one. I spent months teaching and encouraging them and invested some of my own small savings. More than 50 women eventually joined us. Our embroidery went from local sales to an international exhibition in Dushanbe, and two pieces were later taken abroad. I had been told I could not work, so I built work from nothing—for myself and for women who had been told the same. In 2023, my family and I started over for the third time, this time in the United States. Within six months, I learned English, earned all A’s, and graduated from high school. My immigration story was even featured in my high school newsletter. Because my family could not afford a university, I began at community college. I did not let community college make me dream smaller. Today, I study neurobiology with a 4.0 GPA while working two campus jobs as a tutor and student ambassador to help pay for textbooks and save for school. I have taken the bus and biked 10 miles, including uphill, to reach campus. I received an All-California Academic Team gold medal and the Coca-Cola Leaders of Promise award as the only recipient from my college of about 20,000 students. I also volunteer in Kaiser Permanente’s emergency department, where my interest in medicine has grown through direct patient care. My career goal is to attend medical school and become a physician focused on diseases of the brain. I want to better understand the connection between neurological disease, mental health, and a patient’s life experiences. In the future, I hope to combine medicine, biotechnology, and artificial intelligence to improve neurological treatment. I also plan to build a nonprofit that helps low-income, immigrant, and international students—especially women—access education and meaningful work. At 20 years old, I have lived in three countries and watched the lives we built collapse more than once. I have seen my rights disappear and my family leave everything behind. I do not know what obstacles are ahead, but I know I will keep moving—whether I have to run, walk, climb, or crawl. I have started over three times. I know how to begin again.

“Am I making any real difference?” I asked myself that morning as I headed to my summer job as a certified STEM tutor at my community college. I arrived, sat in my chair, and waited for a student to walk in. Was I truly helping students move forward, or simply showing them how to solve one problem before they left? Then, a woman arrived with her two young sons. She had traveled nearly two hours by bus from another city in ninety-degree heat. She had no car, little money, and no food for the children. She was not scheduled with me, but the tutoring office sent her because no one knew who could help. She did not need biology, chemistry, or math tutoring. She needed to learn how to use a computer. She had borrowed a laptop from the college but did not know how to log in, access her classes, check deadlines, or submit assignments. As we talked, she shared her story. This was her first semester in college. She was raising two sons after leaving an unsafe relationship and struggling to afford basic needs. Still, she wanted to study computer science and build a better future for her children. What she needed from me was not advanced knowledge. She needed patience and someone willing to stay. For more than an hour, we went through every step slowly. She filled pages with handwritten notes: how to turn on the laptop, log in, find her classes, and upload her work. We repeated each step until she could do it herself. Her sons waited beside us, tired and hungry, so we found them food. Their faces lit up over chocolate cake. Before leaving, she became emotional. She told me that without help, she might have missed assignments, been dropped from her classes, and lost the plan she had worked so hard to create. What seemed like a simple computer lesson to me had become a doorway for her. Her story touched me because I knew what it felt like to enter an unfamiliar system and not know where to begin. After immigrating to the United States, I became a first-generation, low-income student while working two jobs and helping care for my family. I had to ask questions I sometimes felt embarrassed to ask. Despite those challenges, I maintained a 4.0 GPA, became a tutor and student senator, and helped hundreds of students navigate college. Shaun’s legacy reminds me that showing up does not always look dramatic. Sometimes, it means staying longer, explaining without judgment, listening to someone’s story, or noticing that two children are hungry. That is the healthcare professional I hope to become. Patients may feel frightened, confused, or ashamed to admit what they do not understand. I want to slow down, listen carefully, and make sure no one leaves feeling invisible or more lost than when they arrived. That morning, I asked whether I was making any difference. By the time she left, I had my answer. Yes, I was—not through one dramatic act, but through patience, presence, and one hour that helped someone keep her dream alive!

While shadowing a neurologist, I met a patient whose story stayed with me long after the appointment. He was an older man with Alzheimer’s disease who came with his elderly mother, now his primary caregiver. She explained that her son often forgot where their home was and had gotten lost in town several times. He could not remember whether he had taken his medication and sometimes forgot the names of people close to him. As she spoke, I heard the exhaustion and fear in her voice. She loved him deeply, but she was aging too. She told the neurologist how difficult it had become to care for him when she no longer had the strength to watch him constantly. The neurologist listened carefully. There was no immediate cure or simple answer that could erase the family’s pain. Still, she did not rush. She heard the mother’s concerns, recognized her burden, and treated both of them with patience and compassion. That appointment changed how I understood medicine. I realized that being a physician is not only about diagnosing illness, prescribing medication, or searching for a cure. It is also about caring for the person behind the condition and supporting the family changed by it. Sometimes a doctor cannot remove suffering, but she can help patients and families feel less frightened, confused, and alone. The mother shared that her son became more engaged when she talked about his childhood. Sometimes he smiled, responded, or remembered small details. Those moments showed me that even when medicine cannot restore everything a disease has taken, a physician can still help families preserve connection, dignity, and hope. I began to see medicine as both a science and a deeply human responsibility. My own life has shaped how I understand vulnerability. I grew up in Afghanistan, later immigrated to Tajikistan, and came to the United States in 2023. Each move meant rebuilding my life, learning unfamiliar systems, and depending on others while finding my way. I often felt lost when I did not understand the language, culture, or where to seek help. Although my experience differs from that of a patient with Alzheimer’s, it taught me how frightening it is to lose familiarity, independence, and control. Through more than one hundred hours of volunteering at Kaiser Permanente Hospital, I have seen patients who were confused, frightened, or unable to communicate clearly. I have watched nurses and family members repeat instructions, answer the same questions, and patiently guide patients through unfamiliar situations. These moments showed me that excellent medical care requires knowledge, patience, trust, cultural understanding, and compassion. My journey has also taught me persistence. As a first-generation, low-income pre-med student, I care for my younger siblings, work two jobs, and serve my community. Despite these responsibilities, I have maintained a 4.0 GPA, become a certified tutor and student senator, and supported students navigating college. These roles have strengthened my ability to listen, explain difficult ideas, advocate for others, and remain calm when someone needs guidance. Through my medical career, I hope to support patients with neurological conditions, advocate for underserved families, and help create a healthcare system where language, income, immigration status, or unfamiliarity never blocks compassionate care. The neurologist showed me the physician I hope to become: one who searches for better treatments without forgetting the person behind the diagnosis. I want to use medicine not only to treat illness, but also to build trust, preserve dignity, and help patients and families feel seen during their hardest moments!

