Education is important to me because it is the only tool powerful enough to break a cycle of trauma and poverty that has haunted my family for generations. As a first-generation student, I carry a history that most people only read about in history books or dystopian novels. My great-grandmother was a survivor of horrific abuse, pregnant at twelve years old with no job to support nine children. She had to resort to gambling just to keep her family from starving. My relatives grew up in houses with no heat and no mattresses, sometimes forced to dig through the garbage for a meal. For them, college was never an option; survival was the only objective. To me, a degree is not just a piece of paper. It is a debt of honor to the women who came before me and never had the choice to step into a classroom. It is the justification for every night they spent in the cold and every sacrifice they made so that one day, someone from their bloodline could stand on a stage and be called a scholar. My education is the ultimate rebellion against a system that expected my family to remain "clueless" and "herded" in the shadows of society. I am pursuing a BS/MPH in Public Health and Anthropology to prove that the "pain, suffering, and torture" of our past can be transformed into a force for systemic change. The legacy I hope to leave is one of radical restoration. I want to be the first woman in my family to hold a degree, but I do not want to be the last. I want to leave a legacy where "first-generation" becomes a title of the past because the path to higher education has been cleared for everyone behind me. I want to use my STEM education to ensure that the "outsiders" of the world—the kids shaking in the back of the class with tics and anxiety, the families living in toxic zip codes, and the students digging through trash for food are finally seen and protected by the institutions meant to serve them. My drive is fueled by the fire a high school nurse put in my belly. She fed me when I was starving and gave me ginger candies for the nausea caused by my anxiety, treating me with the dignity my ancestors were denied. I am working to build a future where a child’s zip code or family history does not determine their right to a doctor or a desk. My legacy will be a world where the next generation of survivors has more than just grit; they will have a system that actually loves them back. I am ready to turn my family’s history of survival into a future of leadership.

Sustainability must be a priority in Public Health and Anthropology because the health of the human spirit is inseparable from the health of the earth. In my field, we see how environmental neglect acts as a slow poison that hits marginalized communities first and hardest. Growing up under the toxic, orange skies of Lansdale, Pennsylvania, I realized that pollution is not just a chemical issue; it is a human rights crisis. When the air we breathe and the water we drink are compromised by deregulation, it creates a "syndemic" where environmental toxins, poverty, and mental health struggles all collide to trap people in a cycle of suffering. I believe sustainability is the only way to prevent the "1984" or "Handmaid’s Tale" scenarios that feel increasingly real today. When we prioritize short-term profit over environmental stability, we are effectively herding everyday citizens toward a future of scarcity and sickness. As someone who has spent years at war with a nervous system that expresses trauma through tics and shaking, I know that an unstable environment only worsens the internal storm. We cannot talk about "wellness" or "health equity" if we are not also talking about the billionaires who play with geoengineering or the agencies that take away the experts who watch over our climate. In the future, I see myself reducing environmental impact by acting as a bridge between high-level science and community-led advocacy. I will use my BS/MPH degree to lead research that proves the direct link between environmental degradation and the deterioration of community health. My goal is to work within public health sectors to implement "Green Health" initiatives. These are programs that focus on sustainable urban planning, such as increasing green spaces in low-income neighborhoods to combat heat islands and provide a sanctuary for neurodivergent minds that need calm environments. I also see myself fighting for "informational sustainability." It is not enough to just record data; we have to ensure the public isn't being distracted by "shady behind the scenes" politics while their protections are stripped away. I will use my platform to advocate for radical transparency in how we monitor climate change. I want to ensure that Black and marginalized communities are not just the "canaries in the coal mine" for environmental collapse, but are instead the leaders in creating sustainable solutions. Ultimately, my drive comes from the fire that my high school nurse put in my belly. She fed me when I was starving and gave me ginger candies for the nausea caused by my anxiety. She taught me that survival is a communal effort. I am pursuing this career to justify the sacrifices of my family and friends by building a future that is physically and environmentally secure. I am ready to use my STEM education to reduce our impact on the earth and build a world that finally loves us back.

