I was scared to be a Black woman in STEM. I was an Arts and Humanities major to finish my general education requirements. It was a degree path that was an equivalent of Undeclared at my community college. I didn’t have the confidence to take higher math like my friends in STEM. They sounded so stressed all the time. I was overwhelmed by the gossip of teachers hating them, an entire class failing a test, and the teacher losing homework. So I thought, I can become a therapist or maybe an elementary teacher. I thought, surely the teachers wouldn’t like me. I thought, I wouldn’t be able to handle that class, good thing I didn’t apply. I continued on a more psychology route, safe from the horrors of college calculus. One day I stumbled on an anime called Cells At Work on Netflix, an anime version of our cells and what they do for the body. One version is PG13 and the other for older audiences because of the episodes on sexual reproduction and alcohol breakdown. It wasn’t about psychological connections, but I watched and rewatched. One major theme was the sleep deprivation. The cells had to fight hard for a body that refused to replenish itself and lazed around all day and night. Everyday was a battle for the characters. I knew from my understanding on psychology that this was a recipe for depression; and self-destructive behaviors for a dopamine spike. Once summer ended, I had my first (and most stubborn) patient, my little sister. She rather stay up, sleep late, stay in her room, and text friends. To her, it was normal summer activities. I knew I needed to sound credible without saying: “I’m your big sister and I said so.” I would say that was my ‘aha’ moment. Health is a factual thing. We have diagnoses and a set of symptoms, we hypothesize, test it, and teach what works. I learned that healthcare professionals MUST apply emotion; that is what makes healthcare a public service. I can’t reach my client if I’m not credible or speak her language. I can’t make her better if the medicine isn’t a prescribed drug but effort. I need to make it easier for her to take care of herself. If I can’t do that, I’m no better than a boring article. It takes skill and patience to filter textbook lessons to a child. Anyone can give you advice. The reason why we listen to the professionals, despite Google existing, is because they can make the information matter. They can phrase in ways that make YOU want to come back and take care of your health. “It’s no biggie,” my sister would try to dismiss me when I told her to sleep on time. However, I noticed the way she got a bit more irritable and how our baby brother missed playing with her. The only way to reason with her was not to say there would be a “decrease in concentration” or “wasted days,” but mention acne and eye bags. I got her to agree to a “bedtime” even though it’s summer. I saw how much my sister needed someone to get upset at her for her own health. With pediatric nursing I can still work with kids, study human development and psychology, and make someone feel better and feel seen by the care I provide. If awarded the Joseph Joshua Searor Memorial Scholarship, I can afford lab materials, pediatric certificates, transportation to internships, and stability to achieve my potential. I am proud to be a Black woman in STEM.

At the time of writing this, I’m a graduating senior preparing to major in life sciences on the pre-med track to become a pediatrician. If awarded this scholarship, I would use the funds to purchase safety goggles, scrubs, a lab coat, textbooks, and a dissection kit for introductory biology and anatomy courses. These expenses also include access codes and digital course materials that are essential but often costly. Without this scholarship, I would have to delay several major-related courses until I can afford the fees on my own. I served as vice president of my school’s psychology club and led Mental Health Awareness activities that explored the brain’s role in addiction, stress, motivation, and reward. In our campaigns, I explained how cortisol and serotonin affect emotional regulation, and when imbalanced alongside testosterone, cause calculated, aggressive, and/or impulsive behaviors. Whether that is destructive behaviors like lashing out, alcoholism, excessive or restrictive eating, or unsafe sex to feel in control and increase dopamine. I plan to continue volunteering throughout college by shadowing pediatricians and participating in internships that allow me to observe clinical assessments, developmental screenings, and patient communication in real time; as well as complete Pediatric Advanced Life Support (PALS) to work with emergency cases in clinical rotations and later in my career. Any leftover money will be spent on transportation for my internships and pediatric certifications. With the help of the KC MedBridge Scholarship, I can begin my foundational science courses and certifications this fall and graduate on time.

Leadership, for me, began in a quiet math classroom. I wasn’t holding a title or commanding a group. I was just a senior, tutoring sophomores in a subject I once struggled with too. At first, most of them didn’t ask for help. They were unsure, embarrassed, or convinced that struggling meant they weren’t cut out for it. One student slowly began to open up. And I encouraged it. Every week, I explained problems, rephrased concepts, and gave them room to ask questions without fear of being judged. What made that moment powerful wasn’t that I “fixed” their grade. It was that they started showing up for themselves. They felt safe enough to try, to struggle, and to recover. I recognized that transformation deeply, because I had lived it myself. What that student didn’t know was that I had once been just as overwhelmed. I used to believe that rest had to be earned, that if I didn’t use every hour productively, I was falling behind. I skipped sleep. I stared blankly at homework. I pushed myself so hard that even the things I loved started to feel like noise. I started measuring my worth by how much I got done—and when I couldn’t keep up, I blamed myself. Eventually, I realized that discipline wasn’t helping me grow. It was burying me. So I started practicing what I now call the 1 percent rule: a habit of small, steady improvements. Every few weeks, I made one change I could actually stick to. Sleeping fifteen minutes earlier. Setting limits on how long I would study. Giving myself time to rest without guilt. These choices didn’t fix everything overnight, but they gave me momentum. When I felt like quitting, I reminded myself that showing up—even imperfectly—was still progress. That mindset became the backbone of how I lead. I don’t just explain material. I model patience. I normalize asking for help. I make it clear that trying again isn’t a flaw. It’s growth in real time. Now, I want to take that kind of leadership into medicine. I will major in the Undeclared Life Sciences, commit to a specific degree once I start University and continue studying child development and psychology; and volunteer with health outreach programs that serve young people. I want to be involved in organizations that support academic and emotional wellbeing, and I plan to mentor younger students who are adjusting to the pressure of college life. These are not just side interests to me—they are foundational to the kind of pediatrician I will become. I want to work with children and families in communities where consistent, supportive care is too often out of reach. I want to create environments where young patients feel safe speaking up, where they are not rushed or overlooked, and where their questions are taken seriously. I will become the kind of pediatrician who listens closely, notices what others might miss, and stays committed even when things are complicated.