While shadowing a neurologist, I met a patient whose story stayed with me long after the appointment ended. He was an older man with Alzheimer’s disease, and he came to the clinic with his elderly mother, who had become his main caregiver. She explained that her son often forgot where their home was and had gotten lost in town several times. He could not remember whether he had taken his medication, and sometimes he forgot the names of people close to him. As she spoke, I could hear the exhaustion in her voice. She loved her son deeply, but she was aging too. She told the doctor how difficult it was to care for him when she no longer had the strength to watch over him constantly. That moment made me realize that Alzheimer’s does not affect only the person who is diagnosed. It slowly enters the lives of everyone around them. It changes relationships, routines, and responsibilities. A mother becomes a full-time caregiver. A family lives with constant worry. Even simple things, such as leaving the house or taking medication, can become dangerous. The neurologist listened carefully. There was no immediate cure and no simple answer that could take away the family’s pain. Still, she did not rush them. She listened, acknowledged the mother’s fears, and treated both of them with patience and kindness. The appointment may have lasted only an hour, but what I learned from it felt much greater. I realized that medicine is not always about prescribing medication or finding a cure. Sometimes, care means listening. Sometimes, it means helping a family feel less alone. Empathy may not stop a disease, but it can still bring comfort. In a very different way, parts of their experience reminded me of the fear and confusion I felt after immigrating. I did not know how many systems worked, where to go for help, or how to find my way through an unfamiliar place. I sometimes felt lost and dependent on others. My experience cannot be compared to Alzheimer’s, but it helped me understand how frightening it can be to lose your sense of familiarity and control. One part of the conversation gave me hope. The mother said that when she talked about her son’s childhood or reminded him of old memories, he became more engaged. Sometimes he smiled. Sometimes he remembered. Those moments may have been brief, but they mattered. They showed me that even when memory fades, connection can still remain. Through more than one hundred hours of volunteering at Kaiser Permanente Hospital, I have also seen patients with dementia become confused, frightened, or repetitive. I have watched nurses and family members answer the same questions many times, gently guide patients, and remain calm when a patient could not understand what was happening. It takes an incredible amount of patience. These experiences taught me that people with dementia need more than medical treatment. They need dignity, familiarity, safety, and compassion. Their families need support too, because caregiving can be emotionally and physically exhausting. My own journey has also shaped the way I understand vulnerability. I grew up in Afghanistan, later immigrated to Tajikistan, and eventually came to the United States in 2023. Each move meant rebuilding my life, learning unfamiliar systems, and depending on others while I found my way. I became a first-generation, low-income college student while helping care for my younger siblings and working two jobs. Despite those challenges, I have maintained a 4.0 GPA as a pre-med student, become a certified tutor and student senator, and continued serving patients at Kaiser Permanente Hospital. These experiences taught me that people are often carrying struggles that are not immediately visible. They are also why I want to study medicine. I am drawn to a field where knowledge matters, but so do patience, trust, and human connection. I hope to work with patients facing neurological conditions and with families who are carrying the fear, exhaustion, and uncertainty that come with them. I want to contribute not only to better treatments, but also to a healthcare system where patients feel heard and caregivers feel supported. Watching the neurologist care for both the patient and his mother showed me the kind of physician I hope to become: someone who searches for solutions, but never forgets the person behind the diagnosis. What I learned most is that even when someone forgets names, places, or memories, they do not stop needing kindness. A cure may not always be possible, but comfort, respect, and human connection are always possible!

My understanding of leadership began through service. I learned that leadership is not about holding a title or being the loudest person in the room. It is about recognizing a need, taking responsibility, and helping others move forward. In Afghanistan, I wrote more than 20 published articles advocating for girls’ education and social justice. I also joined Code to Inspire, where I created a free First Aid Kit app for families with limited access to healthcare. In communities where hospitals and medical professionals were often difficult to reach, the app provided basic emergency information. Seeing people benefit from something I created taught me that service can begin with one person using her skills to solve a real problem. I also worked with a doctor on a 10-week project that provided free medical care to low-income and rural children. Each week, we helped one child receive necessary treatment. This experience showed me that leadership requires more than compassion. It requires action, collaboration, and the willingness to advocate for people whose needs are often overlooked. When war forced my family to move to Tajikistan, I volunteered as a translator for immigrants at clinics and government offices. I understood how frightening it felt to navigate an unfamiliar system without knowing the language or having legal protections. By translating, I helped families communicate their needs and access essential services. I later volunteered with UNICEF and launched an entrepreneurship program for immigrant women. The program helped them turn traditional embroidery skills into a sustainable source of income. They sold their handmade clothing, earned profits, and continued using those skills to support themselves. This experience showed me that meaningful service should not create dependence; it should provide people with the tools and confidence to build lasting independence. After immigrating to the United States in 2023, I continued serving my community. I volunteer in Kaiser Permanente’s Emergency Department, where I support patients and staff during stressful moments. At Sierra College, I have helped more than 700 students, including immigrants and first-generation students, navigate college resources. As a certified tutor and student senator, I help students understand difficult subjects, voice their concerns, and feel that they belong. I also volunteer at a local food bank, where I have helped prepare and distribute more than 500 food boxes to families experiencing food insecurity. I believe leadership through service is important because effective leaders must understand the people they hope to represent. Service builds trust, reveals unmet needs, and turns empathy into practical action. It reminds leaders that success is not measured only by personal achievement, but by how many people are supported, empowered, and included. My experiences have taught me that the strongest leaders do not stand above their communities. They stand within them, listen carefully, and work beside others to create lasting change!

