1. Expectation was more void than visible in my family. Growing up in a household where neither of my parents pursued higher education—my father earning only a high school diploma and my mother not graduating—there was little guidance or pressure to think about what came after high school. Because I wasn’t expected to excel academically or pursue college, I made it my goal to become the first in my family to do so. I wanted to inspire my parents to see hope where there hadn’t been, and to shift their perspective on what was possible for someone like us. They didn’t have the means to chase their passions or dream big, so earning a degree isn’t just about achieving my own goals—it’s about fulfilling the dreams they had to give up. Being the first to go to college means carrying their sacrifices with me and creating a new standard in my family. It’s also about showing my nieces and nephews—who aren’t far behind—that education is attainable despite financial hardship. It means turning limitations into opportunities and giving my family, present and future, something they’ve never had before: proof that we belong in higher education. 2. In high school, I took a class in my junior year called Diagnostic Services. It introduced me to hands-on lab work, including drawing blood, performing gel electrophoresis, operating PCR machines, and conducting EKGs. Through these experiences, I discovered how much I loved working with lab equipment and how deeply rewarding it felt to contribute, even in small ways, to scientific progress. That single class became the foundation for my growing passion in science and technology, and it inspired me to pursue a future in the biomedical field. I will be attending the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, to earn a bachelor’s degree in Biological Sciences, with plans to pursue a master’s in Biomedical Engineering. My goal is to develop medical devices that are affordable, sustainable, and effective, especially for underserved communities like the one I grew up in. I want to focus on combating the effects of obesity and diabetes, illnesses that are common in low-income communities and have affected many in my own family. By blending my passion for science with my desire to help others, I hope to create technology that improves lives—and prove that where you start should never limit how far you can go. 3. One of my biggest long-term goals is to find a position that allows me to research and create medical devices for those impacted by obesity and diabetes. Growing up in a food desert where access to fresh produce was limited and fast food was cheaper and heavily advertised, I witnessed firsthand how these conditions devastate not just individuals but entire families. In low-income communities like mine, people often cannot afford the treatment or tools they need to manage chronic illness, and their health suffers in silence. A turning point for me was watching my sister face life-threatening complications while delivering my nephew—complications worsened by her obesity and diabetes. In that moment, I realized how deeply systemic and personal this issue was. It wasn’t just about biology; it was about equity, access, and compassion. That’s why I plan to pursue a career in biomedical engineering after earning my Biological Sciences degree. I want to develop affordable, sustainable, and effective medical solutions that directly serve marginalized communities. My long-term goal is to use science not just for innovation, but for impact—to close health gaps and bring relief to families like mine, who deserve better and have waited far too long for it.

When people think of Filipino culture, they often highlight its most recognizable traits: warmth, community, perseverance, and of course—our unforgettable food. We are known for our deep commitment to family, our relentless work ethic, and a shared pride in where we come from. Many Filipino immigrants come to the United States with a vision—to provide future generations the chance to become more, to build lives as doctors, nurses, engineers, or whatever dream they were once denied. And while an AI might be able to recognize these patterns, these surface truths, it will never understand the depth of feeling behind them. No algorithm could fully grasp the love that drives a parent to work double shifts so their child can access a better education. No machine could capture the firm, quiet discipline of my lolo and lola, raising us with tough lessons wrapped in deep affection—ensuring we become kind, respectful citizens. No AI could replicate the sound of my titos and titas laughing at the dinner table, retelling stories of family members we’ve lost but never forgotten. It could never understand the pride Filipinos feel when we see someone who looks like us on TV, succeeding in a world that often overlooks us. An AI could analyze thousands of recipes for chicken adobo, but it would still fail to recreate the exact saltiness and sharp vinegar that defines my mom’s adobo—the kind that tastes like home, like comfort, like love passed down through generations. These are the experiences that can’t be quantified, because they are shaped not only by culture, but by the specific people who raised me, the memories built in kitchens and backyards, and the language of love spoken through food, sacrifice, and resilience. The Filipino experience is not just tradition—it’s emotion, memory, and identity. No matter how advanced AI becomes, it will never be able to explain how it feels to be Filipino, because being Filipino is not just something you can describe. It’s something you live, something you feel, and something you carry with immense pride.

