I’ve never had the luxury of taking things for granted: not my education, not my opportunities, not even my future. I grew up in a low-income, immigrant household in a multicultural neighborhood in the UK. We had love, but not always stability. When my family immigrated to the United States four years ago, we carried nothing but our dreams, and my responsibility to support them grew heavier overnight. While many of my classmates were adjusting to high school, I was adjusting to a new country, a new education system, and a new role as one of the only English-fluent members of my family. I became the translator at doctors’ appointments, the handler of bills and paperwork, the guide to an unfamiliar world for my grandfather, who moved in with us after fracturing his hip. That injury left him unable to walk unassisted and also left me as part-time caregiver, part-time student, full-time grandchild. As he struggled to regain independence, I witnessed the cracks in our healthcare system and the barriers non-native speakers face. That’s when I realized my calling wasn’t just medicine: it was healing in every sense of the word. Education became my outlet, my escape, and my mission. I enrolled in nine AP classes, determined not just to meet expectations, but to defy them. I studied late into the night while helping my family with bills and ensuring my grandfather took his medications. I applied to college without access to paid consultants or legacy connections. I researched every deadline, edited every essay alone, and still managed to earn admission to Boston University, where I will begin my journey toward becoming a physician. I want to serve people like my grandfather: those who are often overlooked. I want to be the doctor who listens not just with their ears but also with their heart. To shine is to show up even when life is dark. I shine not because life has been easy, but because I’ve refused to let hardship dim my purpose. I motivate others by sharing my story with classmates who are struggling, helping them realize that resilience isn’t something you’re born with. Rather, it’s something you build. I want to inspire by being visible in spaces where people who look like me, who come from where I come from, are often absent. I lead by creating safe spaces for others, by tutoring peers, mentoring underclassmen, and advocating for equity in school policies. I excel not just in grades, but in grit, in empathy, in vision. My legacy began the moment my family saw me open my college acceptance letter. They saw that it’s possible. But my legacy won’t end there. I want to be the one who gives back to my community not just with a degree, but with solutions. I want to open clinics in underserved neighborhoods. I want to create mentorship pipelines for first-generation students. I want to rewrite the narrative for kids like me: we are not statistics or numbers. We are catalysts. Receiving the SMILE Scholarship would be more than a financial blessing. It would be a vote of confidence in a story that’s still being written. It would be a way to honor my parents, who gave up everything to give us a chance. It would be a symbol to my family that their sacrifices were not in vain. It would allow me to carry forward the values of shining, motivating, inspiring, leading, and excelling in the lives of everyone I hope to serve. Thank you for considering me. I promise I will make this investment count.

The last few months of junior year broke something in me. While others were celebrating the end of the school year, my life crumbled around me. One of my best friends, someone who felt like family, who was the first to lend me a helping hand when I moved to the United States, began to fade. At first, I didn’t recognize it. She missed a few classes. She seemed tired, distant. I told myself she was just stressed, overwhelmed like the rest of us with AP exam season around the corner. But then the absences piled up. She stopped responding to my messages. She faded out of our group chats, out of school, and eventually out of reach. I found out she was using. Addiction had crept into her life quietly, and it stole her piece by piece. It wasn’t dramatic; it was quiet. It looked like empty chairs in classrooms. It looked like teachers marking her absent without a second glance. I vividly remember sitting in class one day, staring at the seat beside me, realizing she might never sit there again. I tried to help, I really did. I called. I sent long paragraphs telling her I was there. But the truth is, nothing I did could pull her out. I was only sixteen trying to hold together someone else’s world while mine was quietly falling apart. The hardest part wasn’t the helplessness, it was guilt. I kept thinking "Could I have done more?" and even "why wasn’t anyone else helping her?" That experience stripped away any illusion I had that the systems built to protect us always do. When my friends and I realized what was happening, we didn’t know where to turn because there was no adult, no counselor, no system that offered real help. The few people we reached out to either dismissed it, didn’t know what to do, or did something so minuscule it made no difference. It was like screaming into a void. I saw how addiction doesn’t just destroy the person using: it devastates everyone who loves them and leaves them with nowhere to go. It made me painfully aware of how overlooked and stigmatized addiction still is, especially for young people in under-resourced communities like the one I grew up in. But it also did something else: it gave me purpose. I want to become a physician not just because I love science, but because I’ve seen what happens when people are invisible. I want to be the kind of doctor who doesn’t treat addiction as a footnote or a failure, but as the life-threatening illness it is. I want to recognize the signs, ask the hard questions, and be someone who sees the full story and not just the symptoms. What happened to my friend fundamentally changed me. It taught me how to carry pain without being consumed by it, and how to transform that pain into action. I’ve taken nine AP classes, worked hard in every setting, and committed myself to the path of medicine. But at the heart of it all is that empty seat beside me. And that absence continues to push me forward. This scholarship wouldn’t just ease the financial burden of college, it would allow me to keep the promise I made to myself in that classroom: that I will show up. That I will never overlook someone’s suffering. That I will fight for the people slipping through the cracks the way she did. I couldn’t save her. But I can become someone who saves others.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to dedicate my life to something that would allow me to create lasting change in the world. Medicine isn’t just a career choice for me; it's a purpose that has been shaped by the experiences, struggles, and aspirations that have defined my journey. Growing up in a diverse, low-income neighborhood in the UK, I was acutely aware of the inequalities in healthcare. I saw close friends and family suffer not because their conditions were untreatable, but because quality medical care often felt out of reach. I witnessed the frustration of my parents who couldn’t afford appointments, the exhaustion of people juggling multiple jobs while dealing with chronic illnesses, and the sad reality of people suffering in silence because they had learned to expect nothing better. Even as a very young child, I knew this wasn’t right. I refused, and still do, to accept that healthcare should be a privilege rather than a fundamental right. That sense of injustice ignited a flame in me: a desire to fight for those who had been overlooked, to bridge the gap between underserved communities and good healthcare. This flame became a fire when my grandfather moved in with us after we relocated to the United States. His health struggles, especially his hospitalization due to a fractured hip, opened my eyes to the immense power that medical professionals hold. They don't just heal, they do so much more than that. I saw firsthand the difference that compassionate doctors and nurses made in his life, not just through procedures and medications, but through the way they treated him as a human being. I watched him struggle with pain, with a fear of losing his independence, and with a frustration of relying on others for things he once did with ease. And yet I also saw how the right care, patience, and encouragement helped him regain his strength, although not physically, but emotionally. That experience solidified my resolve: I don’t just want to be a doctor. I want to be a source of comfort and strength for families like mine, for patients like my grandfather, and for communities that have been forgotten. My academic journey shows this determination. I challenged myself in high school by taking nine AP classes, pushing my limits because I know that medicine requires discipline, resilience, and the road is long and hard. My work on research involving skin tissue and disorders has reinforced my belief that science and research hold the key to transforming lives. Beyond the textbooks and labs, my greatest motivation has always been people: their stories, their struggles, their hopes that I have heard during volunteering and shadowing. I want to be the kind of physician who listens and who fights relentlessly to ensure that every patient, regardless of their background or circumstances, receives the care they deserve. The road to becoming a doctor is long and demanding, but I want to embrace every challenge because I know the impact I want to make. I want to be at the forefront of change, breaking down barriers in healthcare, advocating for marginalized communities, and working toward a future where no one has to suffer due to lack of access. This is not just a dream for me. It is my purpose, my mission, and the future I am determined to create.