At a young age, I understood the word "stem" to represent a green part of a flower. It wasn’t until much later that I learned the acronym "STEM" stood for Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics. This newfound understanding—that a single word could carry multiple meanings and symbolize something so important—changed my outlook on life.Through STEM, I initially believed the first letter, Science, was the most important. I eagerly tried to find my niche within the sciences. However, as a student taking a plethora of science classes, it was difficult to accept that I might not find my passion in the various fields I had encountered. That was until I took physics. For the first time, I fell in love with a subject. Physics gave me the spark I had been searching for, and it led me to discover a passion for engineering, another letter in STEM.Finding my niche in engineering taught me a valuable lesson: just as the first thing we notice in a flower is its petals, we often overlook the stem that supports it. Similarly, I had focused solely on the “petals” of STEM—the sciences—without appreciating the importance of the other fields. Like a flower, the stem provides strength and structure, and every part has a role to play.This realization is deeply personal to me. People of color often struggle with medical issues that are overlooked because their skin color is seen before their pain and humanity. This lack of recognition stems from a shortage of diversity and representation in the medical field. I aspire to become a biomedical engineer to create innovations that address these overlooked medical problems. My goal is to ensure that symptoms and health disparities affecting people of color are recognized and treated with the urgency they deserve. I want to make a change—one that encourages others to see the "stem" of people's pain, not just the petals.

“Are you okay?” It’s such a simple question, yet it could mean the world to someone waiting for someone else to care enough to ask. In America, healthcare is often severely taken for granted, making it inaccessible to a significant percentage of people who desperately need it. To address this, I would create a chat room that connects individuals facing mental health crises with therapists willing to help—for free. This platform would also provide access to hidden resources that many people might not know exist. While this is only a temporary solution, sometimes all a person needs is someone who cares and is willing to listen. It’s important to recognize that even a small change is infinitely better than no change at all. For someone struggling, a single phone call or conversation could make all the difference in their life.

Simon says jump; I jump. Simon says clap; I clap. Simon says climate change is terrible; I say climate change is terrible. Despite echoing Simon’s words, I never truly understood climate change—why it was bad or what I could do about it. The answers were just a simple Google search away, but the motivation to learn never came. Until the day it did. That day, I saw the Climate Clock in Union Square. In that moment, I fully embodied the saying, "You don’t truly believe something until you see it."Unfortunately for me, climate change was happening all along, even without the clock, and at an alarmingly fast rate. That was the day I decided not only to educate myself but also to take action. Simon didn’t need to tell me what to do anymore. I realized the gravity of the situation on my own. My first step was to examine how my daily life contributed to the climate crisis and make changes from there. The answer was clear: I needed to live more sustainably. I quickly learned that sustainable living has layers I hadn’t considered before. It was important to take small, rapid steps. My first was simple: unplugging electrical devices when not in use. With just a flip of a switch, I reduced my energy consumption. Checking outlets before leaving a room became part of my routine—so much so that it felt second nature. Living sustainably meant involving my family as well. That weekend, I sat down with my mom to discuss ways we could make our household more sustainable. Our first mission was sourcing produce from local farms and starting a small garden in our backyard. Next, we began replacing plastic containers with glass—not by discarding what we already owned but by choosing glass for new purchases. We also limited our water and hot water usage, got creative with recycling, and repurposed old containers. As a family, we started walking more and using public transportation. One of our biggest changes was cutting down on meat consumption. Coming from a culture where meat is central to our cuisine, this was a challenge. But as we gradually reduced our intake, it became easier. While we’re not entirely meat-free yet, we’re progressing toward a sustainable balance. With these small changes, I started to feel better about my role in combating climate change. Even though my family is small—just three of us—I began to see our actions as puzzle pieces contributing to a much larger picture. Each sustainable step we took felt like adding another piece to the puzzle of climate action. Reducing our carbon footprint matters. By cutting down greenhouse gas emissions, we slow the acceleration of global warming. If everyone made small, consistent efforts to reduce their carbon emissions, we could collectively decelerate global warming—a crucial step for the future of our planet.

