The moment that most deeply shaped my commitment to service happened quietly, without recognition or applause. While working with children in my community, including those with disabilities, I noticed how often fear and frustration were mistaken for misbehavior. One child in particular struggled to communicate and would withdraw when overwhelmed. Instead of rushing them or correcting their behavior, I sat beside them, spoke calmly, and waited. Slowly, trust replaced fear. That experience changed the way I understood care—not as fixing, but as listening. My motivation to serve comes from empathy rooted in personal experience. Growing up, I learned what it feels like to be vulnerable and to hope that someone will look past appearances and truly understand you. Those experiences shaped my desire to work in environments where compassion matters as much as skill. In my community roles, I focused on creating safe, supportive spaces where children felt seen and respected. I learned how powerful it can be to simply show up consistently for someone who needs reassurance. One of the greatest challenges I faced was learning patience in moments when progress felt slow or uncertain. Some children expressed themselves through silence, others through emotion. I had to adapt my approach constantly—learning when to step in and when to step back. There were moments of frustration, but they taught me resilience and emotional awareness. I learned that effective care requires flexibility, humility, and the ability to meet people where they are, not where you expect them to be. Through these experiences, I gained a deeper understanding of healthcare beyond hospitals and clinics. Care begins long before treatment—it begins with trust. I saw how emotional support can change outcomes, and how feeling heard can be just as healing as any intervention. These lessons solidified my desire to pursue a career in healthcare, where I can combine science with empathy to serve others at their most vulnerable moments. Looking toward the future, I plan to continue contributing to my community through healthcare and advocacy. I aspire to work with underserved populations, providing not only medical care but emotional support and understanding. I hope to be the kind of provider who makes patients feel safe, respected, and valued as individuals. Beyond my career, I plan to stay involved in mentorship and community outreach programs that uplift those who feel unseen. Service is not something I do temporarily—it is a responsibility I carry forward, guided by compassion, purpose, and the belief that healing begins with human connection

There are teachers who teach a subject, and then there are teachers who teach you how to breathe again. For me, that was Ms. Suh. She wasn’t just someone who stood at the front of the classroom — she became a mother figure in a place where I didn’t always feel understood. There were days in high school when the pressure felt heavy, when leadership, schoolwork, and life outside the building stacked on top of me. I would hold myself together until I stepped into her room, and she always noticed before I said a word. She had this calm voice that felt like a hand on your shoulder, and a kindness that made it impossible to pretend you were okay when you weren’t. I remember the first time I cried in front of her. I tried to hide it — wiping my face, turning away — but she gently took my hand, wiped my tears herself, and said, “You don’t have to be strong every second.” No teacher had ever spoken to me like that. In that moment, she wasn’t just my teacher; she was the person reminding me that even leaders deserve softness. Her room became the space where I could breathe, reset, and feel safe. She celebrated my wins like they were her own, and when things got hard, she never let me feel like I was facing them alone. She held me to high expectations, but she held my heart too. She taught me that strength isn’t pretending you’re fine — it’s letting yourself be human. Because of her, I learned to lead with empathy instead of pressure, patience instead of perfection. I learned that checking on people, really checking on them, changes lives. She showed me what it looks like to care for others consistently, quietly, and without expecting anything in return. I carry her with me in the way I help younger students, the way I lift up my friends, the way I listen to people who are going through things they don’t know how to say out loud. She shaped the way I show up for others — as someone warm, steady, and unafraid to offer support. Ms. Suh didn’t just influence my life. She softened it. She strengthened it. She helped me become a version of myself that I’m proud of — one who leads with heart, because she led with hers.

