The most emotionally volatile period of my life? Without a doubt, the move from Abu Dhabi to Houston right in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic. Even before my father’s health took a serious turn, I felt myself shutting down, unraveling and coming apart. I’ve always been sensitive to change, and the chaos of relocating during a global crisis only amplified everything. I was beginning to lose myself as the loud glare of all my problems crowded in on me, shutting me whole. Folding paper, chewing loudly, unprecedented changes in my routine: even the smallest of my sensory triggers made me anxious. It was unbearable. I withdrew from people I loved. I couldn’t find the words to explain what I was feeling, and honestly, I didn’t know if I was even allowed to. In Indian culture, mental health isn’t something you talk about. It’s something you bury, deep down in the trenches where no one, absolutely no one, can even get a peek of. Therapy? Laughable. Futile. Weak. "Tough it out." "You’ll get over it." "Grow up." Those phrases echoed in my head like tolling church bells: loud, relentless, impossible to ignore. But I couldn’t just “get over it.” And I didn’t want to. Somewhere deep in all that confusion, fear, and isolation, a small voice in me, barely audible at first, said, "You deserve to feel okay". That whisper turned into resolve. I began to prioritize my mental health, slowly and awkwardly at first. I started learning about mindfulness and journaling, allowing myself to sit with my emotions instead of hiding from them. I didn’t know it then, but that choice would shape everything that came next. I began to recognize how cultural stigma around mental health extended far beyond my own experience. Through my leadership role with ENGin’s psychology community, I connected with Ukrainian youth dealing with unimaginable levels of trauma and displacement. Their stories broke my heart, but also opened my eyes. Under Soviet rule, mental illness had been treated as weakness, something to conceal or deny. That legacy still lingers. Add a war, and you get silence where there should be support. These conversations solidified something in me: the belief that mental health should never be taboo. It should be talked about, prioritized, and protected, regardless of where you come from. That’s why I’ve made it my mission to create safe spaces where vulnerability isn’t just accepted but encouraged. Whether it's talking openly about anxiety in peer groups or supporting others through ENGin, I’ve seen firsthand how healing begins with honest conversations. What started as a personal struggle evolved into a purpose: to normalize mental and emotional health, especially in communities that have been taught to suppress it. Prioritizing my mental health didn’t just help me survive a difficult time; it laid the foundation for how I live now. In school, I seek balance over burnout. In my volunteer work, I lead with empathy. In life, I listen closely to others, knowing how much courage it takes just to speak up. In the future, I hope to lead initiatives that bring culturally sensitive mental health support into community spaces, starting conversations where they’ve long been avoided. I’m preparing for a future where mental health isn’t a privilege, it’s a priority. Because everyone deserves to feel okay and to know that they are never alone.

I have attended Catholic school my entire life, even in Abu Dhabi when I was surrounded by different cultures and beliefs. From a young age, I realized that faith was not something you left behind when things got difficult or unfamiliar. It was something you carried with you. For me, that meant leaning on God during stressful exams, when my family went through health challenges, or in quiet moments when I missed home and peace. When I moved to the United States, I joined my school choir. One of our first performances was at a local Christian retirement home. I didn’t expect anything from it. I thought we would sing, say thank you, and leave. While we sang songs like “Servant Song,” I noticed how engaged the residents were. They were not just listening, but connecting deeply with the material. After the performance, a few of them came up to thank us. Their appreciation felt deeper than a polite thank you. It felt like we had brought them something meaningful, even if just for a few minutes. I didn't understand at the time why I felt so comforted by their peace. I decided to become a retirement center volunteer. I wasn’t sure what I could offer, but I wanted to give my time. I began helping serve meals, chatting with residents, and assisting the center with HR. Over time, I started building relationships. The residents shared stories of their families, their experiences, or simply their day. I gave them time, attention, and respect. I realized that what mattered most wasn’t having the right words or doing something big. It was showing up, being present, and offering a sense of care. This experience deepened my understanding of leadership. I used to think leadership meant taking charge or giving instructions. But I’ve learned that leadership through faith often looks like quiet service. In Jesus' example, I wanted to notice those who feel unseen, offer patience, and listen to their stories with compassion. My faith has always taught me to love others, but volunteering made me understand what that actually looks like in practice. As my faith grew, so did my sense of purpose. I became more curious in my theology classes and had more open conversations with family and mentors about God and service. I also started thinking seriously about my future. I want to become a pathologist, someone who studies disease to help diagnose and heal. It’s a field that’s often behind the scenes, but it plays a vital role in saving lives. That sense of purpose, doing work that helps others without needing attention, feels deeply connected to the kind of quiet leadership my faith has shown me. I believe science and faith don’t have to be separate. Both seek truth. Both serve people. I want to lead in my field not just with knowledge, but with compassion, humility, and integrity. Whether I’m analyzing lab results or helping doctors understand a diagnosis, I hope to serve with the same care I learned while sitting with residents at the retirement home. Leadership through faith doesn’t always look like a spotlight. Sometimes it looks like consistency, presence, and love offered quietly, but with purpose.