How do you pronounce your name again? A sentence that had become the very bane of my existence. After just a month, I began to hate my name. Jadesola—come into wealth, symbolizing the fate I would hopefully come into, a word that embodied the love from my mother and the deep roots of my culture. At a young age, my name was a source of pride. Even in Nigeria, my name was uncommon; to this day, I have only met two others with the same name. One was my first-grade teacher's daughter, who said she got inspiration from my name. I liked it more as I grew older and understood its deeper meaning. I loved it when people called my name, and I would constantly participate in things; that's how much I cherished it. I came to Nigeria from America when I was two, and life in Nigeria was all I knew. Without realizing it, Nigeria became my world—my friends, family, education, and culture. Living there, I never thought about how Nigerian I was. I was just a person in a home, like anyone else in the world. Unbeknownst to me, my home would soon be taken away. By the end of sixth grade, my mom informed me we were moving back to America so my brother could start high school there. To my ignorant self, this was thrilling. I was moving from one home to a bigger, brighter one, unaware that this new home would soon become my nightmare. At JFK airport, I felt a wave of sadness I didn't know would deepen. My mom's priority was enrolling me in middle school. Easy, you'd think, but hearing I might have to repeat 6th grade was my first experience of anxiety. I wanted to avoid repeating school, but even more, I wanted to avoid a new 6th grade to overshadow my Nigerian experience. Luckily, I was placed in 7th grade despite being younger than required. But soon, I realized I had been granted first-time luck. Starting in seventh grade, I truly felt like the new kid. Not only had I joined after everyone had their friend groups, but I was also a foreign exchange student. My first encounter with 'How do you pronounce your name? Happened on day one. At first, I tolerated it, but I grew sick of it over time. The question evolved into sarcastic comments and even monkey noises. I wanted to change my name so badly that I tried using my middle name, Elizabeth. It didn't work—I was already branded as the kid with the weird name. When COVID-19 hit toward the end of the school year, I could finally breathe. There were no more questions about my name; people had bigger concerns. I prayed eighth grade would stay remote, and it did, allowing me another year of peace. During that time, I realized I missed my extroverted self. I sought refuge in any space where I didn't feel like the odd one out. High school made me nervous. I debated going by my middle name but knew teachers would still call me my real name during attendance. On the first day, my teacher asked how to pronounce it and promised to get it right. That moment was a turning point. I realized my name was OK; the problem was that I hadn't corrected people or stood up for myself before. Jadesola symbolizes my pride and evolving outlook on life. I've learned I will only achieve what I want with effort. Letting emotions cloud judgment is dangerous. It's crucial to keep your chin up and give your best in everything, big or small.

According to Google, a community is a group of people living in the same place or having a particular characteristic in common. While this is the literal meaning of community, to me, community means a family who has each other's backs in times of need, when times are good, and when times are. Google is the home of definitions and answers, yet they have limited the definition of community. According to Google, a community is a group of people living in the same place or having a particular characteristic in common. Google presents the literal meaning of community, but it cannot show the sole definition: a family who has each other's backs in times of need, when times are good, and when times are good.  Growing up, my family was small and reserved. We didn't go out much or do anything revolutionary, and as an introverted person, I was okay with that. I believed that the only thing that was important to me was my immediate family, and that was until I started elementary school. My small school was a new, big world for me, one that was very different from my close, tight family; it took me a while to open up, but I eventually started to make friends as any child naturally does. My small circle had now expanded, I had my family and friends, yet I still had a sense of something missing in my life. As I progressed through grades, I realized that I had become closer to my school than I was at the time to my family. The order had switched. It was no longer family and friends that had become my circle, but it was now my friends that came first in my life. The order had switched, and I had adapted to this new normal. It was fine as long as I had people around me until I didn't. By fifth grade, I had become quiet, reserved, and sad, and just like myself, I had finally felt like I was alone.  Or so I thought; I was so wrapped up in my world that I did not realize the people around me or the support I had built. My friends did everything to cheer me up constantly; my family consistently asked if I was okay and took me on silly trips to cheer me up, and even my teachers noticed a change in me and were constantly checking up on me. I was so wrapped up in my own feelings, thinking about the people who were 'most' present in my life, that I tried to find a hierarchy between them when, in reality, they all cared about me in their way. I was no longer missing anything as I had a newfound understanding of what I sought in a community. As a person interested in STEM, I have often felt nerdy and weird, or I am perceived as a try-hard; due to this, I have often felt isolated and alone, which is why I have worked on being a part of the teen science community. I have participated in various research groups and been heavily involved in my climate action club in school, and I have expanded my knowledge by being a part of a science group whose primary mission is to spread knowledge about chemistry to the youth. Just like I found my community, it is my mission to help other people find a community to call their own.