At my school, ambition was expected, but only if it came with a résumé that looked a certain way. Dual enrollment. Pre-calc by junior year. Leadership roles, major-specific electives, multiple volunteer hours logged before the sun rose. Everyone was chasing the dream, and yet when I shared mine, people looked at me like I was being unreasonable. “I want to go to UCLA.” Their faces said it before their words did. That’s a reach. Some even told me, “Obviously. It’s called a DREAM school for a reason. Do you have a backup? Something more… realistic?” I come from a low-income household. I couldn’t afford to apply to eight to twenty schools like many of my classmates did. I used my application fee waiver on the schools that actually excited me, even if I was warned not to “waste” it. Even UC Merced and UC Riverside kindly offered to cover my app fees if my waiver didn’t stretch far enough; and still, I was told to stay safe. Stay close. Be grateful for whatever I could get. But what about what I wanted? It hurt, not because I expected a fanfare or applause, but because it felt like no one outside my family believed I could make it. I live in a single parent household and my mom works 13-hour night shifts to support us. I knew that by going to a prestigious school, I would have to work and be on top of scholarships. I can’t afford to see my mom pick up extra shifts when she’s already exhausted and sleeping the entirety of her off days, when it gets really bad. I was surrounded by students with stacked résumés and staff who seemed uneasy when I didn’t say “community college” or name a local school. But I applied anyway. And I got in. To every UC I applied to. That moment — opening each acceptance letter, celebrating with my family, hugging the teachers who did root for me — was my greatest achievement to date. Not just because of the schools themselves, but because of what it took to believe I was allowed to dream at all. I didn’t have twenty backup plans. But I had hope, and that was enough. That experience taught me that I don’t need permission to invest in myself. That even when it feels like everyone around me is playing it safe, I am allowed to take risks for a future that excites me. I’m allowed to want more than survival. I want joy, challenge, growth. I want purpose. And I’m willing to work for it. Through my mom’s blood, sweat, and tears is why I am where I am. My accomplishments are her own, shared, and my strength is because of her. I’m currently majoring in Life Sciences with plans to become a pediatrician. I’ve been studying psychology and child development, not just because I love science, but because I want to understand the whole child — the way emotions, environment, and community shape lifelong health. My goal is to bring holistic, compassionate care to the communities that are too often overlooked. To be the kind of doctor who asks not just what hurts, but what’s been weighing on you? I want to work in communities where access to whole-person care is often missing. Where doctors don’t always look like the people they serve. That’s the kind of healer I want to become. This scholarship would allow me to stay focused on my goals without sacrificing stability. It would let me spend more time shadowing doctors and volunteering in clinics — not just working extra hours to afford books. It would help lift some of the pressure off my shoulders so I can keep showing up fully for myself and for the people I plan to serve.

My name is Jade Mutukulu and I want to become a pediatrician. I will be the kind of pediatric nurse who kneels beside a child and stops to ask how school’s been going; even if the conversation is mostly between their parent and I. I want to be the person who advocates for my patients because I notice the quiet ones. The nurse who doesn’t overlook the girl with straight-A’s and dark circles under her eyes. I want to practice a kind of care that holds space for emotions, identity, and the invisible weight so many people — especially young women — carry around in silence. Some people are drawn to medicine for the paycheck. For me, it was a moment: sitting on the edge of a twin mattress, feverish and trembling, my head pounding so hard I couldn’t lay back. My mother, just home from a 13-hour hospital shift, didn’t hesitate. She brought tea, a damp cloth, and her full attention. She didn’t just ask about my symptoms. She asked if I needed her to stay close. That kind of presence — the instinct to stay, to notice, to comfort — is what lit the path I’m on. I didn’t always know the word for it, but I’ve come to learn it’s called holistic care. It’s why I’m majoring in Undeclared Life Sciences and exploring psychology, child development, and community health. I want to build a future where medicine includes questions like: Have you eaten today? How are you sleeping? Do you feel safe? What excites me about becoming a doctor isn’t just diagnosing illness. It’s building trust. It’s creating safe spaces for young people to be honest about what they’re going through. Especially girls. Especially kids who are expected to be strong, polite, quiet, or grateful all the time. I want to listen to the questions they’re too scared to say out loud. I’ve also seen the ways healthcare sometimes fails women — and that drives me, too. Female-identifying patients are more likely to have their symptoms dismissed as “anxiety” or “hormonal.” They’re told their pain is normal, exaggerated, or worse — imagined. Many are shamed for seeking second opinions or labeled “difficult” for wanting a provider who listens. Conditions like endometriosis take years to be diagnosed, and Black women in particular face higher maternal mortality rates due to systemic neglect. These aren’t isolated cases — they’re patterns. And they speak to a deeper need for change in how we’re treated and heard. That’s why I want to be the difference in pediatrics. Because bias doesn’t start in adulthood — it starts early, with whose pain is taken seriously and whose is waved off as “dramatic” or “fine.” I want to raise the standard for how we care for girls, how we talk to them, and how we listen when they say something isn’t right. I want to be the doctor who helps her feel safe in her body and confident speaking up for it.