I want to pursue a career in STEM because I believe that science is the most powerful tool we have to demand justice for the "outsiders" of the world. My interest in Public Health and Anthropology is not just academic; it is a response to the systemic neglect I witnessed growing up in a single-parent household. I saw how poverty, environmental toxins, and a lack of resources act as a slow poison on the human spirit. I am pursuing this field to prove that the suffering of marginalized people is not an accident of fate, but a result of measurable, institutional failures. My motivation was forged in the fire of my own survival. For years, I struggled with ADHD, depression, and physical tics that made me shake in the back of my classrooms. I felt like a statistic until a high school nurse looked past my symptoms and saw my potential. She fed me when I was starving and gave me ginger candies to soothe the nausea caused by my anxiety. She calmed my stomach and put a fire in my belly, telling me to fight for my education even when I felt powerless. If it wasn't for her belief in me, and the communal investment of my family and friends, I would likely be six feet under today. I am entering STEM to be that same lifeline for others. I plan to use my degree to uplift my community by bridging the gap between clinical data and human dignity. While billionaires experiment with the atmosphere and the government deregulates the agencies meant to protect our air and water, I will be on the ground. I want to use my BS/MPH to lead research that validates the experiences of those living in "toxic" zip codes. I want to build healthcare systems that are designed with empathy for neurodivergent minds and the realities of low-income families. I refuse to let the next generation of Black students be left behind simply because their survival mechanisms are misunderstood by a rigid system. Uplifting my community means ensuring that "neat and normal" are no longer the requirements for receiving quality care or an education. As an alternative Black student with piercings and colorful wigs, I know what it feels like to be judged and dismissed. I will use my platform to dismantle these biases. I want to ensure that a student’s appearance or a mother’s job status never dictates their right to survive. Whether I am volunteering at food banks or advocating for educational equity, my goal is the same: to turn our collective pain into a force for structural change. I am ready to use my STEM education to build a world that finally loves us back.

Addressing student loan debt is a challenge that requires the same strategic survival skills I have used to navigate poverty and neurodivergence my entire life. Growing up in a single-parent household where unpaid bills were a constant shadow, I learned early on that financial management is a necessity for survival. My plan to manage and eliminate my debt is built on a foundation of proactive work, aggressive scholarship seeking, and a career path in Public Health designed for long-term stability. Currently, I am addressing my financial obligations by maintaining a part-time job while balancing my rigorous course load. Even though the minimum wage has not budged since I was born and the cost of basic needs continues to rise, I am disciplined with my earnings. I make small, consistent payments toward my balance whenever possible. I believe that these "little payments" are a testament to my work ethic; they represent my refusal to let debt accumulate and suffocate my future. By chipping away at the cost now, I am reducing the interest that would otherwise grow and haunt me for decades. I am also treating scholarship applications like a full-time profession. This scholarship is a vital part of my strategy to minimize the loans I need to take out in the first place. I am pursuing every opportunity that recognizes the unique value of my lived experience as a Black, neurodivergent student in STEM. Furthermore, I rely on the communal investment of my family and friends. The small amounts they have sacrificed to keep me in school represent a debt of honor that I intend to repay by succeeding and eventually reaching a position where I can provide that same support to others. Looking toward the future, my choice of a BS/MPH in Public Health and Anthropology is a calculated move. I plan to pursue a career in the public sector or with non-profit organizations that serve marginalized communities. This career path makes me eligible for the Public Service Loan Forgiveness (PSLF) program. By committing years of service to the community, I can address my debt while simultaneously dismantling the systemic health inequities I am passionate about. I refuse to let debt be another way the system herds me into a state of powerlessness. Ultimately, my plan to address my debt is about reclamation. I want to prove that a student from a low-income background, who once sat shaking in the back of a classroom, can navigate the complex financial world of higher education and come out on top. I am pursuing my education to justify the sacrifices made by my mother and the high school nurse who saw my potential. By managing my finances with discipline today, I am ensuring that my future career is built on a foundation of freedom. I am working to build a life where I can finally focus on helping others without the weight of a burden that was never meant to be mine alone.