In Afghanistan, I dreamed of becoming a doctor. But the Taliban banned girls from school and silenced our voices. Still, I published 20 articles advocating for girls’ education. Through Code to Inspire, I created a First Aid Kit app for low-income families with limited healthcare access. Seeing people use it proved my work mattered! When war forced my family to immigrate to Tajikistan, we struggled without money, resources, and limited rights. I volunteered as a translator for immigrants at clinics and government offices, using my language to support others. In 2023, my family immigrated again, this time to the United States, with no network, savings, or clear path. I became a first-generation, low-income college student while caring for two siblings and working two jobs. Despite these responsibilities, I have maintained a 4.0 GPA as a pre-med student at Sierra College. I am now a certified tutor, student senator, and California Academic Team gold medalist, selected from 2.2 million college students! I want to become a doctor because I know what it means to lack care and feel unseen. I volunteer at Kaiser Permanente’s Emergency Department, have helped 700 students, -including immigrants– navigate college, and serve at a food bank. My long-term goal is to create a medical nonprofit that employs marginalized people and develops affordable healthcare tools for underserved regions. I will combine medicine, advocacy, and biotechnology to serve refugees, immigrants, and children in crisis. No challenge will make me abandon this dream!

“Do I truly belong here?” I asked my reflection one cold night as I wiped the tears from my face, looking at the mirror. I wanted to answer yes. Instead, I saw neither the person I had been nor the person I hoped to become... “How then can this be want of honour? And how will you be nobody nowhere, when you ought to be somebody in those things only which are in your power, in which indeed it is permitted to you to be a man of the greatest worth?” —Epictetus, The Enchiridion, Section XXIV, translated by George Long Three years earlier, war had forced my family to leave Afghanistan. In the United States, almost everything that had once made life familiar seemed to disappear: our home, language, community, my parents’ employment, and the quiet confidence of knowing how everyday life worked. My parents carried their disappointment silently. My two younger sisters struggled to find comfort. I struggled to express even simple thoughts, as though my intelligence had become trapped behind words I did not yet possess. We were together, yet each of us was lonely in a different way. That night, my question became deeper: When circumstances strip away language, home, confidence, and direction, what still belongs to us? Epictetus answers by separating external recognition from inner worth. His words suggest that circumstances may take away comfort, status, and certainty, but they cannot take away our ability to choose how we respond. Genuine belonging, then, is not simply granted by a country, an institution, or another person. It is built through disciplined choices, steady character, and meaningful service. My immigration journey taught me that belonging was not something I would suddenly find. It was something I would have to build. “Nobody Nowhere”: The Fear of Disappearing Epictetus begins with the fear of being “nobody nowhere.” This is not only the fear of being ignored. It is the fear that, without a familiar title, language, or place in society, a person may lose her identity altogether. Immigration made that fear feel real. I had not become less capable, yet I could no longer demonstrate my abilities as I once had. Thoughts that felt complete in my mind came out as broken sentences. Ordinary tasks required help. My parents, who had once known how to work and provide within a familiar system, suddenly had to begin again. My sisters entered rooms where no one knew their stories. I began to wonder whether the lives we had built before leaving Afghanistan still counted. Epictetus does not dismiss this pain. Instead, he challenges the belief beneath it: that other people’s recognition decides whether we are somebody. A person may lose status without losing worth. She may lose the language through which she once expressed herself without losing the mind, courage, and character waiting beneath the silence. “Somebody in Those Things”: Reclaiming Agency Epictetus then replaces “nobody” with “somebody,” but he gives that word a different meaning. To be somebody is not merely to be praised, invited, or recognized. It is to develop the qualities that remain ours even when applause, comfort, and certainty disappear. I could not reverse the war that displaced my family. I could not immediately restore my parents’ work, erase our financial stress, or make a new country feel like home. But I could decide what kind of person I would become within those circumstances. I enrolled in school while still learning English. I read whenever I could, sometimes while walking to school, and stayed in the library after class because I had no other place. There were days when buying supplies was difficult and days when the heat made the walk exhausting. There were also nights when fear whispered that I was too far behind. Still, I returned to my books. Within a year, I completed high school with a 4.0 GPA. English, which had once made me feel invisible, became a language in which I could study, speak, present, and advocate. These achievements did not erase what my family had endured. They showed me that hardship had not received the final word. “Only Which Are in Your Power”: The Discipline of Choice The word “only” makes Epictetus’s message demanding. He narrows our attention to what truly belongs to us. I could not control how quickly others accepted me, whether every opportunity opened, or how uncertain the path toward medicine would be. I could control whether I prepared, asked questions, learned from failure, and continued. What remained in my power was simple, but not easy: - To learn the language that had once made me silent. - To enter difficult science courses instead of shrinking from them. - To turn my own confusion into guidance for students who also felt lost. - To use my growing voice to advocate for people whose concerns might otherwise go unheard. Those choices slowly became a life. In college, I maintained a 4.0 GPA while studying science, conducting research, and serving my campus. I became a STEM tutor and laboratory teaching assistant, helping students approach subjects that once intimidated them. I serve as a student senator, where I learned that leadership is not the loudest voice in a room but the willingness to carry other people’s concerns into rooms they cannot enter. I received academic honors and statewide recognition, but the titles themselves are not the heart of my story. Among approximately 2.2 million students in California’s community college system, I was selected for the All-California Academic Team and recognized for my academic excellence and service. That honor carried special meaning because it reflected how far I had traveled from the girl who once wondered whether she belonged. To me, it was not simply another medal or certificate; it was evidence that resilience could turn displacement into direction and hardship into purposeful service. They are the visible results of invisible decisions: waking up, returning, asking, studying, serving, and beginning again. “A Person of the Greatest Worth”: Turning Strength into Service Epictetus’s final phrase, “a man of the greatest worth,” does not describe fame. It describes character. Worth is not measured only by how far a person rises, but by what she does with the strength she has built. My hardships taught me that suffering often remains hidden. A person can appear quiet while carrying fear, grief, financial pressure, or the exhaustion of translating an entire life into a new language. I remember needing someone who would listen without making me feel small. That memory now shapes the kind of physician I hope to become. Therefore, I chose the purest cup of knowledge and the most challenging field to pursue, "medicine"! Medicine draws because it brings knowledge into direct contact with human vulnerability. A patient may enter a room without fluent English, financial security, confidence, or someone to advocate for her. I know how easily silence can be mistaken for emptiness. I want to become a physician who listens beyond that silence—someone who hears the untold story and helps lift even a small part of the weight from another person’s shoulders, the same as I went through. I hope to become a caring balm through medicine: not someone who promises to remove every hardship, but someone who brings knowledge, attention, advocacy, and compassion to another person’s pain. Epictetus’s words have therefore become a promise: - To meet uncertainty with preparation rather than paralysis. - To use knowledge to clarify and comfort, never to intimidate. - To speak for people whose voices are overlooked. - To let every achievement deepen my service rather than my pride. Belonging Built, Not Given The girl in the mirror wanted proof that she belonged. At the time, I believed that proof would come through fluent English, excellent grades, medals, scholarships, and positions of leadership. Those accomplishments matter to me, but they did not create my worth. They revealed the choices through which I had already begun rebuilding it. I did not find belonging waiting for me in a new country. I constructed it one unfamiliar word, one difficult course, one act of service, and one courageous decision at a time. Epictetus helped me understand that a place may fail to recognize us immediately, but it cannot decide the full measure of who we are. I was never truly “nobody nowhere.” Even when everything around me was unfamiliar, the power to become somebody of character remained in my hands. I did not rise because the fire spared me; I rose because I learned to carry its light. And now, I carry that light forward—not only to build a place for myself, but to help others find their way through the darkness!