Ladies and gentlemen, scholars and solvers, gather ‘round and feast your eyes on a Connections puzzle unlike any you’ve seen before! I’m not just a student, I’m your ringmaster, tightrope-walking the fine line between logic and illusion. Imagine the curtain drawn to show misdirection, balance, and breathtaking mental acrobatics. In my circus, every word performs twice: once in plain sight, and once as a distraction. So grab your magnifying glass and top hat, and prepare to be puzzled! My easiest category is fruits! Banana, Peach, Strawberries, and Grapes. Only an over-thinker would assume it’s not so simple. It truly is. The reason for fruits is that I’m actually allergic to strawberries! Next is Animals: Lion, Tiger, Zebra, and Elephant. They will tempt you to cage them in or reel them in with tasty fruits (which would not work for some of the animals). My next tier is an era of our lives, quarantine themed. The words are: Quarantine, Lockdown, Safety, and Risk. The pair of safety and risk is what will have players confused. Should they be cautious for the lion? Should they be cautious of strawberries just like I am? I purposely paired safety and risk because it will seem way too easy (reverse psychology!). My ultimate favorite, where the magic happens, is my circus theme. The words are: Cage, Confinement, Mask, and Acrobat. Under the circus lights, performers are daring and mysterious, using masks just as we did in 2020 and confined (or caged in for stronger language). Acrobatics is a risk but strength is its way to stay safe. Usually the purple tier is super odd, but I decided to build up to it that Acrobat seemed to stay on its own and every other word seemed to fit elsewhere! This puzzle is a performance. Every category has its role, every word its costume. The magic of Connections is that the answer isn’t always what it first appears to be—and that’s what I love most. Puzzles, like people, contain multitudes. You just have to know where to look.

I’m a soft-spoken Black girl with more opinions than vocal volume, and my love for metal is the loudest part of me. But growing up in a religious household, it’s not something I’ve ever been able to express freely. I don’t own any band posters or vinyls, and I’ve never been to a concert. The closest I’ve come to merch is my senior class T-shirt, styled like a band tour tee, with all our birthdays printed as the setlist. I love that shirt. I’ve never felt the roar of the pit, but I’ve felt the rush through Zoom calls during lockdown, listening to BABYMETAL with friends like it was our own private tour. I’ve sat on Discord calls, hearing I Prevail and Upon a Burning Body through someone else’s vinyls while listening from my room. Metal’s always lived in my world—just not in the loud, flashy way people expect. It’s in my headphones, my bedroom, my bones. I’ve always been someone who loves deeply and quietly—a contradiction from a not-so-guilty pleasure of (sic) by Slipknot. I also love movies that push the edge of emotion, especially military and zombie films—any story that doesn’t flinch at showing how fragile life is. They trust the audience to handle grief, fear, and truth. That trust has always stuck with me. I want the noise, the stakes, the heartbeat of something real. Metal gives me that. Even if I come off as shy, it reminds me I’m allowed to take up space. I like things that aren’t always easy to explain—things that don’t come with a poster or a costume. And I think that’s also true for how I show up for others. In high school, I tutored other students in math, English, psychology, and chemistry. Some needed patience. Some needed a push. Some just needed someone who believed in them. In high school, I tutored students in math, English, psychology, and chemistry. I mentored underclassmen, helped with college and resource guidance, and joined National Honor Society and Key Club for year-round service. I also volunteered with Grace Resources, a nonprofit supporting unhoused families. I’m proud I graduated with a 4.5 GPA and a 4.0 from community college—but more proud that I tried to bring others with me. Now I’m majoring in Undeclared Life Sciences on the path to becoming a pediatrician. I’ve been especially drawn to psychology and child development, because I want to understand how kids think, grow, and see themselves. In college, I’m seeking out volunteer work in clinics and early childhood programs. I also plan to shadow pediatricians, join campus research on health disparities, and attend panels or conferences about the social side of medicine—especially how race, trauma, or income shape health. One day, I want to be the kind of pediatrician who sees the full child—not just the symptoms. The one who greets them first, listens when they speak, and doesn’t overlook a kid just because the parent answered. The kind who explains the procedure instead of rushing through it. The kind who helps a kid feel safe enough to ask a question. I want to offer care that feels personal, especially for kids who come from homes where emotions were never talked about or needs were dismissed. I want to show them they matter, no matter how quiet they are. My mom can’t afford to support me through college, even though she wants to. She’s one person trying to stretch her income across our household—three kids and our grandma—with school, bills, and health expenses all piling up. She works the 13-hour night shift at the hospital and comes home exhausted. I plan to keep applying for scholarships, work as a paid tutor, apply for loans and FAFSA, and open savings accounts to build toward my goals. She taught me to keep going, even when it’s hard. So I can say, with much thanks to her, I am far beyond driven.