Throughout high school, I found myself deeply drawn to the intersection of science, innovation, and problem-solving. One of the most impactful experiences that fueled my interest in technology was participating in the Waksman Student Scholars Program (WSSP)—a research opportunity I was granted through my Diagnostic Services course, in partnership with Rutgers University. As part of this program, I conducted hands-on molecular biology research on Landoltia punctata, a species of duckweed known for its fast growth and potential for biofuel development. Our goal was to identify specific genes within this plant that might make it a viable and sustainable alternative energy source—one that could be cultivated efficiently and used in everyday technology like cars and machinery. The process involved extensive lab work, from PCR amplification to gel electrophoresis, sequencing, and bioinformatics analysis, all aimed at isolating functional genes that could contribute to cleaner, greener fuel alternatives. What excited me most wasn’t just the science—it was seeing firsthand how technology could accelerate our understanding of the natural world. From the machines we used in the lab to the computational tools that helped us analyze data, it was clear that technological advancement wasn’t just supporting science—it was transforming it. This experience made me realize that even something as small as duckweed could hold immense power when paired with the right tools and curious minds. It also revealed the essential role technology plays in creating sustainable solutions to some of humanity’s greatest challenges. Being part of this project sparked a deeper passion in me—not only for research and scientific inquiry, but for technological innovation as a whole. I saw how technology can bridge the gap between imagination and reality, between theory and tangible impact. It made science feel alive, dynamic, and hopeful. It showed me that the answers to some of our world’s most pressing issues—climate change, energy scarcity, environmental degradation—can be found through intentional exploration powered by innovation. That’s why I’m pursuing a degree in biological sciences with the intent to specialize in biomedical engineering. I want to work on projects that make life not only easier, but better—especially for communities often left behind by traditional systems. Whether it’s advancing cleaner energy, developing affordable medical devices, or creating more accessible healthcare technology, I’m inspired to be part of the wave that prioritizes humanity and sustainability hand in hand. Technology inspires me because it brings impossible dreams closer to reach. It gives students like me—the daughter of immigrants, the first in her family to pursue higher education—the tools to build something greater than what we were given. My experience with the Waksman program taught me that passion, paired with purpose and technology, can lead to real and lasting change. I hope to carry that lesson with me as I continue my education and one day work to create innovations that serve both people and the planet. It started with a plant, a lab coat, and a sequence of genes—and it became a lifelong mission.

I grew up on Oʻahu, Hawaiʻi, raised in a third-generation Filipino American household where making ends meet always came before aspirations. Education was never emphasized—it was something you completed, not something you pursued. My parents, both hardworking yet limited in opportunity, had little formal education. My father holds a high school diploma, and my mother did not graduate high school. Their priority was to provide, not to dream. Because of this, I was never expected to go to college. My goals were my own to discover and define. So, to be entering college now, majoring in Biological Sciences at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, is already a personal milestone. I also plan to pursue a master’s degree in Biomedical Engineering, with the ultimate goal of addressing chronic illnesses like obesity and diabetes—conditions that disproportionately affect both my family and the low-income community I was raised in. I've witnessed firsthand how easily these illnesses diminish someone's quality of life, not just physically, but emotionally and financially. I want to help change that reality. My mission is to design sustainable, affordable, and effective biomedical devices that will provide relief and access to people often overlooked by the healthcare system. Despite pushing toward this path, I face a steep financial barrier. I have been proactive in seeking funding, earning over $34,000 in scholarships and federal aid so far. Yet, even with that, I still face a $15,000 gap in tuition this year, which forces me to rely on private student loans. With limited financial support from my family, I carry this weight on my own. I continue to apply for scholarships, including this one, to reduce the debt I will graduate with, and to afford opportunities like internships, lab work, and research—all of which are essential for my career development in biomedical innovation. Outside of academics, one of the most profound influences on my life has been music—especially the group TOMORROW X TOGETHER. Before TXT, I admired groups like BTS, EXO, and Monsta X—not just for their music but for how they used their platforms with sincerity. When BigHit Entertainment announced a new group, I was intrigued. After hearing their debut single, “Crown,” I became a dedicated MOA. TXT stands out not just for talent—but for authenticity. Each member brings something unique to the group’s chemistry: Soobin, the thoughtful leader who truly cares. Yeonjun, a creative performer grounded in humility. Beomgyu, the mood-lifter who balances humor with depth. Taehyun, wise and quietly driven. Hueningkai, the youngest, whose joyful spirit and multicultural roots bring inclusion. Their values reflect what I believe in: kindness, growth, sincerity, and connection. TXT feels less like celebrities and more like a chosen family I belong to. Among their many beautiful songs, my favorite is “Love Sight.” I adore it not only because of its soothing melody and emotional vocals, but because of the lyric, "늘 나를 바꿔 주는 너 네가 있어 행복하다," which translates to, “Because you are there, who changes me, I am happy.” It encapsulates exactly what TXT means to me. Their music has been there through many of my darkest and loneliest moments—offering encouragement, love, and hope when I struggled to find it elsewhere. Their artistry has not only helped me emotionally but also spiritually—reminding me that connection, even from a distance, can transform someone’s life. In many ways, TXT's influence has reinforced my purpose. Just as they use their platform to bring light to fans around the world, I hope to use my education and career to bring light in a different way—through healing, through innovation, and through compassion. They’ve shown me that vulnerability and strength can coexist, that success can come with softness, and that no dream is too far away if you work with heart. Thank you for considering my application. Receiving this scholarship would not only lift a financial weight off my shoulders, but help me walk toward my future with more security and peace. It would mean being able to focus fully on what I came here to do: learn, create, and eventually, give back to the community and the people who made me who I am—including my parents, my mentors, and, in their own unique way, TXT.

