Because a Black woman’s cells were taken without her knowledge and used to save millions, but she died in pain, in poverty, and in silence, and no one who looked like her was in the room to say, “This is wrong.” Her name was Henrietta Lacks. Her cells, known to science as HeLa, have helped shape everything from cancer research to COVID-19 vaccines. Yet she was never compensated, never respected, and for decades, never even named. Her story is not just a tragedy, it’s a reflection of what happens when science uses us but refuses to see us. And that is why diverse representation in STEM isn’t just important, it is life-saving, justice-making, and long overdue. We deserve to be in STEM not only because we are capable, but because our lives, our bodies, and our communities have always been part of the story. We’ve been experimented on, researched, and used as data points, often without consent. And while the breakthroughs continue, the benefits rarely return to the communities that carried the cost. Representation is about accountability. If Black women had been leading research teams in 1951, would Henrietta’s cells have been taken without her knowledge? If more people of color sat on medical ethics boards, would her family have gone decades without access to healthcare while the world profited off her DNA? We cannot just be subjects of science, we must be shapers of it. When we are represented in STEM, the questions asked begin to shift. Studies no longer ignore how diseases affect different races. Clinical trials finally include our communities. Technology gets designed with equity in mind. Our presence brings better outcomes not only for people who look like us—but for everyone. Diverse teams think more critically, solve problems more creatively, and catch biases others overlook. Diversity in STEM leads to better science period. But let’s be clear: the lack of representation is not accidental. Systemic gatekeeping has kept Black, Brown, Indigenous, and other marginalized voices out of science for generations. We’re told we don’t belong, while our communities are used to fuel discoveries we’re excluded from. That’s not a pipeline issue, that’s a power issue. And that’s why representation in STEM is about more than opportunity, it’s about reclaiming that power. I want to become a radiation therapist not just to treat cancer, but to transform how care is given, especially to children who look like me. I dream of opening a pediatric radiation center built for our babies, where healing is human, holistic, and just. Where families feel safe, not studied. Where science is a partnership, not a power play. Representation matters because the world we live in is diverse, and the world we build through science must reflect that. Because no child should have to wonder if their pain will be taken seriously. Because no woman should have her body used and her name forgotten. Because when we are in the room, we bring not only brilliance, but truth, history, and heart. And when we’re not in the room, people die. That is the cost of exclusion, and the reason why representation in STEM can no longer be a dream. It has to be the standard.

Hey y’all, my name is Kennedi Redd, and if you ask my family, I talk too loud, love too hard, and act like I run the house. And… they’re not wrong. I’m the daughter of Daniel and Keli Redd, two proud HBCU sweethearts who met at Dillard University. My mom is from the South Side of Chicago, and my dad is from South Central LA, so trust me… my lineage gets down. They don’t play. I grew up in a house full of debates, prayers, movie marathons, and unconditional love, with my family of four and our two fur babies who think they run the house. And honestly? Those chaotic, joy-filled nights shaped who I am: a girl who will go to church on Sunday morning, run a 100-meter dash in the afternoon, and be curled up reading or passionately arguing over a movie plot by evening. What’s important to me? God. Family. Track. Books. Friends. And being seen. Really seen—for who I am and all that I bring. That’s why I chose Howard University. It wasn’t just because I’m the product of two HBCU alums who made it look cool to fall in love under magnolia trees. It’s because I’ve known since I was little that HBCUs get students like me. At an HBCU, we don’t have to shrink, code-switch, or water ourselves down, we get to grow, shine, and be great. I’m majoring in Radiation Therapy and Sciences because I want to be part of the life-saving process of early detection and healing. Too many lives are lost, especially in Black and Brown communities, because diseases like cancer are overlooked or caught too late. I want to be the person who helps change that. I want to be the reason a parent gets to watch their child grow up, or a kid gets to beat the odds and dream beyond a diagnosis. But I’m not stopping there. My ultimate dream is to open a pediatric radiation hospital, Black-owned, Black-led, and fully committed to culturally competent, cutting-edge care for children fighting cancer. A space that doesn’t just treat the disease, but heals the spirit. Where every child feels safe, seen, and surrounded by people who believe in their survival as much as they do. A hospital that speaks life, especially into communities that are often spoken over or ignored in healthcare. I want little Black girls to walk into that building, see my name on the wall, and know that success in science, leadership in medicine, and compassion in care can look like them. I want to create jobs, inspire future medical professionals, and give back to the very communities that raised me. So yes, I talk loud, I love hard, and I act like I run the house, but one day, I will run a hospital. And through my faith, education, and heart for service, I plan to change lives, one child, one family, and one beam of healing at a time.

