The story that changed mine is my father’s. After a long period of separation, my father reentered my life struggling with alcohol dependency. At first, I did not fully understand what I was witnessing. I only knew that the person I was trying to rebuild a relationship with was also battling something that was slowly stripping away his stability and sense of self. Over time, I began to see how addiction does not only affect the individual, but also every relationship connected to them. It reshapes trust, communication, and the emotional foundation of a family. What changed me most was not just observing his struggle, but being present through his recovery. I learned that healing is rarely immediate or visible. It is built through consistency, patience, and support that does not disappear when progress is slow. Watching him work to rebuild his life showed me that change is possible, but it requires people who are willing to stay, even when it is difficult. Growing up in Atlanta, I have seen how many similar stories exist around me, often without acknowledgment. One problem in my community that people frequently walk past is the quiet normalization of struggle. Addiction, instability, and untreated mental health challenges often exist in plain sight, yet are rarely addressed directly. They become part of the background of everyday life. People learn how to avoid noticing them rather than engaging with them. I also notice how easily people experiencing hardship can become invisible. A person sitting outside for hours. A student who withdraws but is never asked why. A parent balancing multiple jobs while carrying personal battles no one sees. These moments are common, but they are rarely interrupted. What is often missing is not awareness, but intentional care and consistent support. Through my involvement in community work at Morehouse College and with the Black Youth Empowerment Network, I have seen how powerful it can be when people are given space to be heard. Organizing and supporting events focused on youth empowerment and civic engagement has shown me that impact begins with presence. When people feel seen and supported, they are more likely to engage, speak, and rebuild confidence in themselves and their futures. If I had the resources to address what I see in my community, I would focus on building accessible support spaces that combine mentorship, mental health awareness, and educational guidance. These spaces would not feel distant or clinical, but rooted in community trust. My goal would be to reach young people and families who are navigating instability but do not currently have consistent access to support systems. My father’s story taught me that people are not defined by their lowest point, but by the support that helps them move forward. That understanding shapes how I move through my own community. I try to be someone who does not look away from struggle, but instead responds to it with awareness, consistency, and care. That is the kind of community I want to help build. One where stories like my father’s are met not with silence or avoidance, but with support that helps people rebuild.

The idea of crossing a border has always meant more to me than geography. It represents access. It represents perspective. It represents the moment a person realizes the world is larger than the circumstances they were born into. As a junior biology major at Morehouse College and an aspiring neurologist, I have spent the past few years learning how the brain functions, how the body responds to injury, and how science attempts to explain what it means to be human. But I have also realized that some lessons cannot be learned in a classroom or laboratory. Some questions require distance from what is familiar. They require immersion in places where language, culture, and lived experience force you to see differently. I want to study abroad because I want to understand how neurological care and medical systems differ across the world, not just in technique, but in philosophy. How do other cultures define healing? How do different healthcare systems prioritize access to neurological treatment? And how do communities shape the way patients experience illness and recovery? These are questions I cannot fully answer from textbooks or lectures. I want to see them in practice, in real hospitals, real communities, and real lives. More personally, I want to understand myself outside of the environment that shaped me. Growing up in Atlanta in a low income household with a single mother and brothers who were incarcerated, I learned early what limited opportunity looks like. I also saw how strongly environment can shape identity and expectations. Studying abroad represents a chance to step outside of that frame, not to escape where I come from, but to better understand how it has shaped me and how it does not have to define what is possible for me. As a Black student at an HBCU, I carry pride in who I am and where I come from, but I also understand what it feels like to move through spaces where you are underrepresented. That experience has made me deeply aware of the importance of visibility and belonging. I want to bring that awareness into global spaces, to learn from them, but also to contribute my perspective as someone whose path into STEM has not been traditional or easy. Ultimately, I hope to use international learning to become a more thoughtful physician and researcher. I want to understand how global perspectives can improve neurological care at home, especially in underserved communities like the ones that raised me. I believe that exposure to different systems and cultures will allow me to approach medicine with more empathy, more creativity, and a stronger sense of global responsibility. Financial limitations have always been a defining factor in my educational journey. Opportunities like studying abroad often feel out of reach, not because of lack of ambition, but because of cost. This scholarship would not only make international study possible, it would transform it from an idea into an experience that can shape my academic and professional future. I carry Tia Lukeya Woods’ belief that learning is something you chase, not something you wait for. For me, that chase leads beyond borders, toward understanding, toward growth, and toward becoming a physician who sees the world as deeply interconnected rather than separated by lines on a map.