My journey in STEM has been a constant exercise in defying the "neat and normal" boxes the world tries to force me into. Since middle school, I have expressed my identity through an alternative style, including facial piercings and colorful wigs. For many, my appearance is a distraction or a reason to make assumptions about my hygiene and intelligence. For me, my presentation is a reclamation of history and a shield against a society that demands I be invisible to be accepted. In the Black community, I have often faced the pressure to conform to a specific standard of presentation. Being "alternative" is frequently viewed as a rejection of my culture, when in reality, it is a tribute to it. It is slightly infuriating to navigate a world where people don't realize that Black pioneers invented the very genres of goth and alternative culture I embrace. I am not "trying to be something else"; I am honoring a lineage of Black rebels who refused to be categorized. Yet, because I don't fit the "neat" mold, I have been treated as an outsider. I have faced the insulting assumption that because I dress differently, I must be less capable, less intelligent, or even less clean. These stereotypes are rooted in a desire to herd people into a state of conformity, but I have learned to stand firm in my truth. The challenges I have faced in STEM are often tied to this "presentation tax." I have walked into academic spaces feeling the eyes of others judging my wigs or my piercings before I even open my mouth to discuss public health data. I have had to work twice as hard to prove I am not "stupid" and that my mind is as sharp as my aesthetic. However, these experiences have only made me more committed to my path. I would never treat anyone with the meanness I have experienced. My alternative identity has given me a unique lens through which to view Public Health and Anthropology. It has taught me that the people who are judged for their appearance, their neurodivergence, or their poverty are often the ones with the most profound insights into how our systems are failing. I see myself contributing to the future of Public Health by being a bridge for the "outsiders." My goal is to use my BS/MPH degree to dismantle the biases that prevent people from receiving quality care. If a doctor or a researcher cannot look past a piercing or a wig, how can they truly see the human being in front of them? I want to lead research that accounts for the "human why," ensuring that marginalized and alternative individuals are not just case studies, but partners in their own health. My drive is fueled by the fire a high school nurse put in my belly. She saw the girl under the wig and the tics and told me I was a scholar. I am pursuing STEM to justify the communal investment made in me by my mother and friends. I am ready to be a leader who proves that brilliance doesn't have a specific "look." I will use my education to build a future where a student’s style, zip code, or learning difference is no longer a barrier to their survival. I am here to build a world that finally loves us back, exactly as we are.

My upbringing was a masterclass in survival, set within a single-parent household where the walls often felt like they were closing in. Growing up without a father and without child support, my mother was the sole anchor in a storm of financial scarcity. Our home was a place of physical neglect, shared with roaches and mice, where the air was heavy with the suffocating fog of unpaid bills. In this environment, I was not just a child; I was a witness to the relentless weight of systemic poverty. I spent my youth navigating a world that felt like it was herding us toward a future of low wages and silent struggle, much like the dystopian societies I later read about in books like 1984. The weight of this upbringing manifested in my body. By the fourth grade, I was at war with ADHD, depression, and a nervous system that expressed my trauma through uncontrollable tics and physical shaking. In the classroom, I felt like an outsider. My neurodivergence was often misunderstood as a lack of discipline, and my internal storm made the simple act of sitting at a desk feel like a battlefield. I felt powerless, watching the world’s elite play games with the environment and the economy while my family struggled to afford the basics. However, a profound realization occurred in the quiet sanctuary of my high school nurse’s office. I spent many days there, gripped by a nausea so intense I couldn't eat, a physical symptom of my chronic anxiety. My nurse did something radical: she saw me. She fed me when I was starving and gave me ginger candies to soothe my stomach. While she calmed my physical symptoms, she put a fire in my belly. She told me that I had to keep fighting for higher education even though I felt like I couldn't even take care of myself. This was the moment I realized I was not a broken statistic; I was a communal investment. I looked at the sacrifices of my mother, my late uncle, and my friends who pitched in their last dollars to keep me in school, and I understood that my life was a bridge. My struggle was not a personal failure, but a result of a system built on pain. This realization changed how I viewed others. I stopped seeing people as "successful" or "unsuccessful" and started seeing them as either supported or neglected. Today, this understanding defines my life. I am pursuing a BS/MPH in Public Health and Anthropology because I want to be the professional who believes the student shaking in the back of the class. I use my voice to advocate for Black education and volunteer at food banks because I know that dignity starts with a full stomach and a fair chance. I am no longer just a survivor of a single-parent home or a learning difference. I am a leader who is using the fire my nurse gave me to dismantle the structures of neglect and build a world that finally loves us back.