Growing up in Afghanistan and later rebuilding my life as a refugee deeply shaped my understanding of mental health. For much of my childhood, survival came before emotional well-being. Under Taliban restrictions, girls’ education was constantly threatened, freedom of speech was limited, and fear became part of daily life. I remember watching talented young women lose hope as opportunities disappeared around them. When my family was forced to flee Afghanistan and move to Tajikistan, we left behind our home, stability, and the life we had built. Suddenly, we were immigrants in a country where we had limited rights, financial insecurity, and constant uncertainty about the future. Living through these experiences taught me that mental health is not separate from physical health—it affects a person’s motivation, relationships, confidence, and ability to imagine a better future. At a young age, I began noticing how emotional struggles often remained invisible, especially in underserved communities. In many immigrant and refugee families, people rarely spoke openly about anxiety, grief, trauma, or depression because survival felt more urgent than emotions. However, I could see the effects everywhere: in exhausted parents trying to provide for their children, in students who felt isolated because of language barriers, and in families overwhelmed by displacement and instability. These experiences shaped my belief that mental health deserves the same attention, dignity, and compassion as physical health. Instead of allowing those hardships to silence me, I tried to turn them into ways to help others. In Afghanistan, I published more than 20 articles advocating for girls’ education and social awareness. I also joined the organization Code to Inspire, where I helped create a First Aid Kit application designed to provide emergency medical guidance for families without reliable access to healthcare. Later, while living in Tajikistan, I volunteered as a translator for immigrants at clinics, government offices and UNICEF. Many of the people I assisted felt overwhelmed, unheard, or afraid. Those experiences taught me the importance of empathy, patience, and listening without judgment. Sometimes, simply helping someone communicate in their own language reduced fear and restored a sense of dignity. My experiences have also influenced the way I build relationships. Because I know what it feels like to feel displaced and unseen, I try to approach people with compassion and understanding. I have learned that small acts of support—listening carefully, encouraging someone, or helping them navigate difficult situations—can make a meaningful difference in a person’s emotional well-being. These lessons continue to shape how I interact with classmates, coworkers, patients, and my community. Today, as a pre-med student at Sierra College, my experiences continue to influence my career aspirations. I hope to become a physician who recognizes that healing involves both emotional and physical care. I want to work with underserved communities, refugees, and immigrants who often face barriers to healthcare and carry invisible emotional burdens alongside physical challenges. My journey has taught me resilience, but it has also taught me that resilience does not mean ignoring pain. It means growing through hardship while helping others feel heard, supported, and valued!