There is one person who completely changed the way I see myself as a leader: my mother. She has shaped every part of my journey — not through big speeches or perfect moments, but through quiet resilience that spoke louder than any lesson. Watching her navigate life as a first-generation immigrant taught me what strength actually looks like: not just surviving, but lifting others even when you’re tired. Leading even when no one is watching. My mother showed me that leadership isn’t about being the loudest voice in the room — it’s about being the one who keeps going, keeps giving, and keeps believing. She faced things I’ve only seen in stories: leaving her home, adapting to a new country, working long hours, and still making sure her children felt safe and seen. Her example is the reason I carry myself the way I do — with pride, gratitude, and a commitment to making life better not just for myself, but for the people around me. As a first-generation student, I’ve had to navigate systems that my family never had the chance to experience. But I never walk alone — I walk with her resilience. Because of her, I lead with empathy. I speak up for those who feel overlooked. I show love even when it’s hard. I became class president not just to hold a title, but to serve, uplift, and build a school environment where people feel like they matter. I plan events, solve conflicts, mentor younger students, and make sure every voice has a place. Leadership to me is not about power — it’s about care. Her influence is also the reason I give back. I run fundraisers through Culture Club not because I have to, but because giving back feels like honoring her story. When I help students from immigrant families feel more comfortable in school, I see a younger version of myself — and the girl my mother fought for. I volunteer, I tutor, and I listen to people who need someone to believe in them, because that’s exactly what she did for me. As I continue my journey toward becoming a healthcare professional, I carry her legacy with me: resilience, compassion, and commitment to community. I want to be someone who uplifts others the way she uplifted me — someone who makes people feel safe, supported, and capable of more than they ever imagined. My mother didn’t just shape the leader I am — she shaped the leader I’m still becoming. And as a first-generation student, my legacy will be to honor her sacrifices by creating opportunities, comfort, and hope for the next person walking a path like mine.

I’ve always believed that healthcare is more than medicine — it’s the art of paying attention. Growing up, I watched people in my community struggle to breathe through both their illnesses and their stress. I saw family members navigate symptoms that didn’t have clear names, diagnoses that took years, and doctor visits that left them feeling unseen. Those moments shaped the way I view healing: not as a single action, but as a promise to show up for people when life feels overwhelming, scary, or unfair. I want to enter the healthcare field to be that person — the one who listens closely, notices the small details, and gives patients a sense of safety even when their bodies feel unpredictable. Lung diseases in particular have always stood out to me because breathing is the one thing we often take for granted until it’s suddenly difficult. Respiratory illnesses change people’s lives instantly. They affect movement, confidence, sleep, and the simple peace that comes from taking a full breath. I want to help restore that peace. I also feel deeply called to working with people who have rare medical conditions. Rare diseases often come with uncertainty, fear, and years of not knowing what’s wrong. Patients are used to hearing “I’ve never seen this before,” or “Just wait and see.” I want to be the provider who turns that uncertainty into understanding, who does the extra research, who advocates fiercely, and who never lets a patient feel like they’re a medical mystery instead of a human being. But physical illness isn’t the whole story — mental health is woven into every part of this work. A person can have clear lungs and a hurting mind, or a rare disease with anxiety that no one takes seriously. I’ve learned that healing requires treating both the body and the emotional weight that comes with illness. When someone is scared about their diagnosis, confused about symptoms, or exhausted from fighting for answers, it takes a toll on their mental wellbeing. I want to be the type of healthcare provider who recognizes that caring for someone’s mental health isn’t separate — it’s part of every appointment, every plan, and every breath they take. My dream is to combine strong medical training with deep empathy so I can help patients feel understood, empowered, and hopeful. Whether I’m treating lung disease, searching for the cause behind a rare condition, or helping someone navigate the mental strain that comes with illness, I want my care to make life gentler and more possible. That’s the kind of impact I hope to create in healthcare — healing that touches both the body and the heart.