When I was in the fourth grade, the world started to feel like a radio tuned to static. My thoughts were a fog, my focus was fragmented, and eventually, my body began to betray me. I started experiencing uncontrollable tics and physical shaking during class. In a school system that often lacks the patience for neurodivergent Black students, my ADHD and anxiety were not seen as a cry for help. They were seen as a distraction. For years, the challenge wasn't just my learning difference; it was the isolation of being an "outsider" in a classroom that didn't have a desk for someone who couldn't sit still. This academic struggle was compounded by a home life defined by survival. I grew up in a household with roaches and mice, where the absence of a father and the constant threat of unpaid bills made the "standard" college path feel like a fantasy. By the time I reached high school, my mental health had deteriorated into a deep depression. I was often too nauseous from anxiety to eat. I felt like a failure because I couldn't conform to a system that felt like a "1984" style cage, herding us toward low wages and silent suffering. However, the turning point in my personal growth happened in the most unlikely place: the high school nurse’s office. My nurse was the first person to look past my shaking hands and see a scholar. She fed me when I was starving and gave me ginger candies to soothe my stomach. While she calmed the physical symptoms of my anxiety, she put a fire in my belly. She told me to keep fighting for higher education even when I felt I couldn't even take care of myself. She taught me that my learning difference was not a limit on my intelligence, but a different way of experiencing a world that was already in chaos. That challenge led to a radical transformation. I stopped viewing my ADHD and tics as weaknesses and started seeing them as a source of hyper-awareness. I realized that my struggle to fit into the "normal" academic mold gave me a unique perspective on systemic neglect. My growth came from accepting that I didn't need to be "cured" to be successful; I needed to be supported. I began to advocate for myself, leaning on the communal investment of my mother and friends who gave their last dollars to keep me in school. Today, I am a hard worker because I have had to fight for every inch of my education. I am pursuing a BS/MPH in Public Health and Anthropology to ensure that the next generation of students with learning differences has a sanctuary instead of a courtroom. I want to build systems that believe students when they say they are struggling. My personal growth is defined by the fact that I am no longer just a student shaking in the back of the class. I am a future leader who knows that resilience isn't just about surviving the storm, but about learning to lead others through it. I am ready to use my education to build a world that finally loves us back.

For the past decade, my life has been defined by a quiet, physical turbulence. While other students were focused on grades, I was focused on staying still. Since the fourth grade, I have been at war with a nervous system that expresses my trauma through uncontrollable tics, physical shaking, and a heavy, suffocating depression. These were not just "mental" hurdles; they were physical barriers that made the classroom feel like a battlefield. My experience with mental health taught me early on that the body is a mirror. It reflects the roaches and mice in my childhood home, the absence of a father, and the crushing weight of systemic poverty. These struggles transformed my worldview from one of confusion to one of fierce observation. I stopped asking why my brain was "broken" and started asking why our society is designed to break us. My mental health journey stripped away the illusions of the American Dream. It showed me that we are often herded into a state of survival where our symptoms are blamed on us, rather than the environments that created them. I realized that my anxiety was a rational response to a world where the cost of living rises while wages stay frozen. This belief—that our pain is often political—is what separates me from those who view public health as just a collection of numbers. My relationships became my lifeboats during this storm. I am not a self-made person; I am a communal masterpiece. I am here because my family and friends sacrificed their last dollars to keep me afloat. I am here because of a high school nurse who looked at a shaking, starving student and saw a future leader. She didn't just give me ginger candies for my nausea; she gave me the dignity of being seen. This experience has dictated how I connect with others. I don’t look for "networking" opportunities; I look for "outsiders" who need an anchor. I build relationships based on the radical idea that we are all we have in a system that views us as disposable. My career aspirations are the final piece of this reclamation. I am not pursuing a BS/MPH degree to join the establishment; I am pursuing it to infiltrate it. I want to use my education to prove that housing instability, environmental toxins, and the deregulation of our protections are the root causes of the mental health crisis. I want to be the researcher who validates the student shaking in the back of the room. My goal is to transform the "Handmaid’s Tale" trajectory of our current world into a future where Black and marginalized communities are no longer left behind. I am taking the fire that my nurse put in my belly and using it to light a path toward a world that finally loves us back.