I am a third-generation Filipino American, born and raised on the island of Oʻahu, Hawaiʻi. Growing up in a place so rich in its own traditions, I became more familiar with local Hawaiian culture than I did with my own Filipino heritage. While I was raised with certain values that naturally aligned with my background—like respect for elders and working hard without complaint—Filipino culture was not something actively celebrated in my household. My family, like many immigrant families, was focused more on surviving than on cultural preservation. Despite that, being surrounded by the Filipino community has helped shape who I am. Many of my classmates, teachers, and mentors throughout my life have been Filipino, and through them, I began to understand what it meant to belong to something larger than myself. Seeing their deep commitment to family, community, and hard work inspired me to embrace those values more intentionally. Over time, I found myself carrying those same traits—not because they were expected, but because I saw how meaningful they could be. As I pursue higher education, I’ve realized how much I want to reconnect with my roots. Being Filipino means more than sharing a last name or knowing how to cook pancit. It means being part of a community that cares for one another, uplifts each other, and finds strength through shared history and resilience. I want to experience that kind of love and support more deeply. I want to learn more about where I come from so I can understand more about who I am—and eventually, use that identity to make a positive impact on others. I plan to major in biological sciences and eventually pursue a career in biomedical engineering. My goal is to develop medical technologies that serve underserved communities, especially those facing chronic health issues like diabetes and obesity—conditions that affect many low-income and immigrant families, including my own. I want to create solutions that don’t just exist in theory, but that people like my parents and grandparents can actually access and benefit from. Growing up in a low-income household, financial struggle has always been part of my reality. My parents work hard, but there’s only so much they can provide. The cost of tuition, housing, and other college expenses are more than they can afford—and yet they continue to support me in every way they can. This scholarship would not only ease that burden on them, but also allow me to focus more on my education and community goals, rather than how I’ll pay for my next class. As an immigrant family, staying in the U.S. has always come with challenges. But despite everything, we’re still here—and I want to make that journey worth something. Through this scholarship, I hope to honor my family’s sacrifices and grow into someone who gives back—not just to my Filipino community, but to anyone who has ever felt unseen or unsupported.

I grew up on the island of Oʻahu in Hawaiʻi, surrounded by my Filipino family, whose values were built on sacrifice, survival, and silence. I am a third-generation immigrant; my grandparents moved from the Philippines to seek better opportunities, but life in the United States has never been easy for us. My family has always lived paycheck to paycheck, working long hours just to keep up with bills. From an early age, I understood what it meant to go without—and what it meant to keep going anyway. My family, like many immigrant families, doesn’t place high expectations on academics. Not because they don’t care, but because education beyond high school was never a reality for them. My father holds a high school diploma, and my mother didn’t graduate. They’ve never questioned my decisions, but they’ve also never asked about my dreams. Our relationship isn’t strained, but it isn’t warm either. In our household, emotions were often replaced with bluntness. Love was shown through working overtime, not through words of encouragement. Despite that, one person in my family did inspire me to reach further—my grandfather. He passed away from cancer during my sophomore year of high school, and that loss shaped me more than I expected. Even when he was sick, he would ask me how school was going and remind me that I could be something greater. His belief in me, however quiet, became the foundation of my decision to pursue higher education. I’ve chosen biomedical engineering as my field of study because I want to help people like him. I want to design medical devices that improve the quality of life for individuals suffering from obesity and diabetes—conditions that are common not just in my family but in the low-income community around me. For people who can’t afford cutting-edge healthcare or who live in areas with limited access, I want to create tools that meet them where they are. Getting this scholarship would mean everything to me. My parents are unable to help pay for my college tuition, and I’ve learned to rely entirely on myself. Every class, every textbook, every fee is something I have to find a way to manage. Receiving financial support would not only ease that burden—it would allow me to focus fully on my education and goals without the constant fear of falling short. As a Southeast Asian immigrant, integrating into a society built so heavily around wealth and status hasn’t been easy. The pressure to succeed in a system not designed for families like mine is overwhelming. Hard work isn’t just an option—it’s a necessity. But it’s exhausting. That’s why I push myself every day: so that the sacrifices my grandparents and parents made won’t be in vain. I want to give back to them—not just with words, but with stability, care, and a future they never had the chance to imagine for themselves. Education is my way forward. It’s also my way of honoring everything that came before me.

