On my father’s side of the family, military service is not unusual. It is expected. My grandfather served in the Army. My father served in the Air Force as an engineer. My uncle served. Nearly all of my male cousins in my generation have worn a uniform. Service runs deep in our lineage. But when I think about my dad’s military legacy, I do not first think about rank or assignments. I think about the living room floor. I grew up watching him take things apart. Radios, small appliances, car parts, anything mechanical that malfunctioned. He never rushed. He would spread the pieces out methodically, study them, and then reconstruct them without instructions. To him, systems were puzzles. Problems were invitations. Nothing intimidated him. That engineering mind shaped how I see the world. Unlike many of the men in our family who chose the Army, my father chose the Air Force. That decision always stood out to me. It felt intentional, thoughtful, aligned with his analytical nature. The Air Force represented precision, aviation, and technical mastery. It was not simply following tradition. It was choosing the branch that fit his strengths. As a young adult, I seriously considered following him. I took the ASVAB in my early twenties and scored high enough to make enlistment a real possibility. I was drawn to aviation and to the intellectual rigor that the Air Force seemed to embody. Part of that interest was admiration. I wanted to honor the example he set. But part of it was also identity. I had inherited that curiosity. I loved understanding how things worked. Although I ultimately chose a different path, the values he modeled stayed with me. Discipline. Excellence. Intellectual confidence. The belief that you can dismantle a complex problem, examine its components, and rebuild it better. I also saw that same natural engineering instinct in my brother and my grandfather. Three generations of men who could disassemble and reassemble the world around them. Watching them taught me that intelligence is not abstract. It is practical. It shows up in patience, in problem solving, in refusing to be intimidated by complexity. My father’s military service did more than serve the country. It shaped our family culture. It normalized ambition. It demonstrated that excellence requires both structure and creativity. It gave me the courage to explore paths that may not have been obvious for me. The fond memory I carry is not of medals or ceremonies. It is of watching him quietly, confidently solve problems with his hands and his mind. That example continues to guide me. When I encounter difficult academic work or complex life challenges, I approach them the same way he approached a broken radio. Lay the pieces out. Study them. Trust your ability. Rebuild. That mindset is his legacy in me.

In 2022, I lost my only sibling, my little brother, to gun violence. It was the most devastating loss of my life. He was not simply my brother, in many ways, he was my first child. Our mother was a single parent, and from an early age I carried responsibility for him. I helped raise him, protected him, advocated for him, and tried to create opportunities that I hoped would expand his future. When I left for college at eighteen, I did not feel comfortable leaving him behind. I moved him to my college town so that he could be near me and my own son. Even then, I saw myself as accountable for his safety and success. He was brilliant and creative, with an artistic mind and an energy that filled a room. I wanted the world to recognize what I saw in him. Instead, his life was taken in a senseless act of violence. His death gutted me. Grief did not arrive quietly. It challenged my faith, my understanding of mortality, and my sense of control. For months, time felt suspended. I functioned because I had to, but internally I was fractured. The fourth anniversary of his passing is approaching, and the absence still feels immediate. I dream of him often. I miss him daily. My brother left behind four daughters, two of whom are still minors. In our matriarchal family, we close ranks around our children. I have committed myself to being present in their lives, not only as an aunt but as a stabilizing force. I attend what I can, check in consistently, and make sure they know they are deeply loved. Supporting them is one way I continue to honor him. Grief reshaped me, but it did not stop me. If anything, it clarified my sense of urgency. Life is fragile. Time is not guaranteed. I no longer delay meaningful goals or shrink from difficult paths. My educational journey, particularly in public health and research, is fueled by a desire to contribute to systems that preserve life rather than diminish it. Losing my brother to violence has made me more attuned to structural inequities, community trauma, and the ripple effects that loss creates within families. Perseverance, for me, has not meant pretending the pain is gone. It has meant carrying it while continuing forward. It has meant showing up for my children, for my nieces, for my mother, and for myself. It has meant choosing purpose over paralysis. I cannot change what happened to my brother. I cannot undo the loss his daughters will carry into adulthood. But I can live in a way that honors his intelligence, his creativity, and the potential that was taken too soon. My ambition is no longer abstract. It is rooted in legacy. Every step I take forward carries his name with it.