The teacher told the class a joke. All my classmates laughed. I laughed too—not because I understood what my teacher was saying, but because I saw others laughing, so I copied them. It sounds funny when you read it, but the reality was different. I did not know English very well! I could not speak fluently or communicate. I had no friends, no network, and yet I was a senior in high school. That period of my life was defined by isolation. I often sat through classes without fully understanding the conversations around me, and many days I felt invisible. Simple interactions—introducing myself, asking questions, building friendships—felt impossible without language. Despite being academically capable, I struggled to belong. Yet there was one thing I carried with me across countries and years: my faith. As a Muslim, prayer became my anchor. We pray five times a day, repeating that God is the Most Merciful and the Most Generous. During that hardship, I returned to a verse from the Qur’an: “We will surely test you with fear, hunger, and loss of wealth, lives, and comfort—but give good news to those who remain patient” (Qur’an 2:155). This verse reminded me that hardship is not random; everyone is tested in different ways—through poverty, illness, relationships, wealth, or immigration. What matters is not the test itself, but how one responds to it. I also held onto another reminder from the Qur’an: “Indeed, with hardship comes ease” (Qur’an 94:6). This taught me that difficulty is never permanent, even when it feels overwhelming. I reflected on the stories of the prophets—Abraham, who was thrown into the fire; Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), who was exiled from his own city; and Jesus, who was rejected by his people. Each of them faced rejection and pain, yet they responded with patience, prayer, and trust in God. Remembering these stories helped me understand that struggle is often part of growth, not a sign of failure. That remembrance saved me—not another person, but the remembrance of Allah. Through the stories of the prophets, I learned that even the most honorable human beings experienced fear, loss, and moments of weakness. Their strength did not come from power, but from their connection to God, the Most Powerful and the Most Merciful. Understanding this changed how I viewed my own struggles. Instead of seeing hardship as something that broke me, I saw it as something I could move through with faith and effort. Rather than remaining angry or defeated, I focused on what was within my control. I tried. I stood up. I worked. Today, I am a first-generation, pre-med major, college student. I am a President’s Honor Roll student with a 4.0 GPA, working multiple jobs while supporting my family. I serve as a student senator, a Phi Theta Kappa officer, a student ambassador, and a tutor, and I am the sole recipient of the Leaders of Promise Coca-Cola Award. I also give back through volunteering with Kaiser Permanente and my local mosque. Serving my community gives meaning to everything I endured, and it reminds me why perseverance matters. Above all, I am proud to be a faithful Muslim, grounded in the belief that my life has purpose because my accountability is not to people, but to the Creator of all people—the Most Merciful, the Most Near, and the only One worthy of worship!

In Afghanistan, I dreamed of becoming a doctor. But for girls like me, education was a battleground. The Taliban banned schools for girls, restricted our freedom of movement, and silenced our voices. So, when all doors were closed, I started writing. I wrote more than 20 articles that were published around my school, locally, and even in art exhibits around the girls’ right to education, advocacy, and equality topics. Through my writing experience, I saw its impact on people. I gained confidence, and my classmates—the girls who were once low-confident—began gaining confidence too. One of the biggest achievements during my school years in my home country was winning a robotics medal. I was the only girl to win a robotics medal among all the boys in a very male-dominated field, “Technology”. This was a significant moment for both my school and me, and I began becoming a role model for my classmates at a very young age. Unfortunately, because of the situation in my home country, we had to leave. We immigrated to Tajikistan and had to start our lives again after losing our belongings, home, and jobs. As immigrants, we had very restricted rights to work, education, and daily life, so I wrote again. Through my writing about equality for all humans regardless of nationality, I won several awards from the American Councils in Tajikistan. My biggest achievement was writing a graphic novel about a girl with big dreams but limited opportunities. It was published nationally and deeply resonated with me and many other girls, making it one of my most impactful accomplishments. In 2023, we moved to the United States. We lost everything again: our belongings, language, community, network, savings, and more. Facing many challenges, it was hard for me to fit into a society that did not share my struggles, so I wrote again. I wrote about my life story, immigration journey, achievements, and impact in my home country, in Tajikistan, and now in the USA. This time, my immigration story and writing were published on my Granite Bay High School official webpage and were highly appreciated by my counselors, teachers, and classmates. Now, I am a pre-med, biotechnology major, first-generation student at Sierra College. I am a President’s Honor Roll student, working multiple jobs, supporting my family, and maintaining a 4.0 GPA. I am also a student senator with over 84% of the votes, the sole recipient of the Leaders of Promise Coca-Cola Award, Phi Theta Kappa club officer, student ambassador, certified tutor, and an appointed student representative on my college’s Facilities Committee. I continue to give back by volunteering with Kaiser Permanente, providing free translations, and volunteering at the food bank and my local mosque. These small things bring me closer to my goals—humanity, equality, and peace—which I have written about for years. My long-term goal is to create an organization that hires marginalized people, especially immigrants like myself, and gives them the opportunities I did not have. I am passionate about combining my love for medicine, science, and leadership to develop innovative solutions to urgent problems. I aim to build a biotechnology and innovation-focused company that directly improves people’s well-being and serves underserved communities, including immigrants and children in crisis! My parents left their home country so I could access education, sacrificing stable jobs and facing financial hardship. With two younger siblings to support and no savings, they cannot fund my education. This scholarship would allow me to focus fully on my studies and future goals!