The Day Aunt Flow Showed Up Uninvited There’s one thing that unites girls across the world, no matter who you are: the fear of the day Aunt Flow shows up for the first time like an uninvited guest at the worst possible moment. She doesn’t call ahead. She doesn’t knock. She just kicks the door in and makes a scene. For me, she arrived in seventh grade… during my middle school assembly… while I was on stage… in a white dress. Yeah. That kind of story. I was already a painfully shy kid—like, “fake a stomach ache to avoid presentations” shy. I struggled with confidence, self-image, and just existing in a room without turning red. But that day, I was determined to push through. I had a science project to present, and I was going to SLAY. I curled my hair, put on lip gloss like it was armor, and wore this pearl-white dress that made me feel like the smart, stylish Disney Channel main character I always wanted to be. But the universe said, “Oh, you thought.” I stepped on stage, smiling through my nerves, ready to talk about the wonders of the solar system or something equally nerdy and impressive. And then—gasps. A loud, collective, horror-movie-style gasp. Like I had just announced school was canceled forever. I turned around, thinking, “Is there a fire? A streaker? Did my wig fall off?” Nope. Just a very bold, very red stain decorating the back of my very white dress. I had gotten my first period. On stage. In front of the entire middle school. Kids were whispering, pointing, laughing. Some looked like they were trying not to laugh and others had their mouths wide open like they’d seen a ghost. I, on the other hand, had spiritually left the building. My body was on stage, but my soul? Floating somewhere above the basketball hoop. And then, out of nowhere—SHE appeared. This random girl in the audience stood up like a Marvel superhero, stormed the stage, snatched the mic out of my hand (as if Beyoncé had just missed a cue), and started talking about—get this—her goldfish. Just started rambling. Loudly. Confidently. Blocking the view of my backside like she’d trained for this moment her whole life. She leaned over and whispered, “Girl, your dress. You got your period. I got you. Don’t freak out.” Before I could even process, she wrapped her jacket around me, grabbed my hand, and practically sprinted me off stage like we were escaping a heist. She led me to the bathroom, handed me her emergency period kit from her locker (which she apparently carried like it was a purse full of life hacks), and gave me her backup sweats. I looked at her like she was some period fairy godmother. “Who even are you?” I asked. “Micah Hastings,” she said with a shrug, like saving traumatized 12-year-olds was just part of her Wednesday routine. That moment could’ve broken me. I could’ve let the shame eat me alive—and believe me, middle schoolers don’t let you forget anything. But instead, I walked out of that bathroom wearing a pair of borrowed sweatpants and a new sense of sisterhood. Micah Hastings didn’t just save me from embarrassment. She taught me that compassion is louder than cruelty. That showing up for someone in their lowest moment can create a bond stronger than any science project trophy. That was seven years ago. Micah’s been my best friend ever since. And while Aunt Flow still shows up unannounced, at least now I’ve got backup—literally and emotionally.