What distinguishes me from other applicants is that I don’t just study public health; I am a walking case study of the systemic failures I plan to fix. I am a survivor of a world that often feels like a "Handmaid’s Tale" or "1984" dystopia, where the top percent thrives while the rest of us are herded toward survival. My identity is forged from the "roaches and mice" of a childhood home, the weight of a decade-long war with ADHD and depression, and the literal shaking of my body during panic attacks in class. But I am also the recipient of a radical kind of communal love that has turned my trauma into a weapon for justice. My motivation for higher education was sparked in a high school nurse’s office. I remember her feeding me when I was starving and giving me ginger candies to calm the nausea caused by my anxiety. While my belly was unsettled, she put a fire in it. She told me to fight for my education even when I felt like I couldn't even take care of myself. If it wasn't for her, I would likely be six feet under. Her belief in me, alongside the sacrifices of my mother and friends who pitched in their last dollars for my tuition, is why I am here. I am the "communal investment" of people who refused to let me become a statistic. What makes me unique is my ability to connect the "street level" struggle to high-level policy. I interact with my family as the one who "made it out," but I carry their struggles into every lab and lecture hall. My proudest accomplishment isn't just getting into college; it is staying there after my grandfather and uncle passed away, and after my mother lost her job during the pandemic. It is the fact that even when the US government deregulates the EPA or billionaires experiment with the atmosphere without our consent, I am still on the ground volunteering at food banks and advocating for Black education. I am working to ensure that kids aren't left behind by a system that benefits from our ignorance. I should be a recipient of this scholarship because I am not just looking for a career; I am seeking the tools to dismantle a system built on pain. My goal is a BS/MPH degree to bridge the gap between clinical data and human dignity. I want to be the professional who believes the student shaking in the back of the class. I want to prove that a zip code is not a death sentence. I am a strong candidate because my grit has been tested in the fire of poverty and neurodivergence, and I have emerged not as a sheep, but as a leader. I am ready to build a world that finally loves us back.

I am a candidate for this scholarship because I have spent my life navigating a world that was not built for a mind like mine. My experience with ADHD and neurodivergence began in the fourth grade, launching a decade-long battle with a brain that often felt like a traitor. In school, my struggle was painfully visible. I experienced uncontrollable tics and physical shaking during class, symptoms of a nervous system under the crushing weight of panic attacks and a deep, heavy depression. This depression acted as a massive learning barrier; it is hard to study for the future when you are convinced you won't survive the day. If I am standing here today, it is because of my high school nurse. During my darkest moments, she was the only one who saw that I wasn't just "troubled," but starving, both physically and emotionally. I remember her feeding me when I had nothing and gently giving me ginger candies to soothe the constant nausea that my anxiety produced. While she calmed my stomach, she put a fire in my belly. She told me to keep fighting for higher education even when I felt like I couldn't even take care of myself. She saw a scholar in me when I only saw a victim. If it wasn't for her compassion, I would likely be six feet under. She taught me that medicine is not just about prescriptions; it is about the radical act of caring for another human’s dignity. My motivation for pursuing higher education is rooted in that same spirit of communal survival. Growing up in a household defined by financial instability and the absence of a father, I knew that education was my only exit. My home was a place of physical neglect, shared with roaches and mice, where the threat of unpaid bills was a constant shadow. My mother, family, and friends sacrificed their last dollars to keep me in school because they believed I could make it out. I am currently pursuing a BS/MPH in Public Health and Anthropology to justify their sacrifice and to be for others what that nurse was for me: a lifeline. I am a strong candidate for this scholarship because I possess a grit that cannot be taught. I have survived the physical collapse of my mental health and the profound grief of losing my grandfather and uncle. I see a world where the "top percent" thrives while the rest of us are herded like sheep, and I refuse to stay silent. Whether I am volunteering at food banks or advocating for Black education, I am working to ensure that a disability or a zip code is never a death sentence. I am a researcher who knows exactly what it feels like when the system fails, and I am dedicated to ensuring it never fails someone like me again. I am no longer just the student shaking in the back of the class; I am a future leader ready to build a world that finally loves us back.