For me, higher education has never been just about earning a degree. It has been about gaining access to tools, knowledge, and opportunity that can shift the direction of my life and the lives of people connected to me. I am a junior biology major at Morehouse College, currently pursuing a path toward neurology. My interest in the brain began in a deeply personal place. After my father, who had recently reentered my life, suffered a traumatic neurological injury, I saw firsthand how quickly life can change and how complex recovery can be. That experience pushed me toward understanding the science behind the nervous system, but it also made me aware of something larger. Access to care, information, and resources is not equal for everyone. Growing up in a low income household shaped how I understand that inequality. I was raised by a single mother who worked constantly to provide stability for our family. At home, the most consistent male presence I had growing up came from my older brothers, both of whom became incarcerated. That reality shaped my understanding of how limited opportunity can influence life trajectories long before someone ever reaches adulthood. It also made education feel like something far more serious than a requirement. It felt like a possible way out, not just for me, but for my family. Attending higher education has already changed what I believe is possible. At Morehouse, I have been able to immerse myself in biology, neuroscience, and research experiences that I would not have been exposed to otherwise. These opportunities are helping me build the foundation needed to pursue medical school and eventually become a neurologist. More importantly, they are giving me the skills to contribute to scientific spaces that have historically lacked representation from students like me. As a Black student in STEM, I have often found myself in environments where I am one of the few people who look like me. In those moments, I have had to learn how to navigate uncertainty, including moments of self doubt that can come from feeling like the odd one out, even when I am fully prepared and capable. Over time, those experiences have strengthened my resolve. They have also shown me how important it is for students from similar backgrounds to not only enter these spaces, but to feel like they belong in them. This is why I am committed to using my education to create impact beyond myself. I want to become a neurologist who not only treats patients, but also advocates for better access to neurological care in underserved communities. I also want to mentor and support younger students who may not yet see themselves represented in science or medicine, but who have the potential to thrive if given the opportunity. Higher education is the bridge that will allow me to turn my experiences into action. It is giving me the training to enter medicine, the exposure to research that will inform my work, and the platform to eventually give back in a meaningful way. With continued support, I will be able to stay focused on my academic and professional development while continuing to pursue opportunities that prepare me to serve others. My goal is not only to succeed in STEM, but to help make it more accessible, more inclusive, and more reflective of the communities it is meant to serve.

Technology is no longer separate from life. It shapes how we learn, how we communicate, and how we access care. For me, it also became a way to understand something deeply personal, the brain. I chose biology as my field of study at Morehouse College because I am interested in how the nervous system shapes behavior, memory, and identity, but my motivation goes beyond curiosity. My passion for neuroscience became personal after my father suffered a traumatic neurological injury. Watching his recovery made me realize how fragile the brain is, but also how powerful science can be in helping people rebuild their lives. That experience shifted my focus from simply learning biology to pursuing a future in neurology where I can contribute to both research and patient care. In the short term, my goal is to continue strengthening my academic foundation in biology and neuroscience while gaining research experience that prepares me for medical school. I am currently involved in undergraduate coursework and research that challenges me to think critically about neurological systems and how they can be better understood and treated. Long term, I plan to become a neurologist and physician scientist who focuses on improving neurological care for underserved communities and advancing research that addresses health disparities. Being an underrepresented minority in STEM has shaped my goals in a very real way. At times, it can feel isolating to be one of the few Black students in spaces where advanced science and research are being discussed. However, that reality has never discouraged me. Instead, it has clarified my purpose. I am not only pursuing a career in medicine for myself, but also to ensure that the next generation of students sees representation in spaces where they are often overlooked. I understand that representation alone does not solve systemic issues, but it does open doors. It changes what young students believe is possible for themselves. It also influences how patients experience care when they see providers who understand their background and lived experiences. My goal is to be part of that change by combining scientific expertise with cultural understanding and advocacy. Financially, this scholarship would directly support my ability to remain focused on my education and research without the constant pressure of financial strain. As a student at Morehouse College, I am working toward a demanding path that includes preparation for medical school, research involvement, and academic excellence. Financial support would allow me to dedicate more time to these opportunities that are essential for my growth, rather than being distracted by financial stress. Ultimately, I chose this field because I want to understand the brain, but I am pursuing it because I want to serve people. My long term goal is to contribute to a future where neurological care is more equitable, more accessible, and more reflective of the communities it serves.

