As I sat by my window, I looked outside. It was 2020, and the pandemic was at its peak. My grandmother was infected, and yet all I could do was wait for news. I was worried that she would suffer the same fate as millions of Americans during this time. That year, I realized two things: one, I would never let anyone watch their loved one suffer because their insurance wouldn’t cover their healthcare. Second, rather than waiting and hoping for good news, I would be the one bringing the good news to fruition. The pandemic gave me a purpose and direction in my life. However, my past is what has given me the necessary traits to take on this daunting challenge. A “CRASH” is heard in the kitchen. I frantically dash over, fearing the worst, and I see my little brother standing next to a broken dish. As I’m cleaning, I hear our baby sister in the next room crying. While calming her down, my other brother asks for help with his homework. Days like these taught me the importance of responsibility, communication, and emotional intelligence - qualities that guide me every day. With five children and a working mom, I became a second parent. When trouble happened, my siblings looked to me for guidance. Like most families, we argued, and I often stepped in as a mediator. I helped them understand their mistakes and how to prevent them from being repeated. I set an example by doing extra chores and doing what was right. These traits earned their respect and made them more willing to learn from me. With such a large family, we only had so much to go around. New clothes and school supplies were luxuries we couldn’t always afford. When we did receive them, I gave them to my siblings. Even when my mother offered to set aside part of her 10k salary to help pay for college, I turned her down and insisted she use it to support herself and my siblings. I expect little to no financial support; to me, scholarships are essential. I intend to succeed in college so that one day I can provide the stability my family has sacrificed to give me this opportunity. Although cliché, I intend to be a doctor. The pandemic had a resounding effect on me. I witnessed people suffering throughout the country, but I also saw heroes rushing to save lives. I want to be someone who can reassure parents that their sick child is going to be okay. To be the one who actively works to protect a bright future. I want to help families, like mine, who have to make a difficult decision between their hospital bills and their financial survival. The path I walk will not be an easy one; there will be many late nights, I’ll be drowning in debt, and I will sacrifice years of my life studying medicine. However, if it means helping hundreds of families watch their loved ones prosper and becoming someone who can deliver good news, my sacrifice is a privilege, not a burden.

I looked up to the sky. It was already dark, and nobody was to my left or right. It was just me, a bucket of baseballs, and a tee. All my teammates had left hours ago, likely getting ready for a party. I put a ball on the tee and took another swing. The ball flew into the night and joined the hundreds already scattered across the field. Those late nights spent practicing alone built my work ethic. It became the foundation of who I am—the ability to keep going even when no one is watching. That same discipline is what draws me to Kalia’s story. Her life did not end with her passing; it lives on through the people she continues to inspire. Her legacy challenges me to keep pushing, even when the path is difficult and unseen. I am Kance Tran—a brother, an athlete, and a student. On the surface, I was thriving. I was a straight-A student, captain of my baseball team, and the oldest sibling expected to set the example. But beneath that, I struggled with depression and self-doubt. No matter what I achieved, I felt like I was falling behind. I had to learn how to push forward without recognition, without reassurance, and without knowing if I was enough. That is something I had to figure out on my own. With five children and a working mom, I grew up fast. I became a second parent. When problems came up, my siblings looked to me for guidance. Like any family, we argued, but I often stepped in to mediate, helping them understand their mistakes and how to move forward. I led by example—taking on extra responsibilities and doing what was right, even when no one was watching. Over time, I earned their respect, and they began to trust me. Because there were so many of us, resources were limited. New clothes and school supplies weren’t guaranteed. When we did have enough, I often gave what I had to my siblings. It wasn’t a sacrifice to me; it was just what needed to be done. In 2020, during the height of the pandemic, my grandmother became seriously ill. All I could do was wait for updates, hoping she wouldn’t become another loss during a time when so many families were grieving. That experience changed me. I realized I never want to be in a position where I can only wait and hope. I want to be the person who brings answers, who provides care, and who gives families a sense of certainty in moments of fear. That is why I plan to pursue a career in medicine. My mom works tirelessly to support our family on a $20,000 income. When she offered to set aside money for my college education, I refused. That money is needed at home. I expect little to no financial support, which is why scholarships are not just helpful; they are necessary. This scholarship would allow me to focus on my education and continue pursuing medicine without placing additional strain on my family. I intend to succeed not only for myself, but for the people who depend on me. My family has sacrificed to give me this opportunity, and I plan to make sure that one day, they no longer have to. Through my work, I hope to honor not only their sacrifices but also Kalia’s legacy by continuing forward, even when no one is watching, and by becoming someone who can make a real difference in the lives of others.