I used to think productivity was the only proof that I mattered. Being around overachievers meant I wasn’t just comparing grades, I was comparing who stayed up later, who skipped lunch to study, and who gave up their weekends. Even when I had free time, I couldn’t enjoy it. I’d start animating or listening to music and feel guilty within minutes like I was falling behind just by resting. It became hard to tell what I liked doing just for me because every moment felt like it needed to be justified with output. That’s why I struggled to keep up with my hobbies. If it was so important, my schoolwork would magically disappear and in a shining light would be a bean bag chair and art supplies. I never lost interest. The problem is, that interest was an investment I couldn’t afford. Relaxing made me feel “less.” Like a zombie caught in the culture of “locking in” and “grinding harder,” when in reality, I wasn’t just locked in—I was locked up. Trapped in routines that looked productive on the outside but were fueled by fear, not purpose. I was scared to sleep. I hadn’t “earned” rest. I hadn’t used my day well, so I was afraid of tomorrow, afraid it would come too fast and catch me unprepared. So I’d stay up trying to cram in unfinished work, convinced I could fix everything if I just pushed a little harder. Other times, I’d set early alarms thinking, that if I just woke up sooner, I’d feel more in control. Of course, it backfired. I started moving slower, forgetting more, feeling foggier, each week heavier than the last. Yet, the aggressive loop blamed me for the brain fog and discomfort and never seemed to stop. It was little things at first, like missing inside jokes because I skipped lunch to study, or not following what my friends were saying because I was too tired to care. I started turning down plans just to “get ahead,” but most of the time I wasn’t doing much except staring at my notes, too numb to focus. When my friends talked about school drama or boys, I felt so distant. Not like I was better or above it, just gone. I didn’t have the energy to be interested or excited about anything. Conversations that used to make me laugh felt like noise I couldn’t tune into. I kept saying I was tired like that explained everything. I thought I was being disciplined. I thought this was what taking life seriously meant. But looking back, I wasn’t just falling behind on social growth. I was slipping away from myself. And the worst part wasn’t the loneliness. It was that I rationalized all my emotions for the sake of being a good student. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t keep living that way. I learned that lofty goals often paralyze my progress, so instead, I focused on small, realistic changes that add up. Every few weeks, I’d move my bedtime earlier by just 15 or 30 minutes. It may seem like a slow approach, but it worked. Aiming for steady improvement over idealistic perfection keeps me from comparing myself to students who get a perfect 10 hours each night. Ten hours may be ideal, but that’s not everyone’s reality—and that’s okay. Through these 1% changes, I went from sleeping past 2 a.m. on school nights to getting to bed before midnight, with occasional good nights of 10 or even 9 p.m. That kind of consistency builds resilience. It’s helped me prepare mentally for days of rejection or disappointment, turning what might have been crushing setbacks into “silly oopsies” I can laugh off. Living by 1% is a boundary, a commitment, and a way of showing up for yourself; not coddling, despite what perfectionists may believe. Taking care of my mental health this way allows me to take myself seriously, set realistic boundaries, and keep growing—1% at a time. That shift didn’t just change my routines. It changed what I wanted to do with my life. I’ve had moments where I questioned if caring so much made me too soft for medicine. What about the days ahead when all the knowledge in the world can’t guarantee a child gets better? Is my job done when there’s no drug left to prescribe? That’s why I’m drawn to holistic health—because I’ve seen how much pain gets rationalized and prescribed away. I’ve seen overachievers walk into a room with a fever, but what they needed was someone to ask how they’ve been sleeping, or if they’ve eaten anything today. I’ve seen mothers pray for their little ones in waiting rooms. What about her stomachache that settled because of anxiety, because of that love? Healthcare should never feel like a reprimand or a list of “you should’ve known better than…” I believe that presence matters. I believe that care can hold someone together in ways no prescription ever could. Care makes healing personal, and the patient feels worthy to be healed—not just “fixed.” I’m majoring in Undeclared Life Sciences to become a pediatrician. I want to be the kind of doctor who sees the whole child—not just symptoms or stats. I’ve been studying psychology and child development, and I’m especially drawn to how early experiences shape lifelong health. I want to build a future in medicine where we ask about sleep, about stress, about what brings joy or fear. That’s holistic health to me: seeing the child, not just the illness. This scholarship would ease the financial pressure that sometimes overshadows everything else. It would give me room to focus more deeply on learning, to seek out holistic practitioners to shadow, and to take opportunities that move me closer to the kind of care I want to provide. I want to work in communities where access to whole-person care is often missing. Where doctors don’t always look like the people they serve. That’s the kind of healer I want to become.