When I first signed up to be a volunteer English tutor with ENGin, I didn’t expect the experience to change me as much as it did. It was my first volunteer project, and I approached it with nervous excitement. Unsure of what to expect, but eager to do something meaningful. What I found was not just a tutoring role, but a chance to stand beside someone as they grew into the best version of themselves. My first student was a Ukrainian girl close to my age. In our earliest sessions, she was reserved and hesitant. Over time, I learned that she was being bullied in school and had lost her sense of confidence. English, once something she enjoyed, had become a source of anxiety. The trauma of war combined with the toxic environment had forced her into a rabbit hole of sadness. Upon understanding the magnitude of what she faced, I lost desire in teaching her just vocabulary and grammar. I wanted her to feel seen, capable, and powerful again. We worked together week after week, and I curated our lessons to be as encouraging as they were educational. We talked about her interests, her goals, and how she could use her voice even in a second language. Eventually, she transferred out of the school that had held her back. Shortly after, her English improved from a B1 to a confident upper-intermediate level. She applied to the FLEX program and became a semifinalist. Today, she’s also part of the Klitschko Foundation, working on leadership initiatives, and we still keep in touch. She tells me she finally feels like she can take charge of her future, and that our sessions were the first boost for her to rediscover her voice. She now hopes to become an English teacher herself, helping students with their skills and overcome the social anxieties affecting their performance. I have no doubt she can accomplish anything she puts her mind to. This experience showed me the true meaning of selflessness. It's not just giving time, but investing in someone’s growth. It wasn’t about fixing her problems for her; it was about empowering her to overcome them herself. Sure, there were moments when our sessions felt slow, her confidence backsliding. But progress doesn’t always come in leaps. It builds over time, in trust, in small victories, and in refusing to give up on someone. Since then, I’ve taken on a leadership role in ENGin’s psychology community, where I help others explore mental wellness and identity. I interact with a group of over 40 students, having multiple weekly discussions on mental health topics, and put together monthly video chats to practice speaking skills. I’ve seen how mental health stigma, especially in post-Soviet cultures like Ukraine, can silence young people’s voices. Helping others reclaim those voices, through conversation, mentorship, and kindness, is how I try to make the world better, one person at a time. Michael Rudometkin believed in helping others and showing up for people when it mattered. I strive to do the same through every volunteer hour, every word of encouragement, and every moment spent believing in someone who’s still learning to believe in themselves. That first student taught me that selflessness doesn’t always look like sacrifice; it often looks like connection. As a future pathologist, I hope to carry that sentiment. I might not always be in front of the crowd, but behind the scenes, using science to support healing, uncover answers, and ultimately improve lives. Whether through mentorship or medicine, I believe that connection, care, and selflessness will always be at the heart of my journey.

It is impossible to understand who I am without talking about the most influential presence in my life: my family. The only stable companionship I had when the world seemed upside down; when everything seemed wrong and all I wanted to do was ball up and sob until my throat throbbed. My family has been there for me since day one, supporting my dreams and aspirations long before I fully comprehended them myself. My father is an engineer who founded an oil company in Abu Dhabi, a constant reminder of what it means to take risks, think critically, and lead with determination. My earliest memories are of whiteboards, large offices, and hard helmets he would keep tucked away in a drawer. My mother, a former nurse who adored science, loved to whisper words of medical knowledge to my sister and me. We quickly developed our own appreciation for STEM, following in the footsteps of our beloved parents. Being raised in a family where science, ambition, and leadership were second nature made me believe that anything was possible. However, I soon realized my family's ideals were not appreciated by everyone. I've attended all-girls schools my entire life and while they gave me the confidence to believe in myself, they also opened my eyes to just how crucial it is for other girls to feel seen, heard, and empowered in STEM. For the first time, I began to notice how rare those experiences are for many girls. That realization made me want to change the narrative. My childlike interest in science took a turn when my father, still in the UAE, contracted a severe case of COVID-19 and pneumonia. It was during the height of the pandemic, and we had just moved to Houston: me, my mother, and my sister. He was alone. We were scared. The helplessness I felt during that time reshaped my dreams. I wanted to understand science, contribute to it, and use it to protect others from the pain my family endured. That’s when I discovered pathology. The idea of being able to detect diseases before they occur, to uncover answers hidden within cells and tissue, the kind of work that felt urgent and transformative. I realized I didn’t need to be in the spotlight to make a difference. I just needed to be committed, curious, and persistent. Since then, I’ve pursued every opportunity to grow. I’ve taken advanced STEM courses at Rosetta Institute, Rice University, and Arizona State University. I’ve written published research papers on topics like epigenetics, exploring how molecular mechanisms influence disease and development. However, my goals extend beyond academics. They are rooted in advocacy. I volunteer as a tutor through ENGin, helping Ukrainian students learn English and regain confidence during their crisis. I mentor younger students in my all-girls robotics and math clubs and lead extracurriculars that build space for girls in STEM. When I walk into a robotics competition or an IT meeting and see another young woman confidently leading her team, I don’t just see success. I see possibility. And I want to help multiply that. I want to continue taking advanced coursework, enroll in medical enrichment programs, and invest in outreach initiatives that bring STEM education to more girls especially those who, like me, need someone to believe in their voice. I want to become a pathologist and a beacon of hope for young women in my field. I want to solve the puzzles diseases present and I want to do it in a way that leaves the door open behind me, so more girls can walk through.