I am pursuing a BS/MPH in Public Health and Anthropology because I am tired of watching a system built on pain treat human lives like disposable statistics. My interest in this field is not a casual academic choice. It is a survival tactic. I have spent my life as an "outsider" looking in, watching the world’s elite play god with our environment and our health while the rest of us are herded like sheep. From the toxic orange skies of neglect in Lansdale to the current deregulation of the EPA, I see a world where the powerful strip away our protections and distract us with scandals while they dim the sun and freeze our wages. I am entering this field to be the barrier between those institutional failures and the people they are meant to protect. The impact I hope to make is a radical shift in how we value Black and marginalized lives. I want to use my education as a hammer to break the cycles of "The Handmaid’s Tale" and "1984" that are unfolding in our reality. I am working to build healthcare and educational systems that actually see people. Through my work at food banks and my advocacy for Black education, I am already fighting to ensure that kids are not left behind in the dust of this digital dictatorship. My goal is to bridge the gap between high level science and the street level struggle for survival. I want to create a future where a student’s zip code or a mother’s job status does not determine their right to breathe clean air or access a doctor. I want to turn our collective suffering into a force for structural justice. The adversities I have overcome are the very things that qualify me to lead. I have spent a decade at war with a mind that felt like a traitor, a battle that began in the fourth grade. I grew up in the shadows of a "deadbeat" father who prioritized himself over our safety, leaving us in a home defined by roaches, mice, and the suffocating fog of unpaid bills. I carried the weight of a private school scholarship where I had to blend in with wealth while my mother lost her job and struggled to feed us during a pandemic. I have survived the physical collapse of daily vomiting from anxiety and the crushing grief of losing my grandfather and my uncle. Even now, as a nearly twenty-year-old watching the cost of survival rise while the minimum wage stays stagnant, I refuse to be silenced. I have moved past the shame of my past and the powerlessness of the present. I am no longer just a victim of a system built on torture; I am a survivor who is using that pain to fuel a career in public health. My family and friends sacrificed everything to get me here, and I will not let their investment go to waste. I am here to ensure that the next generation of survivors has more than just grit. They deserve a world that finally loves them back.

I am fighting to heal a social wound that has been bleeding for generations: the gap in health and educational equity. Today, this battle feels more urgent than ever as I watch the institutions meant to protect us crumble. I see a world where the EPA is being stripped of its power, taking away the experts who ensure the air we breathe and the water we drink do not kill us. I see a world where billionaires initiate sun dimming experiments without public consent, acting with a level of power that no one person should hold. To me, these are not just headlines; they are symptoms of a system that views everyday citizens as sheep to be herded. My work is the antidote to this feeling of powerlessness. I refuse to be a silent witness while the world moves closer to the dystopian realities of 1984 or The Handmaid’s Tale. I am currently addressing these social issues by grounding myself in the community. I volunteer at food banks because I know that you cannot advocate for a child’s mind if their stomach is empty. I advocate for Black students to have a fair chance at education because I know that knowledge is the only tool powerful enough to cut through the distractions of a government that benefits from our ignorance. When kids are left behind, the cycle of pain, suffering, and torture that built this country simply continues.. My mission is rooted in the "roaches and mice" of a childhood home where survival was the only objective. I carry the weight of a decade long war with a mind that felt like a traitor, starting in the fourth grade. Now, at nearly twenty years old, I am watching the cost of survival rise while the minimum wage remains frozen in time. I have seen how the "top percent" thrives while the rest of us struggle to pay for the basics. This is why I am pursuing my BS/MPH degree. I am using science as a hammer to break the cycles of trauma that a dictatorship-style system ignores. I am fighting to prove that a zip code should never be a death sentence and that housing instability is a medical emergency. Beyond the classroom, I am a warrior for radical transparency. In a world where "Epstein files" and "shady behind the scenes" deals are used to distract us, I choose to focus on the tangible needs of my people. I use my voice to bridge the gap between the private school world where I had to "blend in" and the reality of a mother losing her job while pregnant during a pandemic. I am dismantling the shame that acts as a cage for so many Black and LGBTQIA+ individuals. I am building a platform of belief, ensuring that when a student screams for help, the world does not respond with a shrug. Ultimately, my work is about honoring the communal investment made in me. My family and friends gave their last dollars to keep me in school because they believed I could "make it out." I am addressing these institutional failures to justify their sacrifice. Even when I feel powerless, I remember that the system was built on our pain, which means our healing is the greatest form of rebellion. I am pursuing public health to ensure that the next generation of survivors has more than just grit; they have a system that actually loves them back. We may not be "free" yet, but as long as I am working, I am refusing to be herded.