I am the eldest daughter of three in a single-parent household. I admire my mother's strength as she works 13-hour night shifts at the hospital to take us to school every morning, attend our school events, and be present and support us. Her blood, sweat, and tears fuel me to continue my studies and inspire my siblings to focus on their own education, hobbies, and relationships. Who I am is thanks to my mom. My outlook on life is because of my mom. Growing up as her first child, and with no family around, I was often left with people my mom did not know very well. Some even mistreated me as a little kid. As I've gotten older, I make it a priority to take care of whoever I can, so that nobody has to go through unnecessary hardships. If my sister has a project due tomorrow? I'm staying awake to help her color and research. If my brother is upset about bullies? I pretend I'm one of those bullies so he can practice standing up for himself. If they miss mom? I'm taking out the board games and catching up on their school day. Now, I’m majoring in Undeclared Life Sciences on the path to becoming a pediatrician. I’ve been taking psychology classes—especially child development—because I want to understand more about how kids think, how they grow, and how they form their self-image. Volunteering taught me that everyone learns and responds differently. During high school, I volunteered as a math tutor for elementary to high schoolers, tailoring their learning to what they needed. Some kids need someone to be patient. Some need a little push. Some just need to know someone believes in them. I want to be a pediatrician who sees the whole kid, not just the symptoms or the file. The one who talks to them, not just about them. During my time at college, my volunteer work will be in the clinics and hospitals to gain real-world experience. Any opportunity to shadow a pediatrician, learn from my mom, and help those in my community. I’ve seen how much it matters when someone feels understood. My experiences at home and school helped me realize that knowledge, empathy, and time are all things we can give and that those gifts can completely change someone’s life. It taught me that kids, just like anyone else, need more than information. They need to be seen, understood, and supported. Some learn better hands-on. Some need tough love. Some just need someone to check in and ask, “Are you okay?” That’s what I want to carry with me as a nurse—not just the science, but the human part. After college, I plan to not only chart patients but also take a holistic approach. I plan to talk to the kids even if the parents answer most of the questions. Even if it’s a ‘good morning,’ making a light joke to lighten the mood, or checking in before giving a shot. I want to give care and have everyone feel cared for; the kids and their families. My accomplishments are my mom’s accomplishments, in turn. I do this to be proud of myself, support my family, and support others, and then will I have reached my potential. Giving people belief is also giving back, and I plan to keep doing that.

I’ve had moments where I questioned if caring so much made me too soft for medicine. What about the days ahead when all the knowledge in the world can’t guarantee a child gets better? Is my job really done when there’s no drug left to prescribe? That’s why I’m drawn to holistic health because I’ve seen how much pain gets rationalized and prescribed expensive medications. I’ve seen overachievers walk into a room with a fever, but what they really needed was someone to ask how they’ve been sleeping, or if they’ve eaten anything today. I’ve seen mothers pray for their little ones in waiting rooms; what about her stomachache that settled because of anxiety, because of that love? Healthcare should never feel like a reprimand and a list of “you should’ve known better than..” I believe that presence matters. I believe that care can hold someone together in ways no prescription ever could. Care makes healing personal and the patient feels worthy to be healed. Not just ‘fixed.' I didn’t always know the word “holistic,” but I felt what it meant. Growing up as my mom’s eldest in a single-parent household, I learned early that medicine alone doesn’t heal. It was my mom’s sacrifice that helped me feel better. I still remember the night I fell ill with high fevers and sitting upright made my headache worse: my mom, coming off a thirteen-hour shift at the hospital, canceled her rest time to sit beside me with a damp cloth and tea. She asked how my head felt, yes, but she also asked if I showered, and needed her to sleep close to me (I did). In those painful hours, the lesson was that healing is as much about compassion, presence, and understanding as it is about prescriptions. This scholarship would lift the financial weight that threatens to pull my focus away from that lesson. By removing the need to work extra hours on campus just to pay for books, this funding lets me invest my time in learning integrative models of care. I’m majoring in Undeclared Life Sciences intending to become a pediatrician. To become a nurse who understands that mental and emotional well-being are inseparable from physical health. I’ve been studying psychology and child development, and I’m especially drawn to how early experiences shape lifelong health. I want to build a future in medicine where we ask about sleep, about stress, about what brings joy or fear. That’s holistic health to me: seeing the child, not just the illness. This scholarship would ease the financial pressure that sometimes overshadows everything else. It would give me room to focus more deeply on learning, to seek out holistic practitioners to shadow, and to take opportunities that move me closer to the kind of care I want to provide. I want to work in communities where access to whole-person care is often missing. Where doctors don’t always look like the people they serve. I know I have more to learn. But I also know what it feels like to be supported by someone who doesn’t try to fix you, but instead walks beside you as you find your footing. That’s the kind of healer I want to become.

I want a lot of things in this life. I’m not ashamed to admit it, not when I’m the one working for it. I think volleyball brought out this craving in me – this addiction. Put me on the court and I thrive around people who are better than me. They can have any quality I don’t have yet. I want to surpass them. When I see an insanely high jump serve or a perfect reaction on court, I can’t stop thinking about it. I want that skill, the power, the level. It’s not even jealousy – it doesn’t make me box myself in – it’s an obsession. I want to be around those who are better, absorb that energy, increase my level, and then go beyond it. A real threat in the game. This is what it feels like to have fun. I want my own teammates to be afraid of being benched because I got subbed in. Not for any negative reason. My teammates inspire me to improve, be noticed, and be disciplined. The journey it takes from square one to where they are, to play alongside them with my own set of strengths and weaknesses against opponents, that's what I live for. Life is much more fun that way. I like to ingest content from the point of view of “they’re better and that’s why I watch it.” Off the court, I create animated music videos (AMVs), where I edit my favorite clips from shows to music. I use different lighting and transitions to tell a new story. I draw out my own scenes with these existing characters or edit them to popular trends. I pull inspiration from online, see what I can learn to make the ideas more fun in my head, or put my brain to work. I love love love learning new things, sucking at it, and just investing in the long-term. Currently, my favorite language to learn is Spanish. The frustration of being unable to speak fluently pushes me. My friend Andrea sometimes speaks to me in Spanish, and we enjoy having a ‘Spanish word of the day’ for fun. We connect more because of our genuine interest in each other's cultures (especially the similarities in how we cook the food). My interests jump from cosplay and ways to sew my own princess dresses, to navigating the patience needed to crochet a stuffed animal, to ice skating. I see someone who's good at it and the fun they have, and I’m inspired to put in the effort to have my own fun, whether it's by making time for it or practicing it in a way that's honoring my own truth. I want a challenge in the major that I take, but also the fulfillment within the journey. I know I express myself best when I immerse myself in what I love. I plan to go to university with an undeclared major and declare my major soon. Maybe do pediatrics. Maybe minor in film, too. I just know I’ll give it my all. I know my potential is hidden beneath the procrastination and burnout, and I’m ready to be the master of my time; to really hit the ground running before school starts, but with reason. I can practice how to channel this ambition to better support others under pressure. I want to become a doctor whom my patients can depend on. I want to become the sister my siblings can rely on. That's who I am.