Score! She Scooooored! My robotics teacher and my family were shouting when I scored in the robotics competition. I was the only girl among hundreds of boys who participated. My hands were sweating as I held the remote. My eyes were locked on my robot. My heart was beating at its highest. I watched the timer: 10… 9… 8… I had only a few seconds to beat the boys. We were tied 3–3. I needed just one more point — only one. I was hoping… and suddenly, with all the power, energy, and knowledge I had, I managed to score 4 and beat them. For the first time in my school — or better, in my city — I defeated the boys’ team as the only girl in the robotics competition. I hugged my mom and sisters tightly. I was so happy I couldn’t even stand still. Later, I was invited to the most luxurious ceremony of my life at that time. I was awarded a medal and certificate for placing in the top three in the entire city robotics competition among all schools, even high schools. I was the only female roboticist in the city and ranked first in my school. After that, I became the “cool girl” everyone wanted to be friends with. But my story is about starting over — in fact, three times. I was born and raised in Afghanistan. From an early age, I was interested in science, technology, robotics, and all the cool stuff. But for girls like me, it was a battleground to enter a male-dominated field. Society believed females were not capable of technological and scientific success. I remember working on my robot for weeks and months while carrying the heavy burden of people saying that women in robotics were impossible. My parents, however, always encouraged me. My father sent me to an organization called Code to Inspire, the only female programming organization. I took the entrance exam, and the admission committee was shocked. They had never accepted such a young student from middle school with no computer science background. All other students were university or graduate students in technology fields, but I got in! I learned how to program. I coded. For my final project, I created a “First aid kit” software program — an app that explains how to use a first aid kit in emergencies and provides emergency contacts. I was the first person to develop such an app, and I received a certificate for it. Unfortunately, because of the situation in my home country and the lack of proper educational opportunities, my parents sacrificed everything and left behind their home, jobs, and stability so I could pursue my dreams. We immigrated to Tajikistan and had to start our lives again after losing our belongings, home, and work. As immigrants, we had very limited rights to employment, education, and daily life for two years in Tajikistan. In 2023, we moved to the United States — the land of the free and the home of the brave — where my parents and I had long dreamed of continuing my education. Once again, we lost everything: our belongings, language, community, network, and savings. Facing these challenges, it was difficult to fit into a society that did not share my struggles. Now, I am a biotechnology major and a first-generation student at Sierra College. I am a President’s Honor Roll student, working multiple jobs, supporting my family, and maintaining a 4.0 GPA. I serve as a student senator and am the sole recipient of the Leaders of Promise Coca-Cola Award. I am also a student ambassador and a certified STEM tutor. Now imagine a girl like me back home in Afghanistan. She loves science and robotics, but there is no place to learn and no one to teach her. Her passion is strong, but opportunity is missing. Then she meets a personalized AI teacher that adapts to her learning, corrects her mistakes, and grows with her ideas. Step by step, she learns — and one day creates something powerful, like a medical robot, flying car, or biotechnology breakthrough! Now imagine a child with a disability — passionate but isolated, with no friends and no support. A companion robot is built just for him. This robot becomes his friend, helps him learn, and even supports his body. Imagine an artificial backbone made of tiny robots that helps a paralyzed child stand again and reach his dream of playing basketball. Imagine an ESL student who is ashamed because she cannot speak English. Everyone around her speaks fluently, and she feels invisible. A translator robot appears — it speaks with her, tells her stories, motivates her, teaches her, and gently corrects her mistakes. Over time, she gains confidence and finally speaks with others without fear. What a powerful gift this technology could be if used correctly! I once heard that just because humans can build atomic bombs does not mean we should use them. The same is true for robotics. If we use it morally, its power to improve humanity is extraordinary. People once laughed at flying airplanes — now we live with them. Today, they may laugh at AI teachers and flying cars, but with the right guidance, these ideas will become a reality. With technology, I traveled from Afghanistan to the United States and wrote the story you are reading now. These are not distant dreams — they are plans I am ready to build. Although my family has no savings and I work multiple jobs while commuting by bike, this scholarship is not just about money. It is about believing in my journey — from a girl once bullied for loving robotics to a future female CEO building technology and biotechnology companies that uplift underprivileged women. By supporting me, you are not just funding an education — you are helping turn struggle into impact!

In Afghanistan, I dreamed of becoming a doctor. But for girls like me, education was a battleground. The Taliban banned schools for girls, restricted our freedom of movement, and silenced our voices. Still, I wrote over 20 published articles advocating for girls’ education. I joined Code to Inspire and built a First Aid Kit app to help families without access to healthcare. That app became my first step into public service—because even in a place where hospitals were scarce, knowledge could still save lives. Seeing my community use the app was deeply satisfying. It meant our pain wasn’t invisible. It meant my work mattered! Through my grandfather, a physician in Afghanistan dedicated to underserved communities, I became directly involved in providing free medical care to low-income and rural children. Over a 10-month period, we helped children receive life-saving treatment, supported in part by the International Committee of the Red Cross. That experience taught me that medicine is not only about treating illness, but about restoring dignity. When my family fled to Tajikistan, we faced a different kind of struggle: survival in a country where we had no status, no resources, and no rights. I wanted to give back in the ways I could—by using my voice, my language, and my lived experience. Even then, I continued serving through public service. I participated in a UNICEF innovation project that empowered underprivileged women to gain financial independence and worked closely as a volunteer with UN Women. I also volunteered as a translator in clinics and government offices, helping families understand medical instructions and access services. Additionally, I spoke publicly about the right to education and public service and received a youth leadership certificate from American Councils in Tajikistan. In 2023, my family and I began life again for the second time—this time in the United States. I am now a first-generation college student, working multiple jobs, supporting my family, and maintaining a 4.0 GPA as a pre-med student at Sierra College. I am a President’s Honor Roll student, the sole recipient of the Leaders of Promise Coca-Cola Award at my college, an Honors student, a Phi Theta Kappa Honor Society officer, a student ambassador, a tutor, and an appointed student representative on my college’s Facilities Committee. I continue to give back by volunteering with Kaiser Permanente, providing free translations for immigrants, and distributing food at our local food bank. These efforts connect me to the community I am now part of and reinforce why I chose this path. My goal is to pursue a career in medicine, with a strong interest in becoming a neurosurgeon serving public hospitals and underserved communities, while building a nonprofit that hires marginalized individuals—especially women who are often denied opportunities—and provides affordable healthcare to medically underserved populations and children in crisis. In a male-dominated field, I want to create opportunities for women like myself and eventually build my own biotechnology company that combines medicine, innovation, and social impact! My parents left their homeland and sacrificed their careers to give me a chance at education. With two younger siblings to support, they cannot help financially, which makes me determined to honor their sacrifices through academic success. As a full-time pre-medical student, I work on campus for minimum wage to afford textbooks and basic needs while commuting by bike in difficult conditions. Without having family savings, student loans are my only option and would create long-term financial strain. This scholarship would let me focus on learning instead of surviving. More than financial support, it shows that my efforts and goals are seen and worth investing in!