Growing up, I learned that a person's future can change long before they ever step into a hospital. I watched my mother work tirelessly to raise three boys on her own while navigating financial hardship. I watched two of my older brothers become incarcerated, and I saw how easily circumstances can determine the opportunities someone receives. Then, after my father had recently reentered my life, a traumatic accident left him with a severe neurological injury. As I stood beside his hospital bed, I was struck by two questions that would shape the rest of my life. How does the brain recover from devastating injury? And why do so many people in communities like mine struggle to receive the care they deserve? Those experiences led me to Morehouse College, where I am now a junior biology major preparing for a career in neurology. Every biology course, every late night studying, and every research opportunity has been another step toward answering those questions. Rather than allowing my circumstances to define me, I have used them as motivation to pursue a career that combines scientific discovery with service. Beyond the classroom, I have sought opportunities to lead and give back. Through Black Youth Empowerment Network, I have helped organize community events focused on civic engagement and violence prevention. I have also participated in undergraduate neuroscience research, where I study questions that deepen my understanding of the nervous system and strengthen my ability to think like a future physician and scientist. These experiences have taught me that leadership is not about having the loudest voice. It is about creating opportunities, building trust, and serving wherever you are needed. As a Black student in STEM, I also recognize the importance of representation. Throughout my education, I have rarely been surrounded by physicians or researchers who looked like me. Instead of discouraging me, that reality has strengthened my determination to become the person I once needed to see. I want young Black students to know that they belong in research laboratories, medical schools, and operating rooms just as much as anyone else. My degree at Morehouse is preparing me to pursue medical school and ultimately become a neurologist who serves underserved communities while advancing neuroscience research. My long term goal is to improve neurological care for patients who have historically been overlooked and to mentor the next generation of Black scientists and physicians. I hope to combine clinical care, research, and community outreach to reduce disparities in neurological health and expand access to quality care. Education has given me more than knowledge. It has given me the opportunity to rewrite my family's story. Every patient I serve, every student I mentor, and every discovery I contribute to will be part of that legacy.

The first time I saw my father after his accident, I barely recognized him. This was the man I had only recently begun rebuilding a relationship with. Now he lay in a hospital bed unable to move the way he once had. Tubes, monitors, and uncertainty surrounded him. I remember standing there feeling helpless, wondering how a single moment could completely change someone's future. The doctors explained the neurological damage, but all I could think about was whether he would ever have the chance to live the life he had before. That moment changed mine. Growing up in Atlanta, I was raised by a single mother who worked tirelessly to provide for my family. As the youngest of three boys, I watched my two older brothers become involved with the justice system, and I learned early that where you come from can shape the opportunities you receive. Higher education never felt guaranteed. It felt like something I would have to earn every single day. When I arrived at Morehouse College as a biology major, I carried more than a backpack. I carried the hopes of my family and the responsibility of changing my family's trajectory. College has challenged me academically, financially, and personally. There have been moments when balancing coursework, research, leadership responsibilities, and financial pressures felt overwhelming. Still, quitting was never an option because I knew too many people had sacrificed for me to get this far. The person who made that possible was my mother. She never had the luxury of giving up, and because of her, neither did I. Even when money was tight, she constantly reminded me that education was something no one could ever take away from me. Her belief in me became my confidence whenever mine began to fade. Today, I conduct neuroscience research, serve in leadership roles on campus, and continue preparing for medical school with the goal of becoming a neurologist. Every opportunity I pursue is driven by the same question I asked in that hospital room years ago. How can I help someone reclaim the future they thought they had lost? As a Black man entering a field where people who look like me remain underrepresented, I understand that my success is about more than personal achievement. It is about representation, advocacy, and expanding what is possible for the students who come after me. I want to become the physician I wish my community saw more often. Someone who combines scientific excellence with compassion and who fights for equitable care for every patient. William A. Lewis believed in opening doors for students whose potential was greater than their circumstances. Receiving this scholarship would do more than ease the financial burden of my education. It would allow me to continue pursuing a career dedicated to ensuring that the next family standing beside a hospital bed has more answers, more hope, and a physician who truly understands their journey.