Too strong, loud, aggressive, and noisy, yet also too tolerant and ignorant, with a high pain tolerance—this is how black women are perceived by society. Historically, black women have been burdened by stereotypes that are not only untrue but also deeply demoralizing and harmful. We are seen as the aggressor in every scenario and never the wronged party. Our pain is taken lightly, both literally and metaphorically. Our achievements and struggles are often rebranded with the face of someone society deems more acceptable. Worst of all, we’ve started to believe these lies and make them our reality. I am committed to dismantling these harmful stereotypes by advancing health equity and ensuring that black women’s voices are heard in the medical field. As of 2022, only about 6% of black women occupied space in engineering, a field designed to solve problems. Biomedical engineering, in particular, is a space for solving medical issues—where representation matters. In the medical field, black people are underrepresented both in careers and care. Medical professionals are often trained to treat symptoms as they appear on white skin, failing to recognize how they may present differently on people of color. This leaves many health issues unrecognized, worsening outcomes for black women. As a future biomedical engineer, I will help ensure that medical tools and technologies are inclusive. I aim to reduce the medical negligence black people face. For example, creating tests that detect diseases in early stages, regardless of skin color, could save lives. Biomedical engineering is about designing solutions that serve everyone, and diverse representation is essential for this. Being a black woman in biomedical engineering is not only empowering for me but for the community and youth I represent. It raises awareness of medical issues that have been overlooked and provides representation for young black girls. When they see someone like me in a field that’s solving health problems, they can be inspired to dream bigger and know they belong in these spaces. I hope to show them they can pursue careers in science and technology without feeling isolated. While being the only black person in a room is often challenging, it’s important they know they are not alone—there’s a community supporting them, encouraging them to hold their heads high with pride. Accessibility and representation matter. I plan to provide young black girls with opportunities and counseling to help them reach for the stars. Tackling educational inequality is key, as many predominantly black neighborhoods lack resources. I plan to offer free tutoring and create centers that will not only serve as learning spaces but also safe havens for children in times of need. These centers will equip young black children with the tools to succeed in whatever field they choose. In today’s climate, the way to break stereotypes is to prove them wrong through education, increased representation, and better health outcomes. By increasing the number of black women in fields like biomedical engineering, we can reduce the negative statistics tied to us—whether in crime, healthcare, or education. When I was a ten-year-old black girl, I had no idea what a biomedical engineer was. At sixteen, it is what I hope to become. By twenty-six, I hope to be part of the growing number of black female biomedical engineers. My goal is not only to increase those numbers but to ensure that my contributions address the medical disparities black women face today. I want to help make healthcare better and more equitable for everyone, especially for those whose needs have long been ignored.

When I was six, I believed it was my destiny to be the Queen of England. After all, my middle name is Elizabeth, and my mother always called me her little princess. Yet, even the title of queen was not enough; I wanted to be a queen and a doctor. I aspired not just to rule, but to help change and save lives. Now, at sixteen, I’ve realized that while I won’t become the Queen of England, I also don’t want to become a doctor. In the past ten years, I have learned much, but the core of my beliefs has remained. While I no longer desire to rule over people’s lives, I still aim to help and uplift others. During my sophomore year of high school, I was required to take physics as a mandatory class. As someone focused on biology, I initially saw it as a waste of time. The class was taught by a teacher everyone dreaded, and the teaching style was new to me. After the first day, I was still unimpressed; it seemed interesting but not for me. However, by the third unit, I discovered the fascinating world of kinematics. It amazed me how the trajectory of a ball could be calculated using simple measurements. Although many factors were omitted, I felt like Newton when the apple fell from the tree. Scoring a 100 on my Unit 2 test was the turning point that captivated me and ignited my interest in physics. One of the final lessons in my physics class explored the diverse careers stemming from physics, and I stumbled upon the world of biomedical engineering—a field that allows me to both aid people and explore my passion for science. Aiding people is not just a passion; it is a lifelong commitment. Growing up in Nigeria from ages 3 to 11, I witnessed countless individuals without access to medical care, suffering from preventable illnesses. I saw mothers carrying sick babies, begging for food or money to support their families. Family members suffered from conditions like diabetes, heart murmurs, fibroids, and various hereditary issues. Helping others and improving the world is a commitment I’ve made for life. Biomedical engineering enables me to fulfill this commitment while pursuing what I love. As a senior in high school, I have dedicated my time and efforts to this pathway. I am taking AP Physics to deepen my understanding of engineering and currently enrolled in AP Biology. I devote time to reading research papers on biomedical research and have attended summer programs to expand my knowledge. For me, biomedical engineering is a crucial step toward fulfilling my calling.