My academic and career goals are not merely a path toward professional stability; they are a direct response to the systemic neglect and personal loss I survived during my childhood and my first year of college. Growing up in a household defined by financial instability, the absence of a father, and the physical reality of living with roaches and mice, I saw firsthand how poverty and environmental hazards dictate the health of a community. These experiences, coupled with my decade-long battle with mental health and ADHD, have fueled my mission to bridge the gap between high-level scientific research and the lived reality of marginalized populations. Academically, my immediate goal is to complete my combined BS/MPH degree with a dual focus on Public Health and Anthropology. I am specifically interested in the "syndemic" nature of health. The way that social, environmental, and biological factors interact to create clusters of disease in specific populations. My time standing under the toxic, orange skies of Lansdale, Pennsylvania, solidified my desire to study environmental justice. I want to conduct research that proves how housing instability and environmental toxins are not just physical threats, but primary drivers of the mental health crises I have faced since the fourth grade. I intend to use my academic platform to humanize epidemiology, moving beyond cold data to incorporate the "human why" that explains why certain communities are left behind. My career goals are centered on transforming the healthcare landscape for Black and LGBTQIA+ individuals who, like me, have often been bullied, ignored, or misunderstood by the medical establishment. I aspire to become a public health leader who designs and implements community-based interventions that prioritize trust and cultural competence. I want to build systems that recognize the physical toll of chronic stress; the kind of stress that led to my daily vomiting and mental health deterioration during college and provide accessible resources that account for neurodivergence and financial barriers. I want to be the professional who believes the patient in crisis, ensuring that a person’s zip code or ADHD diagnosis does not determine their ability to survive and thrive. Ultimately, I view my career as a vehicle for the "communal investment" my family and friends made in me. They pitched in their last dollars to keep me in school because they believed I would be the one to "make it out." My goal is to justify that sacrifice by becoming a researcher and advocate who dismantles the stigma surrounding mental health and substance abuse. I want to lead initiatives that provide first-generation students with the structural support they need so they never have to choose between their education and their healing. By merging the rigor of STEM with the empathy of my lived experience, I will ensure that the cycle of neglect ends with me and that the next generation of "outsiders" has a seat at the table of public health.

In a world that often felt unstable, my uncle was my primary emotional anchor. Growing up in a household defined by financial scarcity, the absence of my father, and the daily presence of environmental neglect, I lived in a state of high-alert survival. In that environment, authentic human connection was often a luxury we could not afford. However, my uncle provided a different narrative. He was the person who stepped in to provide the emotional and physical security I lacked in my childhood home. He was the one who saw me when I was a misunderstood child struggling with undiagnosed ADHD and mental health challenges starting in the fourth grade. The relationship we shared did not just shape my childhood; it became the blueprint for how I view my purpose in the world of public health. My uncle’s influence was rooted in the radical act of believing. When my community dismissed my clinical struggles as a character flaw or a lack of willpower, he was the one who validated my pain. He understood that my "deterioration" during my first year of college—the daily vomiting from anxiety and the fog of depression—was a physiological response to a lifetime of systemic stress. Because he believed me, I learned that the most powerful tool in any human connection is the willingness to bear witness to another person’s truth without judgment. He taught me that you do not have to fully understand a person’s battle to offer them a life vest. This relationship has profoundly influenced the way I build connections with others, particularly within my academic and professional life. In the field of public health and anthropology, there is a tendency to view individuals as data points or case studies. My relationship with my uncle taught me to resist that impulse. When I am working on community projects or conducting research, I approach every interaction with the understanding that behind every statistic is a human being with a story, a family, and a struggle for survival. I build connections based on radical transparency and empathy. I am not afraid to share my own history of housing instability or my battle with mental health because I know that vulnerability is often the bridge to true trust. The loss of my uncle during my second semester of college was a devastating blow, but it also solidified my professional mission. I saw firsthand what happens when a pillar of support is removed from a marginalized family. His passing turned my academic pursuit into a personal mandate. I now seek to build connections that are not just emotional, but structural. I want to create healthcare systems that act as the "uncle" for those who have no one else—systems that believe patients, provide security, and account for the complexities of neurodivergence and poverty. Because of him, I choose to be the person who listens to the "outsiders." Whether I am mentoring a first-generation student or collaborating with researchers on environmental health in places like Lansdale, I prioritize the human element. I have learned that while grief can break the spirit, the memory of a meaningful relationship can forge a heart uniquely equipped to serve. My uncle is no longer here to be my anchor, but the way he connected with me has taught me how to be an anchor for others. I am pursuing my BS/MPH degree to ensure that the empathy he showed me is scaled into a system that serves entire communities. I build connections today by honoring the man who never stopped believing I could make it out.