One of the greatest obstacles I have faced in my pursuit of higher education has been navigating financial hardship while carrying the weight to succeed as a first-generation college student. For as long as I can remember, my family has carried the burden of limited resources. My mother, a single parent, worked tirelessly to provide for me and my two older brothers. She did everything in her power to shield us from the realities of financial struggle, but as I grew older, it became impossible not to recognize the sacrifices she made. When I began applying to colleges, the excitement of possibility was overshadowed by the harsh reality of cost. The price tags on tuition felt less like an invitation to opportunity and more like an insurmountable wall. I questioned whether higher education was even a realistic option. I carried the fear that, no matter how hard I worked, my dream of becoming a neurologist would be out of reach because of finances I could not control. This obstacle did more than cause stress—it tested my sense of worth. It was difficult to stay focused on the future when the present felt so uncertain. There were moments when I wondered if my ambition was selfish, considering how much strain pursuing college would place on my family. But during this time I realized education was not just my dream—it was my family’s dream as well. Every sacrifice my mother made, every word of encouragement she gave, and every late night she spent reassuring me that we would find a way reminded me that my success would not only be my own, but ours collectively. My mother was the first person who helped me face this obstacle head-on. She instilled in me the belief that education is an investment, not a burden, and she worked constantly to connect me with opportunities that could make college affordable. Beyond her, I was fortunate to find mentors and organizations that stepped in to support me. Through scholarships, leadership programs, and mentorship networks, I discovered that I was not alone in this journey. People who believed in my potential even those who did not know me personally—helped open doors that once seemed shut. One example that stands out is my acceptance into a multi-year program that not only provides renewable scholarships but also mentorship and professional development opportunities. My assigned mentor, a professional in the healthcare field, reminded me that while financial challenges are real, they do not define my future. Having someone to guide me through the complexities of balancing school, and personal life gave me confidence I had never felt before. Overcoming financial obstacles has taught me valuable lessons in resilience, resourcefulness, and gratitude. It has shown me the power of community support, and how success is often a collective effort rather than an individual achievement. The challenges my family faced continue to motivate me to persevere in my studies and to remain committed to my long-term goal of becoming a neurologist. I now understand that the very obstacles that once felt like barriers are the same forces shaping my determination and sense of purpose. As I continue on this path, I carry with me not just my own dreams but the sacrifices, encouragement, and belief of those who helped me along the way. My mother’s determination, combined with the guidance of mentors and the generosity of scholarship organizations, transformed what once felt impossible into something attainable. Because of them, I have learned that obstacles can be stepping stones, and that higher education is not just a personal achievement but a shared victory.

Mental health is often described as something invisible—an internal struggle that does not always leave obvious marks. Yet in my life, it has been one of the most visible forces shaping who I am today. My journey with mental health has influenced how I see myself, how I relate to others, and how I envision my role in the world as a future neurologist. It has taught me lessons about resilience, empathy, and responsibility that no classroom ever could, and those lessons continue to guide my beliefs, relationships, and career aspirations. Growing up, conversations about mental health were largely absent in my community. Silence was mistaken for strength, and asking for help was sometimes viewed as weakness. I absorbed that unspoken rule early, convincing myself that pushing through on my own was the only acceptable way forward. But this mindset eventually weighed heavily on me, especially during transitional moments—such as the shift from high school to college, where academic pressures, personal responsibilities, and questions of identity collided at once. During my first year of college, I encountered mental health challenges that made me question not only my abilities but also my place in the spaces I worked so hard to enter. The pressure to succeed in a rigorous STEM program sometimes felt overwhelming, and I carried the added responsibility of representing my family and community. At times, the weight felt unbearable. What began to