Joining my high school’s dance team, The Block, in my sophomore year was the beginning of a journey I never expected to shape so much of who I am. At first, I joined simply because I loved dance. But as I grew into the role, made it onto our varsity team, Legends, and took on responsibilities as our team’s social media manager and soundtrack maker, I realized that balancing the world of dance, school, and life would become one of my greatest challenges—and ultimately, one of my greatest sources of strength. During high school, I wasn’t just dancing. I was also a straight-A student in student council, taking college courses after school—even during the summer—while maintaining full commitment to my teams. That balance was never easy. It meant late-night rehearsals followed by even later nights studying. It meant sacrificing weekends, giving up sleep, and constantly pushing myself to show up at 100%, even when I felt like I had nothing left. But the hardest challenge I faced wasn’t the physical exhaustion or the packed schedule—it was my own mental health. I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression in high school, and my anxiety made performing, especially on stage, terrifying. I loved dance, but the moment the lights hit and the music started, my heart would race with fear, my mind running through every possible mistake I could make. There were days when I questioned if I could keep doing everything, when the pressure to excel in every area felt unbearable. Still, I kept going. Through dance, I learned how to breathe through fear. I learned how to ground myself before walking on stage, how to silence the voice in my head that told me I wasn’t good enough. Through academics, I learned how to trust in my discipline, not just my talent. Through it all, I learned how to carry myself—not perfectly, but confidently. This journey has shaped me into the kind of woman who can walk into male-dominated spaces, like engineering, and not shrink. It has made me strong in my resilience, self-aware in my limits, and proud of my ability to do the hard things anyway. Engineering is a field where women—especially women of color—are often underrepresented, unheard, and underestimated. But thanks to dance and the years I spent juggling rehearsals, leadership roles, classes, and personal battles, I now know how to hold my ground. I’m not fearless—but I’m no longer afraid of fear. I’ve learned how to balance, how to lead, how to fail and get back up, and most importantly, how to believe in my ability to thrive even when the odds aren’t in my favor. Because of that, I don’t just see myself as a dancer, a student, or a future engineer. I see myself as a force.

My journey into technology didn’t begin with coding or robotics—it started with a pipette. In my junior and senior years of high school, I took a course called Diagnostic Services, where I learned how to run gels, perform PCR, draw blood through phlebotomy, and even conduct EKGs. At first, I was just fascinated by how lab equipment worked—how a few carefully measured substances could reveal so much about the body. But the more I learned, the more I started wondering: What if I could create better versions of these tools? What if I could be part of making this equipment more accessible, more accurate, more human-centered? That class sparked something in me. It started as a passion for lab work, but it evolved into something bigger—an interest in biomedical technology and a desire to design tools that could change lives. In those classrooms and simulations, I didn’t just learn procedures. I saw a glimpse of the future I wanted to be part of—one where I wouldn’t just use the equipment, but build it. Now, I’m pursuing a degree in biological sciences with plans to earn a master’s in biomedical engineering. My long-term goal is to create affordable, effective lab and diagnostic tools that serve low-income communities like the one I come from—communities where diabetes, obesity, and other chronic illnesses are common, but access to reliable care isn’t. I've seen people go without answers for too long simply because they can't afford testing or don’t live near a facility with the right equipment. I want to fix that—not just through passion, but through design. Getting here hasn’t been easy. I’ve faced financial hardship throughout my life, and pursuing education has required navigating funding challenges, balancing school with responsibilities at home, and constantly pushing past the feeling that higher education was out of reach. My parents didn’t graduate from college, and for a long time, I didn’t think I would either. But I’ve kept going—step by step—because I know that what I’m working toward isn’t just for me. It’s for the people I hope to serve. What excites me most about the future of technology is the community of thinkers and creators it brings together. I’m eager to learn from others who are driven by the same questions I am—people who want to solve problems that matter. I look forward to not only growing as an engineer, but also growing as a person: expanding my ideas, challenging my assumptions, and turning the things I once thought were impossible into real, working solutions. That class in high school was the first time I saw the power of technology with my own hands. Now, I want to be the one shaping that power—and using it to build a healthier, more equitable world.