In 7th grade, I got to experience the feeling of “they’re happy because of my effort.” We walked blocks handing out food, trading smiles and “thank yous,” watching people’s faces light up. I even bragged a little about the sandwiches I made with extra jelly. I was proud. And when I gave away my very last lunch bag, I felt a weird mix of joy and disappointment—I wished I had more to give. My classmates felt the same and didn’t want to share their remaining bags! In high school, volunteering changed. It wasn’t about excitement or connection anymore—it was about checking off ten hours a semester, the kind of thing people brushed off just to write about later in “cool PIQs.” And somewhere in all that, I lost the feeling I once had—the joy of giving just to give. I didn’t know my new community well after moving to Lancaster, so I started small—at school. Tutoring was accessible, familiar. I began helping out in math classes I’d already taken, working with students who reminded me of a younger me: trying to make sense of material that felt overwhelming. At the beginning of my senior year, I started tutoring a group of sophomores every week. At first, barely anyone reached out, and I realized something—I wasn’t there just to meet a “volunteer hour requirement.” I actually wanted to be useful. One student, though, opened up about how hard the class felt. They didn’t really know me—just some tall senior who had taken the class before them—but I kept showing up. One question at a time, one homework problem at a time, they started showing up for themselves, too. I realized something: this didn’t feel like boring volunteering anymore. It felt like just being there for someone. Taking the time to explain something again and again until it made sense—not just the math, but the self-doubt too. Watching them slowly build up the confidence to ask their classmates questions, to stop comparing themselves so much, to look less overwhelmed. And then weeks later, they stopped me in the hallway just to say their grade had gone up. They didn’t have to tell me, but they wanted to. And that meant everything. Now, I’m majoring in Undeclared Life Sciences on the path to becoming a pediatrician. I’ve been taking psychology classes—especially child development—because I want to understand more about how kids think, how they grow, how they form their self-image. Volunteering taught me that everyone learns and responds differently. Some kids need someone to be patient. Some need a little push. Some just need to know someone believes in them. I want to be a pediatrician who sees the whole kid—not just the symptoms or the file. The one who talks to them, not just about them. I’ve seen how much it matters when someone feels understood. Volunteering helped me realize that knowledge, empathy, and time are all things we can give—and that those gifts can completely change someone’s life. Volunteering taught me that kids, just like anyone else, need more than information. They need to be seen, understood, and supported. Some learn better hands-on. Some need tough love. Some just need someone to check in and ask, “Are you okay?” That’s what I want to carry with me as a doctor—not just the science, but the human part. The part that remembers there’s a kid behind the diagnosis, a story behind the symptoms. Giving people belief is also giving back, and I plan to keep doing that—whether through tutoring, mentoring, medicine, or just being someone another person can count on.

For many kids, a hospital isn’t just a place for treatment—it’s a place of fear. The sterile rooms, the constant beeping of machines, the feeling of isolation in a world of needles and procedures. When I think about my future, I know exactly who I want to be: someone who will work in a space where kids don’t just get treated, but where they feel seen, understood, and comforted. Becoming a Pediatric ICU nurse is one of the careers where I can do just that because I want to be the person who transforms that fear into a sense of safety and humanity. I envision myself not just as a nurse, but as a source of comfort and warmth—a second mother to children, and a steady hand for families during their hardest moments. I want these children to feel whole, to know they are not defined by their illnesses or their time in the hospital. To know I see the child—not just the patient. I would greet them with a smile, offering respect and care, showing them that their feelings matter. I want to create an environment where they feel safe, understood, and never pressured to pretend they feel healthy just to be seen beyond their diagnosis. Through tutoring and play, I see how frustrating it is for children to feel misunderstood or ignored. I see myself knowing which toys to pick out for my patients if there were donations. I see myself talking to their stuffed animals before bringing my attention to their legal guardians. When I walk through the unit—whether I’m charting vital signs or operating equipment—I’ll ensure each child knows they are not just a task on my to-do list, but someone worthy of my attention. I’m committed to building the knowledge and skills I need to be the best PICU nurse possible. When faced with a challenging situation in the PICU, I’ll use my knowledge of child development and biology to assess what the child truly needs — whether that’s an adjustment to their medication, a comforting word, or simply holding their hand. I have always been drawn to children’s unique emotional responses to tough situations, whether listening to their frustrations or playing a game to cheer them up. I plan to bring that same understanding and support into the PICU, where I will strive to guarantee every child feels heard and valued. In the PICU, I will be the nurse who shows up and stays committed to my patients, no matter the pain or diagnosis. I will collaborate with specialists to manage complex care, I’ll ensure each child’s needs are met with tailored care. Whether handling a critical case, offering reassurance to a child heading into surgery, or being the first call to monitor a dangerous situation, I will show up with a calm and steady presence. No child is a “one-size-fits-all,” and the same applies to their care and treatment.