My name is Kennedi Redd and I almost died before I even had a chance to live, gasping for air in a crib tucked between moldy walls and poisoned dreams. I am the product of young, broke, but beautifully happy HBCU love from the illustrious Dillard University, where my parents fell for each other somewhere between midterms and microwave dinners. They were barely adults, but they were in love and in sync, and somehow that was enough to raise two Irish twins, me and my brother, born back to back in the wild and unforgettable year of 2007. We were raised not on riches, but on resilience. Our early years unfolded in Inglewood, California, in apartments so neglected they felt more like traps than homes. The slumlords didn’t care if the ceiling leaked, if the air reeked of mold, or if the paint flaked off in poisonous sheets, as long as the rent came in on time, our suffering was background noise. And yet, there was joy. There was laughter in the midst of eviction notices. There were hot noodles passed around like gourmet meals and games of spades that felt like Sunday service, loud, competitive, and holy in their own way. My childhood was stitched together with dollar store snacks, repo trucks rolling up like surprise guests, and the sound of my mama praying behind closed doors. We didn’t have much, but we had each other and that felt like everything. But the air in those apartments was killing me. Slowly, silently. The mold and lead crept into my lungs and blood like uninvited guests, and soon I stopped growing. I stopped playing. I almost stopped breathing. The hospital became a second home, and fear became my lullaby. If the lawsuit hadn’t come, I’m not sure I’d be here to tell you this story. That lawsuit, the one that started in pain, ended up changing everything. We won. Not just money, but a future. We moved into a two-story dream home, the kind with real stairs and fresh air that didn’t burn your lungs. I remember walking in for the first time and crying because the silence wasn’t haunted anymore, it was peaceful. My mom didn’t have to boil water to wash dishes. My brother and I had our own rooms. For the first time, we could breathe. But make no mistake: the trauma didn’t disappear with the keys to the new house. It shaped me. It sharpened me. It gave me a kind of fire that no textbook could teach. That’s why I lead. That’s why I work. That’s why I care so deeply about the overlooked, the underserved, and the unseen. I am now a cheer captain, a youth coach, a class president, but more than that, I am a voice. A vessel. A walking reminder that where you start is not where you’re bound to finish. I plan to become a forensic nurse, not just because I love medicine and justice, but because I know what it feels like to suffer in silence and be dismissed. I will be the one who listens, who advocates, who gets the evidence right, because someone’s future depends on it.

There is a sacred kind of pain in watching someone suffer and not knowing how to help, but I’ve turned that pain into purpose. I want to become a nurse because I’ve seen what it means to be voiceless in moments when you need help the most. I’ve sat in rooms where silence screamed louder than words, where people cried out in pain and no one truly heard them. And I decided I would never stand by and let that happen again. My passion for nursing comes from witnessing the quiet agony that lives behind closed doors. The kind of agony that doesn’t always bleed, but always hurts. I’ve seen the broken, the frightened, and the forgotten. I’ve watched both women and men,strong people, crumble under the weight of trauma, begging for someone to see them, to understand them, to believe them. It shattered something in me, but from that brokenness grew a promise: I would be the one who stays. I want to become a forensic nurse because I believe healing and justice can go hand in hand. I believe survivors, of assault, abuse, violence, deserve more than just bandages. They deserve to be treated like human beings whose stories matter. I want to be the nurse who walks into a room and brings back dignity to someone who’s had it ripped away. I want to offer more than a chart or a diagnosis—I want to offer presence. I want to say, “You are not alone. I am here. You are safe now.” What calls me to nursing isn’t just the science of it—it’s the soul of it. I’ve seen how the right words, spoken at the right time, can be as healing as any medicine. I’ve seen how a gentle hand, a listening ear, and a heart that truly cares can change everything. Nursing, to me, is sacred work. It’s where compassion meets action. It’s where empathy becomes a lifeline. My dream is to serve in emergency rooms and advocacy centers, standing beside those in the aftermath of unspeakable pain—men, women, children—anyone who needs someone to fight for them when they no longer have the strength. I want to ensure evidence is collected properly, that the care is thoughtful, and that people leave not just patched up, but believed and protected. I want to hold space for pain while planting seeds of hope. Every time I imagine my future, I see the faces of those I will serve. A young boy trembling with shame. A woman staring at the ceiling, dissociating from her trauma. A man trying to hold back tears because he’s been taught pain makes him weak. I want to be there for them all—not just as a nurse, but as a human being who cares deeply. This is more than a profession to me—it’s a calling. Nursing is how I will turn hurt into healing. How I will turn silence into safety. How I will take every broken thing I’ve ever witnessed and use it to build something whole for someone else. With every patient I touch, I hope to leave behind a piece of light, proof that love can exist even in the darkest places.