When I was younger, nobody asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up—not because they didn’t care, but because they didn’t expect much. My father has a high school diploma, and my mother never graduated. Their expectations for me were simple: stay out of trouble, pass my classes, and maybe one day get a stable job. College was never part of the conversation. In our house, dreams were replaced by practicality, and ambition was often met with silence. At first, I didn’t question it. I assumed this was normal. But as I got older, that silence started to feel heavy. The absence of encouragement began to register not as protection, but as limitation. I realized that the people around me weren’t apathetic out of choice—they had simply never seen another way forward. I love my parents deeply, but their low expectations planted something in me: a desire to become someone they never imagined I could be. Instead of giving up or settling for the same limitations, I chose to break them. I wanted to be someone they could be proud of. I wanted to show them that higher expectations weren’t a threat—they were a gift. That drive became the foundation of everything I do. It’s the reason I study, push forward, and dream harder than I’m supposed to. Because if I can redefine what’s possible for myself, maybe I can help them see possibility, too. Financially, we’ve always been on unstable ground. There were times when we relied on assistance, when medical bills had to be ignored, and when “we’ll figure it out later” became the unofficial family motto. I learned early how to do a lot with a little. I also learned that scarcity doesn’t just affect your wallet—it affects your health, your mindset, and your future. That’s why I’m pursuing a career in biomedical engineering. It’s a field that combines science, creativity, and compassion—three things I’ve relied on to get where I am today. More importantly, it gives me a way to give back to communities like mine—places full of hardworking people who still face limited access to affordable healthcare. My neighborhood, like many low-income areas, is impacted heavily by chronic health issues like obesity and diabetes. These conditions don’t just affect individuals—they ripple across entire families, limiting opportunities and shortening lives. I’ve seen this firsthand in classmates, neighbors, and even in my own relatives. My goal is to design biomedical devices that can directly address the complications of these conditions. I want to create wearable technologies that monitor blood glucose in a less invasive, more affordable way. I want to build tools that can assist with mobility for patients suffering from obesity-related joint pain or nerve damage. These aren’t abstract problems to me—they are everyday realities for the people I know and love. Biomedical engineering gives me the tools to turn that understanding into real solutions. Pursuing a degree in biological sciences at the University of Nevada at Las Vegas is the first step. From there, I plan to earn a master’s in biomedical engineering. But my education is not just a personal achievement—it’s a responsibility. I want to be the person who shows others in my community that someone like us can work in labs, build technologies, and change lives. That someone like us can do more than survive—we can innovate. None of this has come easily. I’ve had to teach myself how to navigate financial aid, college applications, and standardized tests. I’ve had to balance school with family responsibilities. I’ve had to keep pushing even when doubt crept in. But through all of it, I’ve held onto a simple belief: that my circumstances may shape me, but they don’t have to define me. Being a first-generation college student is not a title I wear lightly. It carries weight—the weight of expectations that were never spoken, the weight of dreams never pursued, and the weight of a future that I now have the chance to build. I’ve faced adversity, yes. But I’ve also found strength in that adversity. It taught me how to be resourceful. How to be relentless. How to care deeply, and how to act on that care in meaningful, measurable ways. I am passionate about STEM not just because it fascinates me, but because it gives me power. Power to understand the body. Power to solve problems. Power to give someone more time, less pain, or a better chance. For someone who grew up feeling powerless, that’s everything. I want to be the kind of engineer who listens first, who designs with empathy, and who remembers where they came from. My background isn’t just part of my story—it’s the reason I’m here, the reason I care, and the reason I’ll keep going even when it’s hard. Through biomedical engineering, I plan to turn my personal history into purpose. I plan to take every moment of hardship, every lowered expectation, and every quiet struggle and use it to amplify the voices of people who, like me, were told to dream small. I’ve already made it further than I was supposed to—but I’m not stopping here.

Education is the epitome of maturation. One cannot be educated and childish and mindless at the same time. There is a level of selfishness, an ignorance of others, that begins to dissolve the moment a person engages deeply with learning—not only academic content, but also emotional intelligence, social responsibility, and empathy. That’s why I believe education plays one of the most important roles in reducing intimate partner violence. At the core of intimate partner violence is a lack of empathy—an inability to recognize and respect the emotional world of another person. It is a breakdown of communication, trust, and understanding. These aren't just personal issues—they're issues tied to how we are taught, what we are exposed to, and whether we are ever given the tools to build healthy relationships in the first place. A person who has never been taught how to process their emotions, how to set or respect boundaries, or how to view their partner as an equal, is more likely to repeat cycles of harm. Education, especially when it goes beyond academics, creates space for people to learn these things. In schools where emotional learning is taken seriously, students are taught not only to think critically, but to connect with others, to reflect on their own behavior, and to see the consequences of actions that stem from anger, insecurity, or control. These lessons stay with people far beyond the classroom. Many people grow up without ever having open conversations about healthy love, consent, or communication. For those individuals, school might be the only place where they learn that love does not mean control, that disagreements do not justify cruelty, and that emotional regulation is a skill—not something people are born with. When these conversations are missing, harmful behaviors go unchecked, and people carry those patterns into adulthood. Empathy and understanding can be taught through subjects like literature, history, and health education. Learning about injustice, reading about lives different from your own, and talking about human behavior all shape how we see each other. The more we are exposed to different ways of thinking and being, the more we understand that people deserve to be treated with respect, regardless of relationship status. When someone is educated—not just in math or science, but in emotion, in conflict resolution, and in identity—they are far less likely to respond to stress or disagreement with violence. They are more likely to take a step back and consider another person’s perspective, and more likely to seek solutions that don’t involve harm. Violence in relationships doesn’t start overnight. It builds over time—often in silence, in misunderstanding, and in unaddressed pain. That’s why prevention through education is so powerful. It teaches people how to recognize danger early, how to care deeply, and how to walk away from control rather than fall into it. Preventing intimate partner violence starts with equipping people with the tools they need to be safe—not just physically, but emotionally. Education does exactly that. It creates awareness, promotes growth, and breaks the cycle before it ever begins.