As a TA, I noticed a sophomore struggling in her Algebra 2 class. Her grade teetered between a D and an F, dropping with each test and missing assignment. She admitted to taking notes but said she still couldn’t understand the material. With her packed schedule, mornings were her only chance to study. Frustrated, she called herself stupid and incapable. I met her frustration head-on, telling her, “You will learn this—I know you can. When we worked together, you remembered the equation you needed, didn’t you? Even if it’s ‘small.’ That’s why we practice. If you need tutoring or even ChatGPT, just keep finding ways to make it easier to learn.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she nodded. When I used the wrong formula while explaining a problem, she caught it. I praised her for noticing and pointed out that she was smarter than she gave herself credit for. I then offered her a choice: retake tests and assignments or focus on extra credit—but not both. In the weeks that followed, I watched her transform. She began asking peers for help during study groups, looked eager to learn, and even carved time for tutoring. When I last checked in, her grade was a high C+. As much as I celebrate high grades, seeing her beam up at me for approval with every increase in her scores was the most rewarding part. As a healthcare professional, I aim to treat patients with dignity, empowerment, and a sense of importance. Like students are more than their grades, patients are more than a set of symptoms or a paycheck. When a patient is under my care, I want their families to feel a sense of relief, knowing I approach their loved one’s treatment as if they were my sibling, parent, or child. My education taught me the importance of empathy, effective communication, and cultural sensitivity, which I believe are just as essential as any clinical skill. Not all of my education involved behavioral psychology or Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs; it was also shaped by tutoring students, babysitting young children, and listening to others vent. I want to be the kind of healthcare provider whose care leaves a lasting impression. If a patient’s family thanks me for treating their loved one with kindness and diligence, as though they were my own, I’ll know I’ve succeeded in honoring the humanity behind every case.

Whenever someone asks what I’m passionate about, I hesitate for a second—not because I don’t have answers, but because I have too many. My mind fills with a swirl of ideas, big and small. I love learning Mexican Spanish, understanding neuroscience, and studying psychology. But if I’m being completely honest, my deepest passion is cinematography. There’s something magical about how a film can make you feel alive. Color grading sets the mood—warm oranges feel like a comforting hug, while blue shadows pull you into something mysterious. The angles and transitions pull you closer to the characters like you’re living alongside them—or running with them if it’s a thriller. For me, it’s more than storytelling; it’s about creating experiences that make people laugh, cry, or feel like they’ve lived a thousand lives in a single hour. I’m the person who pauses movies just to point out that tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment of foreshadowing. I’ll gush about how a millisecond of hesitation in a character’s voice hinted at the entire twist ending. Or I’ll explain how a simple shift in lighting makes you feel uneasy long before the villain enters the room. Ever wonder how a character makes your stomach turn even though the actor is a sweetheart in real life? Or why do rivals on screen have such fiery chemistry, but the tension vanishes when the camera stops rolling? That’s the beauty of acting, pacing, lighting, and music all working together in perfect harmony. It’s all in the details—the scrunch of a face, the camera panning just a bit too slow, the score creeping louder until it feels like it’s inside your chest. It’s those moments that make you lean forward in your seat, holding your breath. And I live for them. For me, watching a movie isn’t just entertainment; it’s an experience to unravel, a puzzle to solve, and an art form to admire. But I also know the arts are seen as risky, and they are. That’s why I’ve made room for other passions too. I’ve spent years volunteering with kids because helping them grow makes me happy. I’ve tutored, decorated classrooms for celebrations, and collected their carnival tickets. These small moments made me realize how much my community depends on volunteers—kids need referees to play soccer games, older students to help run expensive school events, and extra hands to finish decorating for dances. I love being a mentor or an older sibling figure, especially when kids’ faces light up after learning something new or feeling supported. While it’s not my “biggest” passion, it’s no less important to me, and it’s shaped how I see the world. I see an audience who deserves to be helped and entertained because the need to have fun, is reason enough. This scholarship would help me bridge both sides of who I am. It would ease the financial stress of college so I could work toward a career in psychology and attend medical school while still allowing me to explore cinematography and screenwriting. With this support, I could fully embrace every part of myself—both the storyteller and the mentor—and create a future that inspires, uplifts, and brings dreams to life.

Minecraft has always been more than a game for me—it’s a virtual home where my cousins and I built a world that felt like ours, even though an airplane’s distance kept us apart. My favorite memory from Minecraft will always be the little town I created, complete with houses, pools, gardens, and even wishing wells. Each cousin had their own home, and they’d eagerly gather around my iPad, calling dibs on the house they wanted and sharing ideas for new designs. It was a pure, shared joy as we crafted this town together, piece by piece. I was the “builder-in-chief,” happily taking suggestions for renovations. I would rework wallpapers, floors, and beds, making each house feel uniquely theirs—unless I was too stubborn to let go of my original designs. I loved showing them what I’d built, perching on the arm of the couch, while they squished together, waiting for their turn to tour “their” house. Even though they couldn’t play alongside me, they were in that world with me, and that was everything. I have an older cousin who lives just a few minutes away, and I distinctly remember using his Minecraft account purely for the thrill of absolute chaos. With his account, I’d blow things up, drop horses from the sky, pester every villager I could find, and release armies of cats into every house—the kind of joyful, messy mayhem that’s only possible in Minecraft. My own account? That was sacred territory, kept pristine and perfect. But on his account, there were no rules. I even ventured into Survival mode, convinced I’d be fine. Spoiler alert: I was not. Within minutes, I’d been eaten by wolves, drowned in the sea, and probably crying because a spider was chasing me. In the end, I had to admit that my wild adventure in Survival was a solid 3/10 experience—fun for the stories, but I’d definitely recommend sticking to Creative mode! I deleted my beloved world years ago to make space on my device, but its essence remains vivid in my heart. Now, my younger siblings create their own Minecraft worlds, and I’m reminded of that same warmth I felt as a little kid. Whenever they show off their creations, it feels like a spark of my memories, reigniting that special connection. We live under the same roof now, and playing together is easier, but the joy of showing off a space that you built with someone else in mind remains as powerful as ever. For me, Minecraft will always symbolize connection and shared joy. It taught me that creativity can bridge distances and make memories that last long after the game is turned off.