Growing up, I often heard, “You’re fast—for a girl.” That phrase, meant as a compliment, echoed the unspoken belief that no matter how hard I trained, I’d always be second to the boys. But I didn’t let that deter me. Instead, I used it as fuel to push harder, run faster, and prove that my worth wasn’t defined by gender. Balancing the demands of being a student, an athlete, and a young woman in a world that often underestimates female strength has been a journey of resilience and growth. As a 3x CIF Track and Field Champion, I’ve faced challenges that tested my limits, but each hurdle has only strengthened my resolve. The discipline required to excel in athletics while maintaining academic performance has taught me invaluable lessons in time management, perseverance, and self-belief. In the realm of track and field, every race is a battle—not just against competitors, but against self-doubt and societal expectations. Winning three CIF championships wasn’t just about crossing the finish line first; it was about proving to myself and others that determination and hard work transcend gender stereotypes. Each victory was a testament to the countless hours of training, the sacrifices made, and the unwavering belief in my capabilities. Beyond the track, these experiences have empowered me to navigate life’s challenges with confidence. They’ve instilled in me a sense of purpose and the understanding that true strength lies in persistence and passion. In a world where female achievements are often overshadowed, my journey stands as a beacon of what’s possible when one refuses to be confined by limitations. Moreover, the camaraderie and support from fellow female athletes have been instrumental in this journey. Together, we’ve created a community that uplifts and inspires, reminding each other of our worth and potential. This sisterhood has reinforced the importance of unity and mutual encouragement in breaking barriers and redefining norms. In essence, my journey as a student-athlete has been more than just a series of competitions and academic pursuits; it’s been a transformative experience that has shaped me into a resilient, confident, and empowered young woman. Through every challenge and triumph, I’ve learned that with determination and support, we can rise above societal constraints and pave the way for future generations of strong, fearless women. Cheerleading has been another pillar in my athletic journey. It taught me the importance of teamwork, discipline, and the power of a positive spirit. As a cheerleader, I learned how to uplift others, both literally and figuratively, and how to find strength in unity. The rigorous training and the need for precise coordination honed my focus and resilience. Flag football introduced me to a new realm of challenges. Entering a predominantly male sport, I faced skepticism and had to prove my capabilities on the field. Each game was a testament to my determination to break stereotypes and showcase that skill and passion know no gender. The strategic nature of the game enhanced my analytical skills and taught me the value of adaptability. Reflecting on my journey, I realize that each sport contributed uniquely to my growth. Track and field instilled perseverance, cheerleading fostered unity, and flag football taught resilience. Together, they shaped me into a well-rounded individual ready to face the world’s challenges head-on. I carry forward the lessons learned, the strength gained, and the memories cherished, ready to inspire and lead in every endeavor I pursue.

From a young age, I’ve been captivated by the intricate workings of the human body and the technologies that allow us to see within it. This fascination has led me to pursue a career in radiologic technology, where I can play a pivotal role in diagnosing and treating diseases like cancer. Radiologic technologists are integral to the healthcare team, utilizing advanced imaging techniques such as X-rays, CT scans, and MRIs to assist physicians in detecting and monitoring various conditions. Their expertise not only aids in accurate diagnoses but also contributes to effective treatment planning, especially in oncology, where early detection is crucial for patient outcomes. Beyond my interest in medical imaging, I’ve discovered a profound passion for bringing joy to others, particularly during challenging times. This realization came during a visit to a children’s hospital, where I found myself making silly faces at the kids through a window. Their laughter was immediate and infectious, illuminating the room and lifting spirits. In that moment, I understood the power of humor and human connection in healing. It taught me that sometimes, a simple act of kindness can make a world of difference in someone’s day. If time were no constraint, I would dedicate myself to learning the art of therapeutic clowning—a practice that combines performance and empathy to provide emotional support to patients, especially children, in medical settings. This skill would allow me to merge my technical expertise in radiologic technology with my desire to uplift others, creating a holistic approach to patient care that addresses both physical and emotional well-being. In essence, my goal is to harness the power of technology and human connection to make a meaningful impact in the lives of those facing health challenges. By combining precise diagnostic tools with compassionate interaction, I aspire to contribute to a healthcare environment where patients feel seen, heard, and cared for in every dimension.