When the question, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?” was asked throughout high school, my mind always went blank. I never had an answer—because I had never been given the space to imagine one. Coming from a background where one parent didn’t finish high school and the other earned only a diploma, higher education was never expected of me. In my home, college wasn’t discussed at the dinner table. There were no conversations about SATs, majors, or dorm life. The idea of pursuing a degree was so far removed from our reality that it felt like a dream meant for someone else. Because of that, I carried low expectations for myself. I didn’t see academic excellence as a necessity, nor did I imagine building a future that extended beyond high school. College applications felt like something other students did—students with parents who had gone through the process themselves, students who had the financial and emotional resources to reach higher. For most of my life, I thought that would never be me. That’s why my greatest achievement to date has been applying to, and being accepted into, the University of Nevada at Las Vegas. It may seem like a simple step for others, but for me, it was a breakthrough. It represented not just an acceptance letter, but a shift in mindset—a moment where I proved to myself that I could hope for something more. That I could defy expectations, even my own. Getting into college was more than a personal victory; it was an awakening. It taught me that my future isn’t predetermined by my past or my circumstances. It reminded me that opportunity doesn’t always knock—you sometimes have to build the door yourself. In earning my place at UNLV, I learned that I am capable of setting goals and working toward them, even if no one before me had done it. I discovered that my future can be expansive and self-defined, not limited by the boundaries I once believed were permanent. At UNLV, I plan to major in biological sciences, with the long-term goal of earning a master’s degree in biomedical engineering. I want to be part of the wave of innovation that creates real solutions for underserved communities—communities like the one I grew up in. I’ve seen firsthand how health disparities and financial hardship often go hand in hand. Too many people go without proper medical care, not because treatments don’t exist, but because access is limited and systems are unequal. My dream is to change that. I hope to one day help design affordable, life-changing medical technologies that can be brought into low-income neighborhoods. I want to become a role model for students like me—those who may not have been told they could dream big, but who are capable of achieving incredible things once they believe they can. This scholarship would not just support my education; it would be an investment in the community I plan to serve. It would give me the opportunity to continue defying expectations, both for myself and for the people around me. My journey started with a single act of courage: daring to apply. Now, I’m ready to take the next step and create a future filled with purpose, driven by the lessons I’ve learned from my past.

There is one single high school teacher who immediately comes to mind when I think about who has changed the course of my life: my junior year English teacher, Mrs. Muramoto. Before stepping into her classroom, I was a hardworking student, but I often lacked the self-confidence and resilience needed to truly thrive. I pushed myself to achieve academically, but I often did so from a place of fear—fear of failure, fear of not being good enough. Mrs. Muramoto recognized that in me, and through her teaching and mentorship, she helped me approach life with a stronger, more empowered mindset. Mrs. Muramoto had two sayings that she repeated often, sayings that still echo in my mind today. The first was, “Do not cheapen yourself.” At first, I didn’t fully grasp what she meant. But over time, I realized she was challenging us to recognize our worth—to stop settling for less, whether it was in our work, relationships, or dreams. She emphasized that cutting corners, giving only half-effort, or choosing the easy road was a way of telling ourselves we weren't capable of more. She made me see that I owed it to myself to aim higher, to put in the effort not for external validation but because I deserved to live up to my own potential. This mindset shifted the way I approached everything—from assignments to leadership opportunities to how I carried myself in conversations. The second phrase she often said was, “If you are comfortable, you are not growing.” Those words came at a time when I desperately needed them. Throughout high school, I had stayed firmly in my comfort zone. I stuck to what I was good at, avoided risks, and hesitated to take on challenges that might expose my vulnerabilities. But Mrs. Muramoto encouraged us to embrace discomfort as a necessary part of growth. She assigned essays that pushed us to grapple with difficult texts, led discussions that required vulnerability, and expected us to present our ideas with confidence, even when we were unsure. Through her class, I found the courage to challenge myself beyond what was familiar. I took on leadership roles, spoke up in settings where I once would have stayed silent, and dared to apply for competitive programs I once thought were out of reach. When I doubted myself, I remembered her words. Growth was supposed to feel uncomfortable. That discomfort was not a sign of failure; it was proof that I was pushing myself into new territory. Beyond academics, Mrs. Muramoto’s influence shaped how I view life. Her lessons taught me that success isn’t just about talent or luck—it’s about effort, resilience, and believing you are worthy of the goals you set. She helped me realize that to build the life I want, I must honor my potential by giving my best and must welcome the growing pains that come with striving for more. Today, as I prepare for the next chapter of my life in college and beyond, I carry Mrs. Muramoto’s voice with me. When I face obstacles or moments of doubt, I remind myself not to cheapen my efforts or dreams. When I feel nervous or unsure, I recognize it as a sign that I am stepping outside my comfort zone—and that’s exactly where I need to be. The impact of a great teacher goes far beyond the classroom. Thanks to Mrs. Muramoto, I don’t just work hard; I work with purpose. I don’t just dream; I dream boldly. And I don’t just live comfortably; I live in a way that constantly challenges me to grow.