I chose to pursue a degree in STEM because I am driven by questions that require scientific answers. For years, I navigated chronic health conditions as a patient, including endometriosis and metabolic instability. What struck me most was not only the physical experience of illness, but the gaps in research, delays in diagnosis, and lack of urgency surrounding conditions that affect millions of women. I realized that I did not simply want better care. I wanted to contribute to better science. My graduate studies in public health and epidemiology represent the foundation of a long-term commitment to translational biomedical research. I am particularly interested in endocrinology, metabolic health, and women’s reproductive disorders such as endometriosis. Emerging evidence suggests that endometriosis demonstrates invasive growth patterns, recurrence, and resistance to treatment, yet it remains underfunded and frequently minimized. As a Black woman entering STEM, I am acutely aware that women of color often experience delayed diagnoses and underrepresentation in clinical research, which contributes to persistent health disparities. STEM, to me, is a vehicle for applied equity. Data allows us to identify patterns, measure inequities, and design interventions grounded in evidence rather than assumption. My goal is to integrate epidemiological analysis with laboratory-informed inquiry so that research findings translate into meaningful improvements in patient care. I am especially interested in how endocrine disorders manifest across diverse populations and how biological mechanisms intersect with social determinants of health. Representation in STEM matters because it shapes the questions that are asked. Research priorities historically reflect the perspectives of those who dominate academic and scientific spaces. When researchers of color enter these fields, the scope of inquiry expands. We investigate why certain diseases affecting women are chronically underfunded. We examine how diagnostic criteria fail specific populations. We challenge assumptions that have gone unquestioned for decades. I also hope to contribute through mentorship and visibility. Many students of color do not see themselves represented in research-intensive environments. By pursuing advanced training and ultimately doctoral-level work, I intend to normalize the presence of Black women in epidemiology, biomedical research, and scientific authorship. Innovation depends on diverse perspectives that are willing to interrogate established systems and propose new frameworks. Pursuing STEM at this stage of my life reflects clarity rather than uncertainty. It is the return to a longstanding intellectual interest, now strengthened by lived experience, discipline, and purpose. I am committed to contributing rigorous research that advances women’s health and expands equity within scientific discovery.

In 2021, my mother went on what was supposed to be a beautiful trip to Sedona, Arizona. During an ATV excursion, the vehicle flipped and fell onto her. She had to be airlifted out of the canyon. What began as a vacation ended as a life-altering injury. Although she survived, she has never fully recovered. Since that accident, she has lived with a debilitating limp, chronic neuralgia, persistent leg pain, and limited mobility. She cannot walk for prolonged periods of time, and simple tasks that once required little thought now demand planning, support, and physical endurance. Caregiving, in our case, does not look dramatic. It looks like driving her to appointments. It looks like grocery trips where I anticipate how long she can stand. It looks like helping her navigate stairs, heavy doors, uneven terrain, and public spaces that claim accessibility but rarely deliver it fully. It looks like listening to her frustration on days when pain flares unexpectedly. It looks like witnessing the quiet grief that comes with losing physical independence. Supporting my mother has reshaped how I understand disability. I have learned that many disabilities are not always visible, yet they profoundly alter daily life. I have seen firsthand how chronic pain impacts mental health, how mobility limitations affect dignity, and how exhausting it can be to constantly advocate for accommodations in healthcare settings and public spaces. Balancing graduate school while providing consistent support has required intention and flexibility. There are days when my schedule shifts around her needs. There are days when I coordinate my workload to ensure I am available for appointments or recovery periods. It has strengthened my ability to manage time, prioritize compassion, and remain adaptable under pressure. More importantly, caring for my mother has deepened my commitment to public health. Watching her navigate long-term injury, pain management, and healthcare systems has exposed gaps in patient-centered care, especially for older adults and women whose pain is often minimized. It has reinforced my belief that accessibility, mobility support, and chronic pain management deserve greater research attention and systemic investment. My mother raised me in environments that were not always stable, yet she instilled resilience in me. Now, I have the opportunity to return that care. Supporting her through this chapter has not only strengthened our relationship, but it has also grounded my academic pursuits in lived experience. Disability is no longer an abstract policy issue to me. It is part of my daily reality. Caregiving has shaped me into someone more observant, patient, and committed to equity. It has reinforced that independence is often supported quietly by others. And it has reminded me that pursuing my education is not separate from caring for my family, it is part of building a future where systems better serve people like my mother.

