“I despise my life; I would not live forever. Let me alone; my days have no meaning.” Job’s words once frightened me because I understood them too well. I had memorized scripture growing up, but I learned early that knowing verses does not mean you truly believe. Faith is not about recitation or looking pious. Faith is about holding on when the world tries to break you, when people you love fade from your life, and when you feel powerless to change your circumstances. I learned that you can know God exists, but believing in Him, trusting Him, and relying on Him is what sustains you through darkness. My faith was tested most deeply through my grandmother. She survived three strokes, and each one made her dementia worse, slowly erasing the woman who raised me. Eventually, she forgot me entirely. Watching her connected to wires, confused and fragile, broke a piece of me I did not know could break. I was her eldest granddaughter, yet I became a stranger in her eyes. Loving someone who can no longer remember you is a grief that never fully leaves. It was painful to see her struggle, but it taught me patience, compassion, and the quiet power of presence. My prayers became my way of showing love when words or recognition could not. At the same time, I navigated college as a low-income Haitian woman with no roadmap. I was the first in my family to pursue medicine and even aim for a four-year degree. There was no one to explain how to navigate prerequisites, lab work, or volunteer opportunities. Many days, I felt lost, overwhelmed, and exhausted. I cried. I questioned myself. I even felt my sanity slipping. Yet, each day I chose to show up, study, and persevere. Prayer was the anchor that reminded me I was not alone, and belief in God gave me the courage to keep walking a path that had never been walked by someone like me in my family. My grandmother’s condition and my faith inspired my work in service and healthcare. Volunteering at my local church and tutoring children in science and math gave me a sense of purpose. Helping kids understand lessons they initially struggled with reminded me how much encouragement matters. Packing hygiene kits and preparing meals for those experiencing homelessness taught me that small acts of care have a ripple effect. Each hour I gave was a way to translate my faith into action. It was not just about helping others; it was about showing up faithfully, even when recognition was absent. I realized that the lessons from memorized scripture only matter when I live them. Belief without action does not honor God or the people He places in my life. My experiences shaped my desire to pursue medicine and research. I want to work with patients who feel powerless in their bodies, who are unseen, or who are struggling silently. I want to combine scientific knowledge with compassion to make a tangible difference. My grandmother may never regain her memory, but her strength and the love we shared inspire the work I do. I carry her with me in every volunteer hour, every class, and every step forward. God did not promise an easy path, but He gave me the faith and determination to keep going. That belief is what fuels my purpose and guides my hope to uplift others. Receiving this scholarship would help me continue my education and give me the tools to inspire future generations of students, especially those from underrepresented communities, to pursue their dreams with faith.

I am a piece of art. I am made of color, contrast, and complexity, and I refuse to limit myself to what society says is acceptable. As a Black woman growing up in a Haitian household, wearing piercings, colored hair, tattoos, or alternative clothing often came with judgment. People assumed I was rebellious, irresponsible, or not serious. Expressing myself is not rebellion. It is survival, it is identity, and it is a reason to keep showing up, keep learning, and keep dreaming. I believe everyone deserves the freedom to express their art, both to themselves and to the world, and that belief has shaped every step of my journey in STEM and medicine. Being visibly alternative has been both a challenge and a strength. In classrooms and labs, people sometimes questioned my commitment because of how I looked. They assumed that someone who dresses differently could not be precise, professional, or dedicated. I have learned that resilience comes from persistence and authenticity. I studied biology and anatomy with rigor, volunteered with children and patients, and pursued radiology because it combines observation, technology, and compassion. My alternative identity has taught me that curiosity, care, and discipline are not defined by appearance. They are defined by action. My identity has also shaped how I connect with people in STEM and healthcare. Patients often feel more comfortable opening up when they see someone who is authentic, someone who embodies difference without apology. My style and presence show that I belong, that I am capable, and that science is inclusive. Being alternative is not a barrier. It is a bridge. It allows me to combine empathy, precision, and observation in ways that others might overlook. I see patterns, hidden details, and possibilities that are often missed, and I translate that insight into care, understanding, and guidance. The road has not been easy. I have faced judgment from family, peers, and even mentors who struggled to separate identity from capability. Growing up, I was expected to fit a mold, to be conventional, and to silence creativity and expression. I chose instead to pursue curiosity and to show up authentically in science labs, volunteering spaces, and classrooms. I realized that breaking assumptions is a form of leadership. It requires confidence, persistence, and the courage to be seen fully while still excelling. Each experiment, each patient interaction, and each volunteer hour has reinforced that my presence and my expression are both valuable and powerful. I carry this lesson into my vision for the future. I want to be a radiologist who uses science and technology to uncover what cannot be seen while showing that identity, expression, and professionalism can coexist. I want to mentor other Black women and alternative students in STEM, proving that curiosity and creativity belong to everyone, not just those who fit society’s expectations. My art, my presence, my voice, and my style are my way of contributing to the future of STEM, making it innovative, inclusive, and human. I am a piece of art, and so are the patients, students, and communities I hope to inspire. Science is stronger when it reflects the full spectrum of human experience, and I will bring all of myself to make it so. Receiving this scholarship would not only help me continue my education but would affirm that being true to myself, embracing my identity, and pursuing my passions in STEM are valued and powerful. I hope to honor this opportunity by using my education and identity to make meaningful contributions in medicine and to inspire the next generation of diverse, alternative scientists and healthcare professionals.