Growing up, I was always drawn to understanding how things worked—whether it was taking apart household gadgets or conducting simple experiments at home. As I grew older, that curiosity blossomed into a passion for STEM, particularly for the ways science and technology can directly impact people’s lives. I realized that my love for problem-solving, combined with my desire to help others, could lead me to a career where I could make real, lasting change. What excites me most about STEM is the opportunity to work in a lab setting, where creativity meets precision. I find the lab environment thrilling—a place where research, experimentation, and innovation come together. In a lab, every test, observation, and discovery can inch us closer to solutions that improve the lives of real people. There’s a unique sense of responsibility and excitement that comes with knowing the work you do behind the scenes could translate into better treatments, better healthcare systems, and better outcomes for patients everywhere. This connection between technical work and human impact is what fuels my passion. My planned field of study is biomedical engineering, a discipline that perfectly blends my interests in science, technology, and patient care. I am drawn to biomedical engineering because it offers the ability to develop devices, technologies, and innovations that directly improve the efficiency and effectiveness of healthcare. Whether it’s designing better prosthetics, improving diagnostic equipment, or working on tissue engineering, I see this field as one that holds the power to transform medicine—and I want to be a part of that transformation. However, my ambitions go beyond just improving existing systems. I am deeply committed to making healthcare more accessible to communities that have historically been underserved. Growing up in a family that experienced financial hardship, I understand firsthand how lack of access to proper healthcare can lead to preventable suffering and widen the gap between different populations. It is not enough for healthcare to be advanced; it must also be accessible and equitable. Through my education and future career, I want to focus on developing cost-effective, scalable technologies that can be implemented in low-income communities both locally and globally. For example, I am interested in working on projects that create affordable diagnostic tools that do not require expensive equipment or extensive training to use. I believe that the future of healthcare innovation must include a focus on minimizing disparities, and I hope to contribute by designing solutions that bridge these gaps. Whether by collaborating with non-profits, working with government health programs, or conducting community-centered research, I aim to ensure that technological advancements reach the people who need them most. Pursuing STEM is not just about personal achievement for me; it’s about building a career that leaves a positive mark on the world. I am passionate about applying scientific discovery and engineering principles to real-world problems and making meaningful, tangible improvements in people’s lives. With a degree in biomedical engineering, I am confident that I can help create a future where healthcare is not only more innovative but also more compassionate and inclusive. In every lab experiment, every class, and every late-night study session, I am driven by the belief that the work I do today will build a better tomorrow. STEM has given me the tools to dream bigger—not just for myself, but for communities everywhere—and I am excited to continue this journey through higher education and beyond.

One global issue that I feel passionate about is the lack of access to care in low-income communities. Healthcare should be a universal right, not a privilege based on wealth or geography. Yet around the world—and even within my own local community—millions of people go without basic medical services, life-saving treatments, and the support systems necessary to live healthy lives. Witnessing this inequality has shaped my desire to pursue a career in biomedical engineering, where I hope to contribute to making healthcare more accessible and affordable for everyone. Growing up, I saw firsthand how financial hardship can limit opportunities, even in places where resources seem abundant. Simple necessities like regular doctor visits, updated medical equipment, and access to preventative care were luxuries rather than guarantees. These experiences showed me that access to healthcare is often the first step to breaking cycles of poverty, improving education outcomes, and giving people a fair chance at a better future. Through my education, I plan to develop innovative medical technologies that prioritize cost-effectiveness, durability, and ease of use, especially in under-resourced areas. I am particularly interested in designing affordable diagnostic devices and treatment systems that can be deployed in rural or economically disadvantaged regions. My ultimate goal is to work with global organizations, nonprofits, or startups that focus on bridging the healthcare gap, ensuring that the solutions we create aren't just theoretical but truly reach the people who need them most. Beyond technical innovation, I believe addressing healthcare disparities also involves collaboration and education. During college, I hope to participate in outreach programs that introduce students from underserved communities to STEM fields. By sharing knowledge and creating mentorship opportunities, I want to empower the next generation to take part in solving these issues from within their own communities. Representation matters, and building pathways for others is just as important as building devices. Creating a better future requires a combination of creativity, empathy, and perseverance. I know that one project won't change the world overnight, but I also believe that small, intentional changes can ripple outward. Whether it's inventing a low-cost medical device or inspiring a young student to believe in their own potential, every action contributes to a larger movement toward equity. Ultimately, my passion for addressing healthcare inequality is rooted in a belief that everyone deserves a chance to live a full, healthy life. With my education and drive, I am committed to being part of the solution—working not just for innovation’s sake, but for the real people and families who deserve better. I envision a future where healthcare is more just, more accessible, and more compassionate, and I am determined to play my part in making that vision a reality.