I have restarted my life three times. First, when my family fled Afghanistan due to war and the rising threats to women’s safety, freedom, and education. Then again, when we lived as refugees in Tajikistan for two years. And once more in 2023, when we arrived in the U.S. with no network, no savings, and no clear roadmap. Each restart meant a new language, a new system to learn, and a new version of myself to build. What never changed was my curiosity for science and technology, and my determination to turn knowledge into tools for those with the least access to it. In Afghanistan, girls around me were told to stay quiet, stay home, and stay out of STEM. I chose the opposite. I joined Code to Inspire, a nonprofit for Afghan girls in tech, where I led a small team that built a First Aid Kit app. It gave step‑by‑step emergency guidance, including CPR and other lifesaving techniques, for people who couldn’t afford or access medical care. The app was free, practical, and immediately useful. For this, I received a Certificate of Appreciation, but more importantly, I saw how code, biology, and human need could meet in one place to create impact. I was also writing, over 20 published articles in my home country, on women’s rights, education, and equality. In Tajikistan, I authored a nationally published comic book about an Afghan girl who refuses to give up on school despite systemic bans. That book was my way of telling girls like me: your dreams are valid, even when the world says they aren’t. I was also the only girl in my school to win a robotics medal among mostly male competitors—a moment that reminded me how presence alone can shift perceptions. While living in Tajikistan and unable to legally work, I partnered with UNICEF on one of my proudest STEM-related projects. I noticed plastic pollution everywhere—overflowing trash cans, polluted rivers, and parks filled with waste that attracted disease-spreading insects. My idea was to replace plastic bags with eco-friendly paper ones. UNICEF funded my proposal, and I designed and distributed my own brand of paper bags to local shops and bakeries. Though some store owners were skeptical at first, many adopted the idea. It significantly reduced plastic waste in our area, especially in bakeries, where hot food in plastic bags posed health risks like cancer. Eventually, the initiative spread to other parts of the city. As a young refugee barred from legal employment, I created a project that empowered other women to participate, earn income, and promote sustainability—combining environmental science, entrepreneurship, and public health. When I immigrated to the U.S. in 2023, I began again—this time as a financially disadvantaged, first-generation woman in STEM. I’m now a biology major in community college, starting my second year of undergraduate study, with a 4.0 GPA, a Math Olympiad medalist, a student senator, and an active member of both the Ecosystem and Science Clubs. I work two jobs to help support my family, which includes two younger siblings, and I still give back: I volunteer at Kaiser Permanente, the local food bank, and my mosque’s food drives. I also mentor Afghan girls and refugee youth in coding and offer free translation services for newly arrived families navigating the same barriers I faced. Financially, things are difficult. My parents lost everything when we fled Afghanistan. In Tajikistan, we weren’t allowed to work. Here, everything—from textbooks to lab fees to transportation—is costly. I commute long distances, manage household responsibilities, and study late at night to keep my grades up. But I refuse to let money determine how far I can go. Scholarships like this one aren’t just support—they’re fuel for students like me who are already building, giving, and dreaming far beyond our limitations. I’m a biology major in the making, with a vision to innovate at the intersection of biology, data, and tech. My long-term goal is to launch a biotechnology company that develops low-cost diagnostic tools and AI-powered bioinformatics platforms for communities lacking lab infrastructure. I want to tackle global issues like environmental degradation, food insecurity, and public health—using biology as the engine and technology as the accelerator. Imagine a $5 diagnostic tool that could be used in a refugee camp or rural clinic to detect infections or nutrient deficiencies. Imagine public health platforms that actually reach the people who need them. That’s the work I want to lead. Why STEM? Because science is honest. It forces us to test assumptions, measure impact, and design with intention. It’s the language I use to turn pain into purpose. Biology, especially, offers a blueprint for life itself—how it heals, adapts, evolves, and survives. That reflects my own journey. Why me? Because I’ve already been doing the work—with almost nothing. I built software for those without access to help. I launched a sustainability project that empowered women and reduced waste. I’ve written to amplify silenced voices. I’ve competed in male-dominated spaces and refused to shrink. And I’ve carried my family, my education, my community, and my dreams—all at once. If I am awarded the Eric W. Larson Memorial STEM Scholarship, I will use it to keep going, keep building, and keep making STEM a home for those who were never invited into it. I will carry Eric’s legacy of equity in science forward—by mentoring, hiring, and opening doors for girls like me, who come from war, silence, and invisibility—but refuse to stop at survival. I’m not asking for permission to dream bigger. I’m asking for partnership—to turn this vision into something real, measurable, and world-changing. And I will pay it forward, the way I always have: by ensuring the next girl doesn’t have to start from zero to reach the sky.

I have restarted my life three times. First, when my family fled Afghanistan due to war and the rising threats to women’s safety, freedom, and education. Then again, when we lived as refugees in Tajikistan for two years. And once more in 2023, when we arrived in the U.S. with no network, no savings, and no clear roadmap. Each restart meant a new language, a new system to learn, and a new version of myself to build. What never changed was my curiosity for science and technology—and my determination to turn knowledge into tools for those with the least access to it. In Afghanistan, girls around me were told to stay quiet, stay home, and stay out of STEM. I chose the opposite. I joined Code to Inspire, a nonprofit for Afghan girls in tech, where I led a small team that built a First Aid Kit app offering step‑by‑step emergency guidance for people without medical access. The app was free, practical, and immediately useful. I received a Certificate of Appreciation, but more importantly, I saw how code, biology, and human need could meet to create real impact. I also published over 20 articles on women’s rights and education. In Tajikistan, I authored a nationally published comic book about an Afghan girl who refuses to give up on school despite systemic bans. It was my way of telling girls like me: your dreams are valid, even when the world says they aren’t. I was also the only girl in my school to win a robotics medal, a moment that reminded me how simply being present in a space can shift perceptions. Unable to work legally in Tajikistan, I partnered with UNICEF on one of my proudest STEM-related projects. I saw plastic pollution everywhere and proposed replacing plastic bags with eco-friendly paper ones. UNICEF funded my idea, and I launched a small initiative designing and distributing paper bags to local shops and bakeries. Despite skepticism, many adopted them, significantly reducing plastic use—especially in hot food packaging, where health risks were high. Other parts of the city later followed suit. This grassroots initiative empowered women, reduced waste, and protected public health—combining environmental science, entrepreneurship, and community care. When I immigrated to the U.S. in 2023, I began again—this time as a financially disadvantaged, first-generation woman in STEM. I’m now majoring in biology at community college, starting my second year with a 4.0 GPA. I’ve earned a Math Olympiad medal, serve as a student senator, and stay active in both the Ecosystem and Science Clubs. I work two jobs to help support my family, which includes my younger siblings, and still give back: volunteering at Kaiser Permanente, the local food bank, and my mosque’s food drives. I also mentor Afghan girls and refugee youth in coding and offer free translation services to newly arrived families. Financially, we are still rebuilding. My parents lost everything when we fled, and we were barred from working in Tajikistan. Now, even basic needs like textbooks, lab fees, and transportation are major expenses. I commute long distances, manage household duties, and study late into the night. But I refuse to let our financial reality define my future. I aspire to innovate at the intersection of biology, technology, and equity. My long-term goal is to create a biotech company that develops low-cost diagnostic tools and AI-powered platforms for underserved communities—solutions built for refugee camps, rural clinics, and places like where I come from. I’m not just chasing a dream. I’m building one—day by day, challenge by challenge. With your support, I’ll continue transforming obstacles into opportunities.