Challenge Name: “Unpack the Past: The Baggage Relay”🎯 Purpose To provide couples with an opportunity to acknowledge and share past relationship traumas (“baggage”) and collaboratively overcome them, strengthening their bond through empathy, understanding, and teamwork. 🛠️ Challenge Setup Location: A specially designed obstacle course within the villa grounds, featuring various stations symbolizing common relationship challenges. Materials: Suitcases labeled with different types of “emotional baggage” (e.g., “Trust Issues,” “Fear of Vulnerability,” “Past Betrayals”). Obstacle course elements (e.g., hurdles, balance beams, tunnels). Reflection cards and writing materials at each station. 📝 Challenge Instructions Baggage Selection: Each couple selects a suitcase representing a specific past trauma or challenge they’ve faced in relationships. Obstacle Course Navigation: Couples carry their chosen “baggage” through the obstacle course, encountering stations that represent different aspects of healing and growth. At each station, they must complete a task or answer prompts related to their “baggage.” For example: Trust Bridge: Cross a wobbly bridge together while discussing ways to build trust. Tunnel of Vulnerability: Navigate a tunnel while sharing a personal fear or insecurity. Reflection and Commitment: After completing the course, couples sit down to reflect on the experience. They write down commitments on how they will support each other in overcoming these challenges moving forward. 💖 Emotional Impact Acknowledgment: Physically carrying the “baggage” symbolizes the weight of past traumas, fostering awareness. Empathy and Support: Navigating challenges together encourages partners to support each other, building empathy. Commitment to Growth: The reflection phase solidifies their dedication to healing and growing together. 🎥 On-Screen Presentation The segment showcases couples engaging in the obstacle course, sharing heartfelt conversations, and demonstrating teamwork. The visual metaphor of carrying and overcoming “baggage” provides a powerful narrative, resonating with viewers and promoting discussions about emotional health in relationships.

They say your first love never fades—it leaves an indelible mark, a memory etched into the soul. For me, that love wasn’t a person, but a discipline: mathematics. From the moment I encountered numbers, I was captivated. The elegance of equations, the symmetry of formulas, the certainty of solutions—they all spoke to me in a language more profound than words. While others found solace in stories or melodies, I found mine in the rhythm of calculations and the harmony of logic. In the quiet moments, when the world felt chaotic, math offered clarity. It was a constant companion, unwavering and true. Each problem solved was a victory, each theorem understood a revelation. The challenges it presented were not obstacles but invitations—to think deeper, to explore further, to understand more. I remember late nights spent under the soft glow of a desk lamp, scribbling equations, lost in thought. The satisfaction of arriving at a solution after hours of effort was unparalleled. It wasn’t just about numbers; it was about discovery, about the joy of understanding something complex and beautiful. Mathematics taught me patience, perseverance, and the value of hard work. It showed me that mistakes are not failures but stepping stones to greater understanding. It instilled in me a sense of wonder and a thirst for knowledge that extends beyond numbers and formulas. Even now, as life has introduced new passions and pursuits, mathematics remains a foundational part of who I am. It’s more than a subject; it’s a lens through which I view the world, a testament to the beauty of logic and the power of the human mind. In a world filled with uncertainties, my love for mathematics has been a steadfast anchor. It was my first love, and in many ways, it continues to be my greatest.

My mother tells my birth story to people like it’s a fascinating tale of overcoming disaster. She didn’t even know that she was carrying me, only six weeks after she had given birth to my older brother. I was undetectable for months in her womb. By the time she realized she was expecting me, I was about six months from being born. And then came the frightening diagnosis…..cysts on my brain, a possible abnormality, and the question of whether to keep or quit the pregnancy. In the end, her decision to keep me meant she lived in crisis mode for the rest of the time she carried me, and survived only on what hope can give. I was born in November, almost seven weeks ahead of my due date. Medical staff told my mother I could go home with her the next day, but she thought it was too soon. I was small enough to fit in her right hand, but strong enough that I grew quickly and healthily. What I really like about how my mother tells the rest of my story is that I met many milestones ahead of my time. I potty trained at one-years-old; I stood up and ran before I took my first baby step; and from that moment on, I seemed to do everything in a cycle of time that seemed “too soon.” Lately, when I ask her to tell me what it all means, she says that I don’t wait for things to come to me, that I am ahead of my time because my purpose is to get back everything that was ever denied to those that came before me. When she looks me in the eyes, she means it when she says that I will be the cursebreaker. While there doesn’t seem to be any curse in my family, per se, there are patterns. One of the patterns I notice is that both of my grandmothers were strong and mighty women, raised with morals and values of parents from the deep South. They both grew up in major U.S. cities after their parents migrated, one to Chicago and one to Los Angeles. Both of their stories include an early marriage and parenthood. They were both fixtures in their communities, taking care of neighborhood children with misfortunes. They were both top chefs in their kitchens. But sadly, neither of them had a chance to live to see me grow after they battled and succumbed to cancer. Neither of my grandmothers lived to see past 60 years of age. Two beautiful lives gone too soon. I think there is a special point where all of our stories come together. Today, I am only 17 years old, but I have a purpose and a passion to help advance radiologic science aided by technology to improve early detection and monitoring against cancer and disease. What medical detection did not get right for me at birth or did not detect until it was too late for my grandmothers, I hope to get right for others. The stories of women who are terminally misdiagnosed or uncarefully treated is not new, but they are ravaging. I plan to pursue a lengthier program that will allow a full range of certifications and open a pathway to research in this field. The story of my birth, once marked by hopelessness, now serves as a badge of resilience. For all the steps that women before me could not take, including my grandmothers, I hope to stand up and run towards progress in medical science.