My interest in healthcare began long before I had the language to articulate it. My mother worked as a medical transcriptionist throughout my childhood, and while her job didn’t place her at patients’ bedsides, it placed her squarely within the world of medicine. I grew up surrounded by the rhythm of clinical language, the stories embedded in medical dictation, and the environment of hospitals where she sometimes brought me along. Those early moments left a deep impression on me. They made healthcare feel familiar, accessible, and purposeful, a place where people’s lives were transformed, not just treated. By the time I graduated high school, I knew I wanted to become a pediatric oncologist. That aspiration came from a genuine desire to be at the intersection of science, compassion, and advocacy. But life, as it often does, had other plans. I became a mother very young, married early, and had to make decisions centered around stability rather than ambition. The long road of medical training didn’t feel possible then, and I chose a more practical path: earning a degree in business and working my way into finance. Even so, healthcare never fully left my orbit. While attending college and caring for my newborn son, I became a certified nursing assistant, working in clinical settings that reminded me why I had once dreamed of medicine in the first place. Being a CNA taught me the humanity of healthcare, the patience required, the intimacy of caring for people during their most vulnerable moments, and the importance of a compassionate presence in clinical spaces. It also showed me the systemic challenges that impact both patients and providers, especially those from marginalized communities. Years later, after building a career in finance, raising two children, and navigating my own complex health journey as a Black woman living with endometriosis and metabolic challenges, I felt myself returning to the field I had set aside. But this time, I returned with clarity: my calling wasn’t simply to work in healthcare, it was to help shape it. I made the decision to pursue a Master of Public Health with a focus on epidemiology because it bridges everything I care about: data, disease patterns, women’s health, and the inequities that disproportionately impact Black women. My lived experience gives me a firsthand understanding of gaps in research, care, and diagnosis, particularly in conditions like endometriosis, which are chronically misunderstood and underfunded. These personal experiences have become fuel for what I hope will be a long-term career in research. My ultimate goal is to pursue a PhD in translational biomedical science, with a concentration in endocrinology, women's health, and the biological mechanisms underlying conditions like endometriosis. I want to contribute to research that expands understanding of how endocrine disorders manifest in women of color, how endometriosis behaves more like a metastatic disease than a benign one, and why these disparities persist. I hope to be part of the scientific community shaping new diagnostic criteria, treatment pathways, and classification debates, including whether endometriosis should be considered a form of cancer based on its behavior. As a woman in healthcare, my impact will come from bringing an intersection of perspectives: scientific, analytical, personal, and culturally informed. I want to ensure that women, especially Black women, are not dismissed, misdiagnosed, or overlooked in the very systems meant to care for them. I chose healthcare because it has always been the place where my curiosity, compassion, and purpose intersect. I returned to healthcare because I realized that the field needs voices like mine.