My name is Hosna Aazim, and my journey as a first-generation Afghan immigrant has shaped both my identity and my ambitions. In 2023, I arrived in the U.S. after being displaced multiple times—first from Afghanistan, then living as a refugee in Tajikistan for two years. Each time, I had to rebuild from zero: new language, new system, no safety net. These transitions were filled with culture shock, loneliness, and constant pressure to support my family while striving for academic success. But instead of being defeated by these obstacles, I turned them into purpose. I care deeply about equity, education, and empowering marginalized communities—especially women in STEM. In Tajikistan, I led a UNICEF-supported project that helped Afghan refugee women earn income through embroidery. I managed logistics, marketing, and storytelling—selling their handcrafted pieces and giving them hope and dignity. Many of these women had never held a job, and through this project, they began to believe in themselves. That’s when I realized: true change starts when people are seen and supported. My work didn’t stop there. I’ve published over 20 articles in my home country focusing on women’s rights and access to education. I even authored a comic book about an Afghan girl’s fight to attend school, which was published nationally and recognized with an award. After coming to California, my immigration story was featured on my high school’s website as a model of strength and excellence. Currently, I am a full-time pre-med student with a 4.0 GPA at Sierra College. I’m a student ambassador, senior senator, and active in STEM clubs. I also volunteer at local hospitals, food banks, and my mosque’s food drives. Beyond academics, I work to support my family financially while mentoring other immigrant students. My dream is to become a physician and healthcare innovator—someone who not only treats individuals but also designs scalable solutions to improve access for underserved communities. I’m also developing a business to support women in STEM, helping them build confidence and networks in a male-dominated industry. One of my short-term goals is to transfer to a top university and begin clinical research focused on women’s health and equity in medicine. Over the next five years, I plan to grow my business idea into a mentorship and resource platform for young women like me. I want to bridge the gap between potential and opportunity, especially for immigrant girls navigating science careers without role models. Education has helped me make sense of who I am. It has been my sanctuary, my escape, and now, my launchpad. Through school, I’ve discovered that my purpose isn’t just about personal achievement—it’s about helping others rise, too. Being a woman in STEM hasn’t been easy. I’ve had to fight for space in rooms where I was the only one who looked or spoke like me. But I’ve learned to lead with empathy and persistence. Leadership, to me, is showing up—over and over—even when you’re tired, scared, or underestimated. I lead not just in titles, but in action: mentoring others, starting initiatives, translating for immigrant families, and being the voice I once needed. Resilience isn’t just about surviving—it’s about building something better after the storm. And if awarded this scholarship, it would ease the financial pressure I carry daily and help me fully invest in my education, business, and community service. I will pay it forward—by building platforms, creating visibility, and opening doors for future generations of female visionaries!

My name is Hosna Aazim, and my journey as a first-generation immigrant has shaped both my identity and my ambitions. When my family came to the United States, everything changed. My parents didn’t speak English, had no support system, and lost their jobs. They had to restart their lives from zero while raising three children. I witnessed their mental health struggles up close—navigating a new culture with no guidance or resources, and often hiding their pain to keep us going. That experience made me grow up fast. As the eldest, I became the family translator, navigator, and emotional support system, all while trying to pursue my education. Despite the odds, I have stayed focused on my goals. I’ve published over 20 articles in my home country about women and their right to education and equality. In Tajikistan, I authored a nationally published comic book that told the story of an Afghan girl fighting for her right to go to school despite being banned. I was honored with an award for that work. When I arrived in California, my high school featured my immigration journey on its homepage as a story of strength and excellence. In Tajikistan, where my family and I lived as refugees for two years, I couldn’t go to regular school and we were not allowed to work. But instead of giving up, I partnered with UNICEF on a project to empower Afghan women in my community. I launched an initiative where women used their embroidery skills to make traditional bags and clothing. I managed the materials, budgeting, and design. I also used my storytelling and writing abilities to create social media posts and flyers that helped us sell the products. The money we raised went directly to the women, helping them support their families and feel independent for the first time in their lives. Many had never believed they could build anything of their own—but once they saw the results, their confidence changed. Now, in the U.S., I’m starting my second year of college as a pre-med student with a 4.0 GPA. I’m also working part-time to help support my family, which includes my younger siblings. Financially and mentally, the challenges are still there—but I keep going. I’ve been awarded the President’s Honors for academic excellence and selected as a Senior Senator at my college. I’m active in multiple clubs, including the Honors Program and pre-med student groups. I also volunteer regularly with Kaiser Permanente Hospital, our local food bank, and my religious mosque, where I help organize food drives for those in need. My dream is to become a physician, but not only that—I also want to build a business that supports underrepresented youth, especially immigrant women like me, in STEM fields. I want to create mentorship programs, fund educational workshops, and lead with compassion and equity. I know what it’s like to start over, to feel voiceless, and to fight for every small opportunity. But I also know how powerful one opportunity can be. Every challenge I’ve faced has only made my goals clearer: to serve, to lead, and to lift others as I rise.