From the moment I handed out my first meal at the local food bank, I knew I wanted to make a difference in the world. That simple act of kindness opened my eyes to the struggles faced by so many in my community and inspired me to pursue a path where I could create lasting change. This is why my academic and professional goals are deeply rooted in social justice and community development. My primary academic goal is to earn a degree in social work. I believe that understanding the complexities of social systems and gaining the skills to navigate them is crucial for making a meaningful impact. Throughout high school, I volunteered with various organizations, including shelters, youth programs, and advocacy groups. These experiences have not only solidified my passion for social work but also provided me with practical skills and insights that I can build upon in my studies. For instance, while working with a youth mentorship program, I learned the importance of active listening and empathy, skills that are essential for any social worker. Professionally, I aspire to work with non-profit organizations that focus on supporting marginalized communities. I am particularly interested in programs that address issues such as homelessness, mental health, and education. One of my long-term goals is to establish a community center that offers comprehensive services, including job training, counseling, and educational workshops. By providing these resources, I hope to empower individuals to overcome their challenges and build better futures for themselves and their families. Giving back to my community has always been a significant part of my life. In high school, I organized several fundraisers and awareness campaigns for various causes, from mental health to environmental sustainability. One of the most impactful projects I led was a clothing drive for a local shelter. Seeing the gratitude on the faces of those who received the donations was incredibly rewarding and reinforced my commitment to serving others. These experiences have taught me that even small actions can have a profound impact, and they have inspired me to continue finding ways to contribute to my community. My community involvement has not only shaped my goals but also inspired me to make a difference on a larger scale. I have seen firsthand the power of collective action and the positive changes it can bring. This inspiration drives me to pursue a career where I can advocate for policies that promote equity and justice. I am particularly passionate about addressing systemic issues that perpetuate inequality, such as inadequate access to education and healthcare. By working to dismantle these barriers, I hope to create a more just and inclusive society. In conclusion, my academic and professional goals are deeply intertwined with my desire to give back to my community and make a difference in the world. My experiences have shown me the importance of empathy, advocacy, and collective action. As I pursue my degree in social work and embark on my professional journey, I am committed to using my skills and knowledge to create positive change. I believe that by addressing the root causes of social issues and empowering individuals, we can build stronger, more resilient communities.