My experiences with mental health and substance abuse are woven into the fabric of my earliest memories. I did not grow up struggling with substance use personally, but I grew up in a home shaped by it. Both of my parents battled addiction during my childhood, my mother with cocaine and alcohol, and my father with a brief period of cocaine use before entering long-term sobriety. Their struggles created an environment marked by instability, neglect, and frequent crises, and the emotional weight of that environment shaped my mental health for decades afterward. Poverty, food insecurity, and periods of homelessness were not abstract concepts for me, they were daily realities. I learned very young how to parent myself, how to navigate chaos, and how to survive in circumstances that felt too heavy for a child to carry. Living in that environment, I internalized lessons about fear, hypervigilance, and self-sacrifice, but I also developed a unique emotional resilience. I did not use drugs or alcohol as I grew older, not out of judgment, but because I had seen firsthand the impact addiction could have on a family. It was a survival decision, a commitment to myself that the cycle would stop with me. The long-term effects of that upbringing showed up later in my mental health. As an adult, I was diagnosed with PTSD related to childhood trauma, chemical depression, and anxiety. These weren’t sudden developments; they were the natural echoes of years spent in unpredictable and unsafe conditions. For a long time, I moved through life simply trying to function, working full time, raising my children, maintaining a household, without ever having the chance to acknowledge what I had survived. My healing truly began when I allowed myself to stop minimizing my own story. Therapy became an anchor, giving me the tools to understand the patterns that shaped me and to gradually rebuild my sense of safety. I learned that recovery, even when it is from trauma rather than substance use, is not a straight line. It requires intentional choices every day: choosing rest when I am overwhelmed, choosing community when isolation feels easier, and choosing routines that support my mental well-being. For me, recovery looks like a combination of therapy, mindfulness practices, movement, structured routines, and eliminating things, whether substances or environments, that trigger emotional instability. It is a lifelong practice of knowing myself and caring for myself in ways I never learned growing up. My experiences have also shaped me as a mother. I raised two children with a deep awareness of mental health, knowing how it feels to grow up without that understanding. When one of my children struggled in school due to an undiagnosed attention-related disability, I became their advocate, pushing for proper evaluation and a 504 plan so they wouldn’t fall through the cracks. When my other child faced more complex mental health challenges, I learned how to support them through crisis, uncertainty, and fear without shame or silence. Their journeys, and my own, have shown me that mental health challenges are not character flaws but medical realities requiring compassion and resources. These personal experiences are the foundation of my educational goals today. I returned to graduate school in my forties to study public health, with a long-term goal of contributing to medical research involving women’s health, chronic illness, and health inequities, especially those affecting Black women. My history gives me a unique lens into the ways trauma, environment, and physical health intersect. I understand what it means to fall through systemic gaps, and I want to help ensure fewer people do. Continuing to manage my recovery is central to this journey. Graduate school is demanding, but prioritizing mental health is what allows me to thrive. I maintain a structured wellness plan that includes therapy, sleep hygiene, physical activity, and boundaries that protect my emotional stability. I surround myself with people who support my healing and avoid environments that replicate patterns from my past. Recovery is not something I view as a hurdle to completing my education; it is part of the reason I am pursuing this path. It grounds me, guides me, and keeps me connected to the purpose behind my work. My story is one of intergenerational struggle, but also intergenerational healing. I am breaking cycles my parents never had the chance to break. I am building a future grounded in stability, compassion, and purpose. And I am using everything I have survived, not as a weight holding me back, but as a foundation for the kind of health professional and advocate I intend to become.