Being a first-generation student means stepping into a world my family never had the chance to enter. It means learning everything on my own, carrying my parents’ dreams, and pushing myself through doors I had to unlock without guidance. For me, it’s both a responsibility and a blessing. It reminds me every day that I’m not just working for myself — I’m working for the generations before me who sacrificed so I could have opportunities they never did. Growing up, I became the person who translated, filled out paperwork, scheduled appointments, and figured out confusing systems no one around me understood. I was the helper and the student at the same time. My parents always supported me, but they didn’t know how to navigate the American education system, so I learned to navigate it for all of us. That experience forced me to grow up faster, but it also helped me become independent, focused, and resilient. Financial hardship has shaped much of my journey. I’ve always had to balance school with work — babysitting, park programs, and now Panera — not because I wanted spending money, but because my family needed the help. At the same time, I stayed involved in leadership, serving as Class President for four years, and juggling sports, clubs, and academics. It wasn’t always easy, but every challenge made me stronger. Working while leading my school community taught me responsibility, compassion, and how to show up even when things feel heavy. Living with vitiligo brought its own challenges. I learned how to handle stares, questions, and moments of insecurity. But over time, my condition became one of my biggest sources of strength. It taught me confidence, empathy, and patience. It also influenced my dream of becoming a psychiatrist or a dermatologist — careers where I can help people heal both emotionally and physically, the same way I had to learn to heal myself. I want to be a doctor who listens, who understands cultural identity, and who makes patients feel seen. My experiences didn’t discourage me from this dream — they shaped it. They pushed me toward healthcare because I know what it feels like to feel different, unheard, or unsupported. I want to be the kind of doctor I needed growing up. This scholarship would bring me closer to that future. It would relieve some of the financial pressure that has followed me throughout my education and give me room to focus on my goals instead of worrying about money. It would give me the stability I need to continue my path toward medicine and to create a better future for myself, my family, and others like me. I’m not perfect, but I’m determined. I’m driven by where I come from and inspired by where I’m going. And I’m ready to keep rising — step by step.

Education has never been just a requirement for me — it has been the map, the compass, and sometimes the lifeline that showed me where I could go even when everything around me felt uncertain. Growing up as a first-generation Punjabi Sikh girl from a low-income household, I didn’t always have the privilege of guidance or the comfort of knowing someone had walked the path before me. Instead, I grew up figuring things out through trial, error, persistence, and a determination to not let my circumstances decide my future. Education gave me direction in a world where I often had to build the road myself. As a first-generation student, school was the one place where I truly felt my world expanding. While my parents worked long hours and did everything they could, they didn’t have the experience with the American education system to guide me through it. That became my responsibility. I learned how to navigate FAFSA, college applications, exams, transcripts, and internships without having an older sibling or parent who could show me the way. It was overwhelming at times, but it also pushed me to grow into a leader — for myself, my family, and sometimes even my community. That self-reliance shaped the foundation of my goals and helped me discover what I wanted for my life. At school, education shifted from something I had to do to something that gave me identity. Every science class showed me a new piece of the world, every health assignment reminded me of the importance of representation in medicine, and every leadership opportunity showed me that I could create change instead of waiting for it. Becoming Class President for four years wasn’t just a title — it was the moment I realized I had a voice, and people trusted me to use it. Whether it was organizing events, advocating for student needs, supporting fundraisers, or helping classmates feel heard, leadership taught me the value of showing up consistently. That experience helped me shape my future goal of becoming a doctor — someone who serves others, listens deeply, and leads with empathy. One of the biggest challenges I’ve faced has been living with vitiligo. As a child, I didn’t fully understand why people stared or asked questions, but as I grew older, I realized how deeply skin affects confidence. My condition shaped me emotionally and mentally. Some days, I struggled with self-esteem; other days, I felt stronger than ever. Over time, vitiligo became more than a medical condition — it became the lens through which I understood compassion. It also influenced my career interest in dermatology, a field where I could help others feel comfortable in their skin, literally and emotionally. But even beyond dermatology, it taught me the importance of mental health, another reason psychiatry also calls to me. I