change my perspective was learning to lean on others. For the first time, I opened up to mentors and peers who offered encouragement and guidance. Their willingness to listen reminded me that vulnerability does not erase strength—it deepens it. Through these conversations, I realized resilience is not about denying challenges but about facing them honestly and moving forward with support. That realization reshaped my beliefs. I now view perseverance not as silent endurance but as an active process of seeking help, building strategies, and refusing to let obstacles define me. These lessons also transformed how I approach relationships. Experiencing my own struggles made me more empathetic toward those around me. I pay closer attention, listen with patience, and try to create spaces where others feel safe sharing their burdens. I’ve learned that often, people do not need quick solutions—they need to feel understood. When classmates confide in me about academic pressures or friends open up about personal challenges, I respond with the same compassion I once needed. This shift has allowed me to form deeper, more authentic connections and reinforced my belief that empathy is one of the most powerful tools we can offer. My relationship with my father also shaped how I think about mental and neurological health. After reentering my life, he suffered a traumatic spinal injury that altered both his physical abilities and emotional outlook. Witnessing him navigate recovery was eye-opening. I saw how intertwined physical and mental health truly are, and how trauma to the body can ripple into every aspect of identity and relationships. It was through his journey that my interest in neuroscience grew. I became fascinated by the nervous system’s fragility and resilience, and I felt called to pursue a career helping others facing similar challenges. This personal connection fuels my aspiration to become a neurologist. But my vision extends beyond practicing medicine in the traditional sense. My own experiences with mental health have made me sensitive to the gaps in healthcare, particularly in underserved communities. Too often, mental and neurological health are treated as separate, and stigma keeps individuals from seeking care. In Black communities especially, mistrust of the medical system adds another barrier. My goal as a physician is to bridge those divides—treating patients as whole individuals, integrating their mental, emotional, and physical well-being. At my university, I have already begun working toward this vision through leadership and mentorship. I mentor incoming STEM majors, helping them navigate demanding coursework and adapt to academic pressures. Many of these conversations go beyond academics; they involve managing stress, finding balance, and building confidence. I also organized discussions on “surviving and thriving in STEM” at an HBCU, where support networks and representation are vital. These experiences reaffirmed what my journey with mental health taught me: that creating spaces of belonging and encouragement can be just as transformative as instruction. Mentorship has become one of the most meaningful ways I live out my values because it mirrors the physician I hope to become—guiding, supporting, and empowering others through challenges. The study of biology and neuroscience provides me with the foundation to pursue this path, but my personal journey provides the heart behind it. My coursework challenges me to think critically about the nervous system’s complexities, while my experiences remind me of the human stories behind the science. When I study disease mechanisms, I think about the patients who will live with its impact. When I learn about treatments, I consider the communities that may or may not have access to them. This dual perspective—scientific and personal—drives me to pursue a career that is both rigorous and compassionate. Looking to the future, I envision creating programs that integrate neurology with community outreach. I hope to partner with schools, churches, and local organizations to provide neurological screenings, mental health resources, and educational workshops. My goal is to normalize conversations about neurological and mental health, reduce stigma, and empower families to seek care early. I want to stand at the intersection of medicine, research, and advocacy, using my platform as a physician to challenge inequities and provide culturally responsive solutions. In many ways, mental health has been my greatest teacher. It has taught me that strength is not walking alone but building support networks. It has shown me that the most meaningful relationships are rooted in empathy and understanding. And it has guided me toward a career where I can merge science with compassion, ensuring patients and communities receive care that addresses both physical and mental well-being. For me, mental health is no longer just a challenge I endured; it is a compass that continues to shape my beliefs, deepen my relationships, and give purpose to my aspirations in medicine.