Courage didn’t arrive for me in a dramatic moment. It came during an ordinary dinner with friends, a conversation that started casually but ended up reshaping the trajectory of my life. I was reflecting on how far I had drifted from my original dream of working in medicine. At eighteen, I wanted to become a pediatric oncologist. Life, however, moved quickly. I became a mother young, and practicality pushed me toward a faster, more reliable path...finance. I built a solid career, raised my two children, and kept my life moving, even as a quiet sense of unfinished purpose lingered in the background. That night, I shared how I felt too old to change course, how forty felt like I had already missed my window. One of my friends, a bit over fifty, responded in a way that stunned me with its simplicity. He said, “If I were your age, I would go back to school right now. At fifty, I don’t know if I would. But at forty? Absolutely.” It was the first time in a long time that I felt young in someone’s framing. Not behind. Not late. Just… still on time. His perspective sat with me for days afterward. I started thinking less about what I wanted right now and more about what I would regret at fifty. I pictured two possible futures: one where I was still sitting behind spreadsheets, reconciling financial statements, completing models that bored me more each year; and another where I had taken a risk and moved toward the field that had called to me since childhood. The answer was undeniable. Ten years from now, I would not regret going back to school. I would regret not going. That realization gave me the courage to begin again. I pulled transcripts I hadn’t looked at in decades, researched programs, re-learned admission requirements, and allowed myself to imagine a career that aligned with my lived experience and long-standing interests. Public health offered the perfect bridge, a place where my analytical skills mattered, but so did my passion for clinical research, women’s health, and advancing equity in medical outcomes. Starting over in your forties is humbling, but it’s also liberating. It requires honesty about the life you actually want, and the bravery to pursue it even when it disrupts everything comfortable. What gave me the courage to go back to school was not a sudden burst of inspiration. It was the quiet, grounded realization that forty is not the end of possibility. It’s the perfect moment to reclaim dreams that had been waiting patiently for me to return to them. Susie Green’s story reflects exactly the kind of courage I am trying to embody: the willingness to reroute your life with intention, the belief that it is never too late to pursue meaningful work, and the discipline to build a future that aligns with your purpose. I am choosing this path because I want to look back at fifty not with regret, but with pride that I used the second half of my life to become the woman, and the healthcare professional, I always intended to be.

Mental illness has shaped my life in ways that are both deeply personal and central to the woman I am becoming. I grew up in conditions that no child should have to navigate, including years of homelessness, neglect, and profound instability. Those experiences left a lasting imprint, and as an adult I have been diagnosed with PTSD and chemical depression. For a long time, mental illness felt like something I was simply trying to outrun. Now, I understand it as part of my story, not the definition of it. My relationship with mental health became even more layered when I began living with chronic illness. I have endometriosis, a condition known for high rates of comorbid depression because of the relentless pain and the way it can make your world feel very small. When you are fighting a body that doesn’t always cooperate, it becomes easy to lose sight of joy, energy, or possibility. I experienced those moments, too. But instead of closing me off from the world, these challenges sparked a lifelong commitment to understanding women’s health, especially the health of Black women, who remain underrepresented and under-researched in medical literature. Mental illness in my life has not been a single event; it has been a thread running through different seasons. I have had to learn resilience that is not romantic or inspirational, but practical: getting up every day despite emotional heaviness, building routines that support my well-being, asking for help when needed, and allowing myself to imagine a future larger than my past circumstances. That practice, quiet, persistent, often invisible, is what has carried me into graduate school. Studying public health has given me both language and direction. I understand now how trauma, chronic illness, and health inequities intertwine. I also understand that the experiences I survived give me a unique lens into why research, advocacy, and culturally competent care matter so deeply. My goal is to contribute to medical research focused on metabolic and hormonal disorders in Black women, including conditions like endometriosis that are frequently dismissed or misunderstood. I want to help create the data that saves lives, changes treatment standards, and expands the way we talk about women’s pain. Mental illness has also shaped the way I show up for my family. As a mother of two adult children, I try to model what it looks like to break cycles, seek support, and continue growing at any age. Returning to school full-time while managing chronic illness and working to improve my mental health has shown them that delays don’t erase dreams. It has shown them that healing is possible, and that purpose can still be built from circumstances that were never in your control. This scholarship would help me continue my education without sacrificing my stability. The financial pressure of graduate school can intensify mental health symptoms, especially for students like me who do not have a safety net to fall back on. Support like this makes it possible for me to focus on my coursework, my research, and my long-term contribution to the communities I care about. My experiences with mental illness have shaped me, but they have also equipped me. They have made me empathetic, determined, and committed to a future where no one feels unheard or unseen in their own health journey. That is the future I am working toward, and the future this scholarship would help me reach.