I absolutely cannot have a bookshelf without Heartstopper by Alice Oseman, They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera, Shadow and Bone by Leigh Bardugo, and Out of the Blue by Jason June. These books are not just stories; they’re the heartbeat of my reading life, and they deserve a front-and-center spot on my shelf! From the heartwarming moments of Heartstopper to the inevitable tears of They Both Die at the End, each title has woven its way into my heart, and the #BookTok community has only intensified my love for them. The #BookTok community’s enthusiasm for Heartstopper, especially for Isaac’s character, truly drew me in. His struggle with feeling like a third wheel when his friends prioritize their romantic lives hits home, as I've felt similar pangs of loneliness amidst the blooming relationships of others. His journey also highlights the importance of self-acceptance and waiting for the right moment rather than forcing romance. With its mix of relatability and warmth, Heartstopper has earned its spot on my shelf, representing the beauty of love in all its forms. I haven't finished They Both Die at the End yet, but the countless TikToks begging for more content and adaptations keep it high on my reading list. It seems like such a heartfelt, bittersweet journey. When I eventually finish it and inevitably tear up, I might even ask #BookTok for fanfics to stay in the story a little longer! Pairing fantasy with romance is a #BookTok staple, and Shadow and Bone has been a standout for me. The series’ blend of love, ambition, and the quest for belonging drew me in, leading me to binge the cinematic adaptation before diving into the book. Mal’s journey of love and self-worth captured my attention—even when the main character’s choices didn’t—and the show brought so much depth that I had to explore Bardugo’s world further. Out of the Blue feels like a treasure found just for me, with its tale of a mermaid who keeps his fins and a lifeguard who doesn’t lose his footing for love. This book shows that love doesn’t require sacrificing parts of ourselves, and the #BookTok community’s excitement over unique storylines like this reinforces my love for these fresh takes on romance and identity. The love I feel for these characters transcends the pages. Watching fan edits, animatics, interviews, and cosplays adds to the joy and makes me feel part of a larger community. It’s a vibrant space where all expressions of love are welcomed—whether it’s exploring grief, childhood friendships, or complex romantic connections. My ideal bookshelf isn’t just about the books themselves but the passionate community that makes each story feel alive and meaningful.

Nobody cares about my mental health as much as I do. Hear me out: family, friends, and professionals care, but nobody should know me better than I know myself. It’s unsettling to rely on others to answer questions like, “What do I enjoy?” or “What motivates me?” Losing that sense of self can feel dissociating, almost like I’m detached from my identity. Why do we praise physical health as “knowing your body” but struggle to say, “I know my mind and my feelings”? With physical health, I recognize when something’s wrong, even if I can’t fully explain it. Mental health deserves the same respect. College preparation is about completing applications or having a transportation plan; college readiness is about building a foundation for health that sustains me throughout college and beyond. Without a foundation, other academic skills crumble, and the bar of potential drains out. For instance, I can't rely on taking good notes if I’m obsessing over grades instead of understanding the material. Sure, I passed a math class, but what about the next level of the sequence? Without prioritizing sleep or setting boundaries with myself, I retained nothing meaningful from a class. You could be thinking "so what, you passed?" Let us see how strong your resolve is when you get a case of FOMO and start isolating yourself to squeeze in more study time, which means less sleep, which leads to more confusion in class, and more late-night study “sessions” in your room. Soon enough all achievement feels more like survival. So, passing the class doesn't feel good anymore! Maintaining mental health means self-advocacy, even if it’s just being honest with yourself. I struggled with sleep due to fluctuating school schedules, but I found something that worked: living by the 1% rule. I’ve learned that lofty goals often paralyze my progress, so instead, I focus on small, realistic changes that add up. Every few weeks, I decrease my bedtime by 15 to 30 minutes. It may seem like a slow approach, but it is effective. Aiming for steady improvement over idealistic perfection keeps me from comparing myself to students who get a perfect 10 hours each night. Ten hours may be ideal, but that’s not everyone’s reality—and that’s okay. Through these 1% changes, I went from sleeping past 2 a.m. on school nights to getting to bed before midnight, with occasional good nights of 10 or even 9 p.m. It’s the consistency of small steps that builds resilience. This tactic prepares me mentally for days of rejection or disappointment, transforming what might have been crushing setbacks into “silly oopsies” that I can laugh off. Living by 1% is a boundary, a commitment, and a way of showing up for yourself – not coddling unlike perfectionists may believe. Taking care of my mental health this way allows me to take myself seriously, set realistic boundaries, and keep growing—1% at a time.