Pursuing higher education has often felt like walking a path without a map. As a Black Haitian immigrant and the first in my family to pursue a bachelor’s degree, I had no mentors, role models, or relatives who could guide me through the process. No one around me knew how to apply to college, navigate financial aid, or balance academics with overwhelming responsibility. I learned everything on my own, often questioning whether I even belonged in higher education. Growing up in a low income household, financial instability made focusing on school difficult. There were periods without electricity or water, and school lunch was sometimes my only reliable meal. Education became both my refuge and my pressure. I knew that succeeding academically was my opportunity to change my circumstances, yet the lack of guidance made each step intimidating. I often felt unprepared and unworthy compared to peers who had support systems I lacked. At the same time, I carried emotional burdens that extended beyond academics. With no mentors or examples of success within my family, self doubt followed me constantly. I questioned whether my dreams were unrealistic and whether someone like me could truly succeed in higher education. These feelings intensified during recent ICE related events, which created an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty within immigrant communities. Even though I remained focused on my education, the anxiety weighed heavily on me. I felt powerless, distracted, and at times invisible. It was difficult to concentrate on exams and assignments while worrying about the safety and stability of families like mine. Those moments made me feel small and replaceable, as if my efforts could disappear overnight. Despite these challenges, I persisted. When my grandmother suffered a stroke, I became one of her primary caregivers while continuing my education. Balancing school with caregiving taught me discipline, resilience, and time management. I also found purpose in serving others. Through volunteering, including organizing hygiene drives and preparing meals for individuals facing food insecurity, I learned that even without guidance, I could still create impact. As a biology major, I plan to pursue a career in radiology. I want to serve underserved communities that often lack access to quality healthcare and representation. More importantly, I want to become the mentor I never had. I hope to guide first generation and immigrant students through higher education, offering reassurance, resources, and visibility. My education will allow me to give back through compassionate medical care, mentorship, and advocacy. I may have walked this path alone, but I am determined to ensure others do not have to.

There was a secret hiding in plain sight, and I was the only one who noticed. To be fair, it wasn’t obvious unless you had the right light. I had always been drawn to the things that people overlooked, particularly the small details that whispered their presence only to those paying attention. Something about uncovering what others missed thrilled me, and I carried that curiosity into everything I did. Growing up in a Haitian immigrant household, everything I did had to meet my parents’ standards. How I dressed, how I spoke, and even what I viewed online had to be just right in their eyes. Being the oldest daughter meant I was extremely sheltered. One day, I asked my teacher if I could go to the school book fair. My family had little money, but I had always loved books. She agreed to go with me, and I wandered among journals, posters, and colorful novels. What caught my eye most was a pink invisible pen. I loved that I could write on my skin, and no one would see it unless they had the right light. That small object gave me a thrill of discovery I would carry with me for years. School was miserable. Students bullied me for the way I spoke, the clothes I wore, and for being Black. They saw me, but no one saw how I felt. At home, life was even harder. There were nights without water or electricity because bills went unpaid and days when school lunch or moldy bread was all we could eat. I carried the weight of these struggles on fragile shoulders. I learned quickly that I could not rely on anyone else to make life easier. I had to figure out ways to survive while maintaining my responsibilities. When my grandmother had a stroke and moved in with us, I became her primary caregiver. I helped her relearn everything she had lost. I bathed her, fed her, reminded her to take medications, and taught her to read again. I organized her schedule, encouraged progress, and found ways to keep her motivated. The work was exhausting and overwhelming, yet it required patience, attention to detail, and consistent responsibility. Through this, I learned that caring for someone was more than love. I discovered strength I never knew I had. I extended this sense of responsibility to my community. I joined my high school Interact Club and founded a project to collect hygiene products for families in need. I spent weekends preparing meal bags, tutoring children, and assisting those with disabilities. Each small action reminded me of the invisible pen from my childhood; the quiet marks I left on others’ lives were as meaningful as anything visible. These experiences taught me that resourcefulness is about seeing what is needed and taking action even when the task feels impossible. Just as I learned to notice the unseen and provide care, I am drawn to radiology, where precision and attention reveal what others might miss. Being a biology major allows me to combine curiosity, diligence, and compassion. I aim to become a radiologist who improves lives through careful observation, patient care, and advocacy. I want to inspire others, especially young Haitian women, to pursue paths they may never have imagined. My struggles taught me resilience, patience, and the importance of responsibility, and I hope to turn the lessons I learned into a lasting impact. For most of my life, I have carried the weight of being invisible. Now, I want to turn that invisibility into impact.