Practice used to be the best part of my day, until I started dreading it. I stood on the field with my team while practice kept stopping so the coaches could focus on their own son, ignoring everyone else. What was supposed to be my favorite sport turned into something frustrating and discouraging. Standing there with nothing to do, I noticed a sign looking for youth coaches. That was the moment I decided I wanted to be different. I didn’t just want to coach; I wanted kids to actually enjoy the game. When I started, I quickly realized it wasn’t easy. I dealt with parents arguing on the sidelines and players who didn’t even want to be there. But instead of giving up, I focused on each kid individually. I spent extra time showing them how to throw, how to swing, and how to run the bases, even when it meant staying longer after practice. One player struggled the entire season to get a hit. Game after game, he struck out. But near the end of the season, he finally connected with the ball. As he ran the bases, his face lit up with the biggest smile I had ever seen. When he got back, he hugged me and thanked me for all the batting practice. In that moment, his success felt like my own. That was when I realized that giving back wasn’t just about helping others; it gave me a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt before. One day during practice, I called for a break and sat down to get some water. When I looked up, all the players were still practicing. At first, I was confused. Then it hit me; they wanted to keep going. For the first time, I realized I had created something unique. They weren’t there because they had to be; they were there because they wanted to be. They were experiencing the love for the game that I almost lost. Coaching didn’t just impact the players; it changed me. I learned patience, leadership, and how to support people through challenges. I stopped seeing baseball as just a game and started seeing it as a way to build discipline, confidence, and work ethic in others. Growing up, my family didn’t have much. My mom worked long hours as a single parent to support five kids, and as the oldest, I’ve always felt the responsibility to set an example. Coaching showed me what it means to step into that role; not just for my siblings, but for my community. It taught me that even small actions can have a lasting impact on someone’s life. My goal in college is to pursue a medical doctorate. I know the path will be difficult, with years of studying, long nights, and financial challenges. But just like coaching, I’m willing to put in that effort because I’ve seen what it means to help others grow and succeed. I want to provide stability for my family and make it possible for my siblings to go to college without worrying about their financial situation. More importantly, I want to give back to my community in a meaningful way. Just like I supported my players when they were learning something new and struggling, I want to support patients who feel uncertain or overlooked. I don’t want to just change my community; I want to be someone it can rely on.

Shouting rang throughout the halls. I heard my mother crying, my father yelling. I stepped in to stop them, but was shoved into the wall. My ears rang, and stars flew around my head. I struggled to get up. The same father whom I trusted had turned his back and left our family. After they divorced, I was left with scars from a broken family. I would still hear screaming through the walls and constant arguments around the clock. To top it off, I was the oldest of five children, which meant I carried a burden no one else in my family had to bear. I felt the pressure and the need to succeed in everything I do. I felt like I had to be perfect in every aspect of my life and never struggle. Going into late middle school, my mental health was at its lowest, and death did not seem that scary anymore. It was more welcoming than anything. I was alone, I couldn’t open up to my family, and I had trouble trusting people my own age. The male stigma in my family didn’t allow me to reach out for help. I struggled to get out of bed every day and wished it would end. However, I wanted to talk to people and feel like I was part of a community; most importantly, I wanted help. I decided that at this rate, I would take my own life. There were nights when I would consider it over and over again, with the only thing stopping me from going through with it being the fear of inflicting my family with more suffering. I needed to change. After a while, I started talking to a close-knit group. I was careful and didn’t truly open up to them. I kept secrets and was afraid of voicing my opinion. However, something was different; the cold looks I was used to receiving were warm. They were patient with my mistakes and didn’t force me to open up immediately. Unlike in the past, they accepted me for who I am and have never turned their backs when I am in need. This shift affected not just my social life, but also my academic approach. I struggled in AP Chem and spent hours trying to understand the homework. As I became more open, I was able to reach out to different people and join study groups. This helped me significantly, and during the second semester, not only did my test scores improve, but the time I spent studying was cut. As I stood in front of the class, getting ready to give our group's presentation, I looked around and saw people encouraging me. I realized the scarring from the hallway incident had faded. That’s when I realized I was not alone and will always have people to rely on. What once overwhelmed me became a reason I needed to grow. No, I don’t have to be perfect all the time; my struggles are part of my identity. Overcoming my mental health issues became a cornerstone of who I am, and as I continue on the path to pursue a medical degree, I will remember how far I have come. I will carry the echoes of the screams from the hallway with me wherever I go. I will remember it not as something that broke me, but as a reason I should help the patients who are suffering.