want to be the kind of doctor who sees the whole person, not just their symptoms. Financial hardship has also shaped my goals. Coming from a family with limited income, I learned early how to balance school with jobs — babysitting, park programs, and now working at Panera. These jobs were never optional; they were necessary. Sometimes, balancing work and school felt like trying to carry two worlds at once, but it taught me discipline, time management, and resilience. It made me realize that success isn’t just about talent; it’s about consistency and sacrifice. Working while maintaining leadership roles, sports, and academics showed me that I could push through challenges and still move forward. My internship at a dermatology clinic opened my eyes to healthcare in a deeper way. Watching doctors explain diagnoses, calm patients, and treat them with both skill and kindness made something inside me feel certain: this is where I belong. Healthcare blends science and humanity, logic and heart, precision and compassion. Whether I become a dermatologist helping someone feel confident in their skin or a psychiatrist helping someone heal internally, I know that medicine is the path where I can make the greatest impact. Education gave me that clarity — it helped me understand that I don’t just want a job; I want a purpose. The challenges I’ve faced — cultural expectations, financial struggles, balancing responsibilities, and navigating life with vitiligo — weren’t obstacles that stopped me. They were lessons that shaped me. They taught me empathy, strength, and patience. They taught me that opportunity is not given; it is earned through effort, resilience, and belief in yourself even when things feel impossible. And they taught me that my success is not just for me, but for every younger child in my community who needs to see someone who looks like them achieving what once seemed out of reach. With a college education, I want to build the life my family once only dreamed about. I want to break generational barriers, start the path that future siblings and cousins can follow, and use my medical career to give back to communities like the one that raised me. I want to show that being first-generation is not a disadvantage — it’s a strength. Education gave me direction. Now, I want to use that direction to create a future filled with purpose, opportunity, and service — not just for myself, but for others who need someone to believe in them the way I once needed someone to believe in me.

Students from disadvantaged backgrounds deserve opportunities like scholarships because talent is universal, but access is not. Many of us grow up with responsibilities that other students never have to think about — working jobs, translating for our families, navigating systems alone, or carrying personal challenges quietly. Yet we still show up, push through, and try to build better lives for ourselves and the people we love. When a student overcomes obstacles with determination instead of giving up, they aren’t just seeking help — they’re proving they deserve the chance to rise. In my own life, being a first-generation Punjabi Sikh student from a financially limited family shaped me into someone who learned how to work hard early. I grew up helping my family understand paperwork, appointments, school systems, and anything else that felt overwhelming. I became the problem-solver long before I had the vocabulary to describe that role. Those experiences taught me independence, responsibility, and the importance of fighting for opportunities instead of waiting for them. Living with vitiligo has also played a major role in the obstacles I’ve faced. Growing up, I dealt with stares, questions, and moments where I felt different in ways I didn’t fully understand. Instead of letting it shrink me, I used it to build confidence, empathy, and strength. My skin taught me how to embrace who I am and how to show compassion to others who feel unseen or misunderstood. Financial hardship has been a constant part of my reality. I’ve always had to balance school with working jobs — babysitting, park programs, and now Panera — not because I wanted extra spending money, but because I needed to help myself and my family. I also took on a paid internship at a dermatology clinic, where I saw firsthand the kind of doctor I want to become: someone compassionate, patient, and culturally understanding. Even while juggling work, sports, leadership roles, and rigorous classes, I’ve stayed committed to my goals. Being Class President for four years taught me leadership, accountability, and the importance of serving others. I’ve led fundraisers, supported my school community, and used my voice to help my classmates feel heard. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done while carrying responsibilities that many people never see. And that is exactly why students like me deserve opportunities: not because we want an easier path, but because we’ve already proven we can push forward even without one. A grant like this would change my life. It would lift some of the financial pressure that has always been on my shoulders and allow me to focus on pursuing my dream of becoming either a psychiatrist or a dermatologist. It would help me study, grow, and eventually return to my community as a doctor who understands struggle, culture, and resilience on a personal level. I am not asking for a handout; I am asking for a chance — the chance to turn everything I’ve survived into something meaningful.