Growing up as the oldest daughter in a Haitian immigrant household meant I had responsibilities heavier than my twelve-year-old shoulders could bear. I cooked and cleaned to create a safe space for my younger siblings after long school days. I helped them with homework even when I was still learning the lessons myself. I learned that strength is not about doing everything alone. It is about showing up for the people who depend on you and making sure they feel supported. Life at home was hard. Some nights the lights went out because the bills were not paid. We ate what we had, sometimes cold, sometimes barely enough. At school, kids made fun of my hair, my clothing, and the way I spoke. It hurt and made me feel small. I often wondered if anyone could see how much I was struggling. Still, I kept showing up. I refused to let my struggles define me. Real perseverance is quiet. It does not always look like anyone is watching but it builds character in the shadows. When my grandmother had her third stroke, everything shifted. Her body that once moved freely became fragile. I became her translator, her helper, and her constant support. I guided her through exercises and reminded her to keep going when frustration set in. I celebrated every small victory with her because those were the moments that mattered. Caring for her taught me patience, empathy, and attention to the smallest details. I realized the human body is like a complex machine. Every movement, every nerve, every muscle has a purpose and understanding that system fascinated me. I became curious about how science could explain recovery and how technology could enhance it. This curiosity led me to medicine, and more specifically, radiology. I was drawn to the way imaging reveals what the eye cannot see. X-rays, MRIs, and CT scans can uncover hidden conditions, guide treatment, and save lives. I loved the mix of science and technology, the precision of math and physics, and the creativity required to interpret images and problem-solve. Radiology is not just a job; it is a puzzle that combines analysis, observation, and care. Observing my grandmother’s therapists and later volunteering with children, I realized that medicine could merge science with service in a way that made a real impact. Leadership is not a title. It is persistence. It is showing up even when no one notices. I became someone others could rely on. I tutored children, helped with school projects, and encouraged people who felt invisible. I kept volunteering because I had learned how much small consistent acts can matter. Every hour I gave strengthened my purpose. It showed me that impact does not have to be loud to be real. Volunteering also helped me see that the challenges I faced were not just my own. They connected me to others who were struggling, and I realized the strength that comes from lifting each other up. Academically, I pushed myself to excel despite constant pressure. I balanced challenging courses with family responsibilities and volunteer work. Some days it felt impossible, but I kept going. I discovered that discipline and consistency could push me through even the heaviest days. Science became a refuge and a guide. Understanding biology and anatomy helped me make sense of my grandmother’s recovery. Learning about technology in school sparked ideas about innovations I could use to improve patient care. These experiences pointed me toward medicine and radiology. Observing, caring, and helping people sometimes quietly and behind the scenes felt like exactly where I belonged. I want to inspire students who feel like there is no path for them. I want them to see that perseverance, curiosity, and care can open doors they never imagined. I carry my family’s sacrifices with me every day. They remind me that obstacles are not walls. They are doors. Doors that guide us toward purpose. Leadership is measured by the care we give and the lives we touch. Every responsibility, every volunteer hour, every academic achievement has strengthened my vision. I am ready to take those lessons and turn them into hope, opportunity, and impact for those who need it most. I want to be the example for the next generation that hardship can become purpose, struggle can become motivation, and care can become leadership. Science and technology will be my tools, empathy and determination my guide, and radiology my way to make a difference.