My mother tells my birth story to people like it’s a fascinating tale of overcoming disaster. She didn’t even know that she was carrying me, only six weeks after she had given birth to my older brother. I was undetectable for months in her womb. By the time she realized she was expecting me, I was about six months from being born. And then came the frightening diagnosis…..cysts on my brain, a possible abnormality, and the question of whether to keep or quit the pregnancy. In the end, her decision to keep me meant she lived in crisis mode for the rest of the time she carried me, and survived only on what hope can give. I was born in November, almost seven weeks ahead of my due date. Medical staff told my mother I could go home with her the next day, but she thought it was too soon. I was small enough to fit in her right hand, but strong enough that I grew quickly and healthily. What I really like about how my mother tells the rest of my story is that I met many milestones ahead of my time. I potty trained at one-years-old; I stood up and ran before I took my first baby step; and from that moment on, I seemed to do everything in a cycle of time that seemed “too soon.” Lately, when I ask her to tell me what it all means, she says that I don’t wait for things to come to me, that I am ahead of my time because my purpose is to get back everything that was ever denied to those that came before me. When she looks me in the eyes, she means it when she says that I will be the curse breaker. While there doesn’t seem to be any curse in my family, per se, there are patterns. One of the patterns I notice is that both of my grandmothers were strong and mighty women, raised with morals and values of parents from the deep South. They both grew up in major U.S. cities after their parents migrated, one to Chicago and one to Los Angeles. Both of their stories include an early marriage and parenthood. They were both fixtures in their communities, taking care of neighborhood children with misfortunes. They were both top chefs in their kitchens. But sadly, neither of them had a chance to live to see me grow after they battled and succumbed to cancer. Neither of my grandmothers lived to see past 60 years of age. Two beautiful lives gone too soon. I think there is a special point where all of our stories come together. Today, I am only 17 years old, but I have a purpose and a passion to help advance radiologic science aided by technology to improve early detection and monitoring against cancer and disease. What medical detection did not get right for me at birth or did not detect until it was too late for my grandmothers, I hope to get right for others. The stories of women who are terminally misdiagnosed or uncarefully treated is not new, but they are ravaging. I plan to pursue a lengthier program that will allow a full range of certifications and open a pathway to research in this field.The story of my birth, once marked by hopelessness, now serves as a badge of resilience. For all the steps that women before me could not take, including my grandmothers, I hope to stand up and run towards progress in medical science.

The blood, sweat, tears, perseverance, and the lifelong friendships that come from being a student-athlete are what make it all worth it. The early morning workouts, late-night study sessions, the exhaustion after giving everything on the field, and the satisfaction of seeing hard work pay off—these moments define me. As a multi-sport athlete in track and field, flag football, and cheerleading, I have learned discipline, resilience, and balance. But beyond the medals, what I love most about being a student-athlete is how my sports have shaped me into a stronger, more determined person. Track and field was the first sport that changed my life. I fell in love with running because it took my home life problems away. When I step onto the track, everything else fades. Sprinting the 100-meter, 200-meter, and 400-meter races isn’t just about speed—it’s about pushing past pain, breaking mental barriers, and proving to myself that I am stronger than my circumstances. The track has been my sanctuary, a place where I turn struggle into power. Every race is an opportunity to test my limits, fight through fatigue, and remind myself that no matter what challenges come my way, I have the strength to overcome them. Football has given me another space to grow. As a running back in flag football, I’ve learned quick decision-making, teamwork, and resilience. Unlike the straight sprints of track, football requires agility, strategy, and adaptability. The feeling of dodging defenders, cutting through gaps, and pushing forward despite the odds fuels my competitive spirit. In a sport where female athletes often have to fight for respect, I take pride in showing that I belong on the field just as much as anyone else. Football has made me fearless—it has taught me to take hits and keep moving, both literally and figuratively. Cheerleading, however, has given me a different kind of strength—the ability to uplift, inspire, and lead. As a National All-American All-Star cheerleader, I know firsthand the discipline, teamwork, and precision it takes to succeed. Cheer is more than just smiles and routines—it’s hours of practice, perfecting stunts, pushing through pain, and performing under pressure. There’s no greater feeling than nailing a routine after months of preparation, knowing that every ounce of effort was worth it. Cheer has taught me leadership as I mentor younger athletes, instilling confidence in them just as my mentors did for me. What I love most about being a student-athlete isn’t just the thrill of competition—it’s the way my sports have helped me succeed in other areas of life, especially in the classroom. Juggling three sports while taking Honors and AP classes since my sophomore year hasn’t been easy, but the discipline and time management skills I’ve developed through athletics have allowed me to tackle my studies with the same determination. Whether it’s preparing for a big game or an AP exam, I know that success is built on preparation, consistency, and pushing past challenges. At the core of it all, being a student-athlete has given me resilience, purpose, and a family in my teammates. The friendships formed through struggles, the lessons learned through victories and defeats, and the unbreakable mindset I’ve developed will stay with me forever. Every ounce of blood, sweat, and tears has been worth it because sports have made me who I am—strong, determined, and ready for whatever comes next.