My name is Jalen Fortson, and I am a sophomore biology major with a minor in neuroscience from Atlanta, Georgia. As the youngest of three boys raised by a single mother, I grew up with a deep understanding of resilience, responsibility, and the importance of community. My mother’s strength and sacrifices shaped my values of perseverance and service, while also inspiring me to approach education as more than just a path toward personal success. For me, every opportunity is a chance to learn, grow, and ultimately create an impact that uplifts others. These values form the foundation of my journey toward a career in medicine. The field of healthcare that I plan to pursue is neurology. My interest in this field began in a very personal way. My father, who had only recently returned to my life, sustained a traumatic spinal injury that changed the course of his health and our family’s daily lives. Watching him endure the physical challenges of limited mobility and the emotional struggles that came with recovery opened my eyes to the immense complexity of the nervous system. It also revealed how quickly one event can transform both body and mind. What started as a son’s concern for his father grew into a deep curiosity about the brain and spinal cord, and eventually into a calling to study neuroscience. That experience was transformative for me because it highlighted both the fragility and resilience of the human body. It also made me realize how underserved communities often face unique challenges when dealing with neurological conditions. Many lack access to specialists, rehabilitation resources, or even the education needed to understand their conditions. My father’s injury introduced me to the science of neurology, but it also showed me the human side of healthcare—the gaps in care, representation, and trust that exist in our system. I want to become a neurologist who addresses these inequities by combining clinical excellence with advocacy and community outreach. Beyond personal experiences, my exposure to healthcare disparities in my own community further solidified my commitment to this path. Growing up, I often saw family members and neighbors struggle with chronic conditions that went untreated for years due to cost, limited access, or mistrust of medical institutions. In Black communities especially, the lack of representation in medicine contributes to these barriers. I believe that entering the field of neurology allows me not only to pursue a fascinating and complex area of medicine but also to represent patients who deserve providers that see, understand, and fight for them. At my university, I have also worked to live out my values through leadership and service. I mentor incoming STEM majors, helping them navigate rigorous coursework and find belonging in spaces where they might otherwise feel isolated. I have organized discussions on thriving in STEM, particularly at HBCUs, where community support and representation are vital. These experiences reinforce my belief that leadership is about service—lifting others up, making resources accessible, and helping people recognize their own potential. I plan to carry that same philosophy into my career in healthcare. Ultimately, my goal is to use my education to bridge the gap between medicine and community outreach. I envision establishing programs that provide neurological screenings and education in underserved areas, partnering with schools, churches, and community organizations to make healthcare accessible and culturally sensitive. My dream of becoming a neurologist is not only about advancing in my chosen field, but also about creating a ripple effect where science, compassion, and advocacy come together to change lives.

My name is Jalen Fortson, growing up in Atlanta as the youngest of three boys raised by a single mother, I witnessed firsthand the sacrifices required to provide for a family. My mother's unwavering resilience taught me the importance of perseverance, gratitude, and a commitment to serving others. This foundation shaped my belief that success is not just for personal gain, but a means to uplift those around me. These core values continue to guide my academic path as a sophomore biology major and neuroscience minor. In my community, I observed the debilitating effects of unequal access to quality healthcare. Many neighbors and relatives suffered from conditions that went untreated for too long, a problem exacerbated by a lack of representation in medicine that eroded patient trust. These experiences exposed me to the deep disparities within our healthcare system and ignited my passion to become a neurologist. My goal is to work at the intersection of medicine, research, and advocacy, dedicating my career to ensuring underserved populations receive the quality care, education, and representation they deserve. This dedication to neuroscience became deeply personal after my father, who had recently reentered my life, sustained a traumatic spinal injury. Watching his struggle with the physical and emotional toll of recovery revealed the profound vulnerability of the nervous system. My initial concern as a son transformed into a focused academic pursuit, driving me to understand how such injuries impact both body and mind. This experience not only cemented my fascination with neuroscience but also underscored my responsibility to make neurological knowledge and care more accessible, particularly for families navigating similar challenges without adequate support. My approach to leadership is rooted in service. At my university, I actively mentor incoming STEM majors, helping them navigate challenging coursework, connect with campus resources, and find a sense of community. I’ve also organized discussions on "surviving and thriving in STEM," with a focus on the unique strengths and challenges of students at HBCUs. These experiences have taught me that true leadership is about empowering others and creating supportive environments where students can reach their full potential. Mentorship, I’ve learned, is one of the most effective ways to create a lasting impact. The biology and neuroscience degrees I am pursuing are the cornerstone of my mission. They provide the rigorous scientific and research skills essential for medical school. More than that, this education is preparing me to not only diagnose and treat patients but also to question systemic healthcare inequities and develop innovative solutions. I plan to use my medical training to bridge medicine with community outreach, envisioning programs that offer neurological screenings, education, and advocacy in underserved neighborhoods. By partnering with schools and community organizations, I will make healthcare more accessible and culturally responsive. Ultimately, my education is about more than becoming a neurologist. It is about embodying the values of resilience, service, and leadership that have defined my life. I am driven to create a positive ripple effect—ensuring that every patient I care for, every student I mentor, and every community I engage feels the impact of someone who believes that science and compassion can, together, profoundly change lives.