When my father fell seriously ill with COVID-19 and pneumonia during the height of the pandemic, I was thousands of miles away in Houston with my mother and sister. We helplessly watched his health deteriorate from a distance, confused and scared for the uncertain future. He was hospitalized in Abu Dhabi, alone, while we waited for updates that came far too slowly. This experience can only be described as an emotional rollercoaster filled with fear, uncertainty, and powerlessness. It impacted and shaped the way I saw the world; not only was I in a land that was completely foreign to me, but I also lacked the warmth of my father's presence. Life felt insecure: my family wasn't holding up straight, school was so different, even the environment outside was strange, the bayous of Houston were unfamiliar to a girl so used to seeing the metropolis of U.A.E. What clung to me the most was not just the severity of my father’s illness, but how much we relied on others to interpret his condition. COVID was an eventful period in and of itself, but even as a child, I understood the heavy burdens on doctors to diagnose, on scientists to understand the virus, and on labs to deliver answers during such an eventful time. Every test result, every imaging report, every update became a beacon of hope or despair. It was in this space that I discovered what I wanted to be: in the lab, seeking the truth behind disease. While my mother (former nurse) and sister have both dreamed of being directly involved in patient care, I found my purpose in a slightly different role. I want to become a pathologist, a doctor who works behind the scenes, using science to uncover the causes of illness and guide life-saving treatments. If you told 12-year-old me that my father's near-death experience and our haunting move to the United States would have been worth it because I discovered who I was and who I wanted to be, I would've laughed in your face. Moving in general is the farthest thing from easy, but coming to the United States opened up opportunities I could only dream of before. Despite the language barriers, financial stress, and cultural adaptation, I found a home and developed the values of resilience, perseverance, and adaptability. Watching my parents navigate this new world with strength and dignity taught me to forge my own path and seek good in even the most dire situations. Their sacrifices have instilled in me a deep sense of responsibility not just to succeed, but to contribute meaningfully to society. One of the main reasons I am so drawn to pathology is because of this experience and how science was no longer just a subject I liked, but a personal endeavor. It’s about giving families like mine clarity during their most uncertain moments. It’s about ensuring that no one else has to feel the same helplessness I did, waiting oceans away from a loved one in need. Winning this scholarship would alleviate some of the financial burden of pursuing a college education and allow me to focus more on my academic and professional goals. I aim to honor the legacy of those, like Mr. Garcia Muentes, who paved the way for immigrant families like mine to dream big and work hard. This journey, shaped by loss, love, and learning, has led me to pathology, a field where my curiosity, discipline, and compassion can come together to make a difference. I want to be the one who provides answers when families need them most.

If I receive funds from this scholarship, I would use them to deepen both my academic and extracurricular growth on my path to becoming a pathologist. I’m currently a student at Arizona State University’s universal learners program, where I’ve taken college-level courses in statistics and am now studying anatomy + physiology, with plans to soon take sociology. These courses have been critical in building the foundation I need for medical research and diagnostic work but tuition and materials add up quickly. Scholarship support would allow me to continue enrolling in rigorous coursework, inaccessible to the average high school student, without placing that burden on my family. Outside the classroom, I plan to use the funds to expand my involvement in scientific outreach and mentorship programs. Through platforms like LearnToBe, I tutor underprivileged students in STEM subjects and help bridge learning gaps. I also hope to pursue additional shadowing experiences, attend biomedical conferences like BRITE, and publish more science writing tailored to young audiences. These opportunities often require transportation, materials, or application fees that are challenging to cover independently. My ultimate goal is to use pathology not just to diagnose disease, but to uncover patterns that improve health outcomes across entire communities. This scholarship would give me access to the resources, research, and relationships that will help turn that vision into reality.