I look around, and I see my little sister asking for a doll. My mother gives her a faint smile, with dark circles under her eyes, from all the long hours she has worked. I go into the next room and see my three other brothers playing. They all had holes in their clothes. Success to me is the financial security and happiness of my family. It was not something I could simply wish for. I must succeed in bringing security and happiness to my family. Success is the only option for me; failure is not an option. ​ Growing up as the oldest of five with a single mother. I learned about the weight of responsibility at an early age. I watched my mother work tirelessly to provide for my siblings and me. She worked long hours and through many nights. Because I am the oldest child of the family, I need to be the first to succeed. I wanted to set an example for my family and show my little siblings that hard work and dedication will lead to success. ​ With such a large family, we only had so much to go around. Things such as new clothes and school supplies were luxuries we simply couldn’t afford. However, when we did receive them, I gave them to my siblings. This scholarship would mean that I will be able to lessen the financial burden that has been put on my family when I go to college. I am planning on pursuing a Medical Degree because I was always passionate about caring for people, especially the sick and elderly. ​ As I sat by my window, I looked outside. It was 2020, and the pandemic was at its peak. My grandmother was infected, and yet all I could do was wait for news. I was worried that she would suffer the same fate as millions of Americans during this time. That year, I realized two things: one, I would never let anyone suffer because their insurance wouldn’t cover their healthcare. Two rather than waiting and hoping for good news. I would rather be the one bringing the good news to fruition. The path I chose will not be the easy one; there will be many late nights, I’ll be deep in debt, and I will sacrifice years of my life studying medicine. However, throughout my short life, I realized that it takes sacrifice to become successful, and I am willing to pay that tab.

I stood with everyone else while the coaches stopped drills again to teach their sons, neglecting other players. What should have been my favorite activity had become something I dreaded. With nothing to do, I noticed a nearby sign looking for youth coaches. This was when I decided to coach. My goal was for the kids to develop a love for baseball. As I started coaching, I experienced difficulties I had never known as a player, like parents arguing and children who didn’t want to be there. I patiently spent time with each player, showing them how to play catch, swing a bat, and run the bases. One player who struggled to hit all year finally got his first hit near the end of the season. As he ran the bases, I saw the biggest smile on his face. Afterward, he hugged me and thanked me for all the batting practice I gave him. Thous would make their success almost feel like my own. Baseball is both the loneliest and one of the most social sports. It takes nine players working together to win, but when you're in the batter’s box, you're on your own. No coach to guide you, no teammates beside you. When I coach, I emphasize teamwork without neglecting the independence needed to be successful. I built a team culture where players looked out for and took care of one another. I treated them as if they were my siblings and encouraged them to talk to me about problems without fear or embarrassment. By creating that bond, we reduced in-person bullying because players felt responsible for protecting and supporting each other. This extended beyond the field. Before practice one day, a player told me his teammates had defended him from bullying in an online game they were playing. They supported each other until the bullies gave up. That was when I was sure the culture I built had a positive influence on the players I coached. Baseball teaches discipline, hard work, and attention span. When I coach, I don’t just see players. I see kids who have earned the skills to be successful and support their community. Not only did they enjoy the season, but I also grew from the experience. I learned how to support others and became more passionate about teaching. With five children and a working mom, I became a second parent. When trouble happened, my siblings looked to me for guidance. Like most families, we argued, and I often stepped in as a mediator. I helped them understand their mistakes and how to prevent them from being repeated. I set an example by doing extra chores and doing what was right. These traits earned their respect and made them more willing to learn from me. With such a large family, we only had so much to go around. New clothes and school supplies were luxuries we couldn’t always afford. When we did receive them, I gave them to my siblings. Even when my mother offered to set aside part of her 20k salary to help pay for college, I turned her down and insisted she use it to support herself and my siblings. I expect little to no financial support; to me, scholarships are essential. I intend to succeed in college so that one day I can provide the stability my family has sacrificed to give me this opportunity.