My favorite movie growing up was How to Train Your Dragon, and it has had the greatest impact on my life. At first glance, it’s a colorful, adventurous story about Vikings and dragons. But for me, it became a powerful metaphor for my own struggles with anxiety and self-doubt, and it taught me how to turn what once felt like a weakness into a source of strength. Hiccup’s journey resonated with me deeply. He wasn't the strongest or the most traditional Viking. He didn’t fit the mold that everyone expected of him. Yet, instead of trying to force himself into someone else's idea of who he should be, Hiccup found a new path by connecting with what everyone else feared—dragons. In many ways, Toothless, the dragon he befriends, represented something similar to my own experience with anxiety. At first, it felt like a monster, uncontrollable and terrifying, something that set me apart in a negative way. But like Hiccup with Toothless, I realized that ignoring it or fighting it wouldn't work. I had to understand it, face it with compassion, and learn how to work with it rather than against it. Over time, just like Toothless became Hiccup’s greatest ally, managing my anxiety became a tool that helped me succeed. It taught me resilience, empathy, and patience with myself. It pushed me to develop systems for staying organized, motivated me to work harder, and encouraged me to seek help when needed. Instead of allowing my anxiety to define me, I used it as a way to better understand myself and others. The movie also showed me the value of quiet leadership—the kind that doesn't rely on shouting the loudest or fighting the hardest, but on building trust, creating understanding, and offering kindness. Watching Hiccup unite two worlds that had been at war for so long inspired me to believe that real change often starts with one brave, small act of reaching out. Now, as I prepare for college and a future in biomedical engineering, I carry these lessons with me. Like Hiccup, I know that my path may not always look like everyone else's, but that’s not a weakness. It's a strength. It’s proof that new perspectives can build bridges, create solutions, and inspire others. How to Train Your Dragon didn't just entertain me as a child—it helped me see that the parts of myself I once feared could actually be the key to finding my greatest successes.

Although my dream career, biomedical engineering, isn't directly involved with healthcare in the traditional sense, I believe that my job as an engineer—as a woman—will positively impact me, the healthcare system, and future generations of women aspiring to pursue careers in healthcare and STEM. Biomedical engineering is the bridge between cutting-edge technology and lifesaving medical solutions. From designing prosthetics and imaging equipment to developing medical devices that improve diagnosis and treatment, this field plays a crucial role in enhancing patient care. While I may not be at a patient’s bedside, I will be part of the innovation that makes their care more effective, efficient, and accessible. That, to me, is an incredibly meaningful contribution to the world of healthcare. My interest in biomedical engineering began when I saw how advancements in medical technology changed lives—helping individuals regain mobility, extending survival for those with chronic illnesses, and giving doctors more precise tools to do their jobs. I realized that behind every successful surgery, every accurate scan, and every improved outcome, there’s a team of engineers working in the background to make it all possible. As a woman entering this field, I understand the challenges that come with underrepresentation. STEM careers, especially in engineering, have long been male-dominated. But I see that not as a barrier, but as an opportunity to advocate, to lead, and to show that brilliance, creativity, and innovation have no gender. I want young girls who love science and math to see people like me in this field and believe there is space for them, too. Being a woman in biomedical engineering also allows me to bring a different perspective to the table. Diverse voices lead to better designs—ones that are more inclusive, responsive to a wider range of patient needs, and culturally sensitive. Whether it’s designing devices that better suit women’s bodies or working on technologies that address healthcare disparities, my voice will help shape solutions that serve all communities. My goal is not only to engineer devices that change lives but to be a changemaker within the field itself. I plan to mentor younger students, especially women and girls interested in STEM, and contribute to a culture where everyone feels they belong. By breaking barriers and building bridges, I hope to leave the healthcare world not only more advanced but also more equitable. In the end, healthcare is about helping people live better lives—and as a biomedical engineer, I’ll be doing just that, one design at a time.