Caregiving has been an unspoken part of my life for as long as I can remember. As the youngest in a single-parent household with two older brothers who have both been incarcerated, I grew up not only caring for myself but often for those around me—emotionally, mentally, and sometimes even physically. More recently, my role as a caregiver became much more defined when my father, who had only recently reentered my life, suffered a traumatic accident that left him neurologically impaired. This changed everything. After his accident, I found myself stepping into a role I wasn’t prepared for—helping him navigate rehabilitation, assisting with everyday tasks, and simply being there in ways that most people wouldn’t expect from a teenager. I helped with physical movements, communicated with nurses, and translated medical information for my family in a way they could understand. In the hospital room, I often felt like a bridge between the medical world and my loved ones, especially when doctors used complicated terms or didn’t take the time to explain. I saw firsthand how essential it is for patients and families—especially Black families like mine—to have someone who not only understands but cares deeply. This caregiving experience has shaped my life in profound ways. It’s where my passion for neurology began—not from a textbook or classroom, but from the raw reality of watching someone I love struggle to regain function and dignity. It showed me that being a doctor is about so much more than diagnosis and treatment—it’s about patience, compassion, and advocacy. I realized I want to become a neurologist who not only treats the brain but understands the whole person behind the injury or illness. I want to use my future in medicine to fight the injustices I’ve witnessed—like medical racism, lack of access, and the failure to communicate care in ways families truly understand. Caregiving has also shaped my values. It’s taught me responsibility, resilience, and empathy. I’ve learned how to manage stress under pressure, how to advocate when no one else will, and how to show up—even when it’s hard. These lessons now influence how I approach school, service, and leadership. At Morehouse College, I’m majoring in biology on the pre-med track, and every step I take is guided by the people I’ve cared for and the mission I’m building for myself. This scholarship would mean the world to me. As someone from a low-income household, paying for college has been a constant challenge. My mother has carried the weight of raising three sons on her own, and I want to be able to lift some of that burden. Receiving this scholarship wouldn’t just help with tuition—it would give me the space to fully focus on my studies, research, and medical shadowing without the constant stress of financial insecurity. It would be an investment not just in my education, but in the future communities I plan to serve. I carry my caregiving experience with pride. It has shaped the kind of doctor, student, and human being I strive to become. And with the support of this scholarship, I know I’ll be one step closer to turning that vision into reality.

My name is Jalen Fortson, and I’m a freshman biology major on the pre-med track at Morehouse College. While my ultimate goal is to become a neurologist, my vision extends beyond medicine. I see myself as both a healer and an educator—someone who will use knowledge not just to treat patients, but to uplift communities, inspire young minds, and help break generational cycles of disadvantage. I was raised in Atlanta, Georgia, by a single mother who sacrificed everything to keep our family afloat. My two older brothers have both been incarcerated, and I’ve seen how systems often fail young Black men before they ever get a real chance. We grew up in an environment where access to quality education, healthcare, and support was limited. But despite that, my mother instilled in me a deep sense of responsibility—to make the most of my opportunities and to never stop pushing for more. My passion for neurology began when my father, who had just come back into my life after years apart, was involved in a traumatic accident that left him neurologically disabled. Watching him fight to regain basic functions was heartbreaking, but it also opened my eyes to the power of the brain—and to the injustices within the healthcare system. In that hospital room, I noticed how differently my family was treated. Medical professionals often used language we didn’t understand and made decisions without including us. It was a clear example of how medical racism and lack of education intersect, leaving families like mine vulnerable and voiceless. That experience changed everything for me. I knew I wanted to become a neurologist, but not just one who prescribes treatments—I want to be a doctor who explains, who listens, and who makes people feel seen. I want to be the kind of physician who helps families truly understand what’s happening, so they can take control of their health. To me, education is a form of liberation, and I plan to use it to empower my patients in every interaction. Outside of clinical care, I’m deeply committed to mentorship. I want to return to communities like the one I grew up in and speak to students who don’t see college, let alone medical school, as a possibility. I want to share my journey—the challenges, the setbacks, and the triumphs—to show that it is possible. As a Black man in medicine, I know how much representation matters, and I’m determined to be that representation for the next generation. Through medicine and mentorship, I plan to educate, advocate, and inspire. Whether I’m breaking down complex medical information or simply showing a young student that someone who looks like them can be successful, I know my impact will go far beyond a hospital room. I’m not just working toward a career—I’m building a legacy rooted in healing, equity, and education.