My personal background is rooted in systemic neglect and financial instability. Growing up, my life was defined by the absence of a father who worked as a janitor and never provided child support. This left the entire weight of our survival on my mother. We lived in a house often structurally and emotionally unsafe, shared with roaches and mice, where the threat of unpaid utility bills was a constant shadow. For a long time, my life was focused entirely on the mechanics of survival. These financial circumstances were a direct threat to my physical and mental well-being. Living in these conditions as a Black, LGBTQIA+ child created a sense of otherness compounded by a decade-long battle with mental health and ADHD that began in the fourth grade. The pressure of my financial circumstances became more acute when I was awarded a scholarship to attend a private school. While this was a life-changing opportunity, it created a dual existence. I spent my days trying to blend in with peers from worlds of generational wealth while my reality at home was one of increasing scarcity. My family and friends pitched in every extra dollar they had to cover the remaining costs of my education. They told me explicitly that I had to be the one to make it out, and they would do whatever it took to ensure I stayed in school. This created a profound sense of survivor’s guilt and a heavy pressure to perform, even as my home life grew more precarious. When the COVID-19 pandemic began, our fragile stability vanished. My mother lost her job and became pregnant during a time when it was already a struggle to feed the two of us. The arrival of a new sibling in the midst of a global health crisis made the simple act of eating a daily uncertainty. By my first year of college, the weight of ten years of untreated trauma, coupled with the back to back deaths of my grandfather and my uncle, led to a total physical and mental collapse. My uncle had been my primary emotional anchor and the only person who provided the security I lacked at home. Losing him felt like losing the last safety net I had. The deterioration of my mental health became a physical crisis. I was vomiting daily from the force of my anxiety, unable to keep food down as my body reacted to a world that felt hostile. I found myself spiraling into self-harm and an attempt on my life. I experienced hyper-sexuality as a desperate way to feel something other than the void left by loss. To make matters worse, I was surrounded by people who did not believe in the reality of mental health. In my community, I was often bullied, ignored, or told my suffering was a character flaw. Because of my ADHD and a lack of money for consistent treatment, recovery felt like a never-ending cycle. My neurodivergence would cause me to forget my objectives, leading back into a fog of shame and depression. I overcame this adversity by making a radical choice: I decided to reframe my trauma as expertise. I realized my lived experience with housing instability, food insecurity, and a failing healthcare system gave me a perspective that many in the scientific community do not possess. I stopped viewing my ADHD and my history of struggle as deficits and began seeing them as specialized toolkits. These experiences allow me to identify the gaps in public health that others are trained to overlook. With the help of mentors and the resilience I forged in that unstable home, I learned to navigate the hidden curriculum of academia. I sought out clinical support and developed management strategies to ensure my neurodivergence would no longer be a barrier to my success. I transitioned from a victim of a broken system to a scholar determined to dismantle it. I am passionate about the STEM field, specifically the intersection of Public Health and Anthropology, because I believe data is a powerful form of justice. My interest was solidified during a leadership expedition to Lansdale, Pennsylvania. Standing under a toxic, orange sky caused by environmental neglect, I realized the people living in homes like mine are the first to suffer from climate change but the last to receive resources. Public health is not just about biology; it is about power and policy. STEM provides the technical toolkit I need to prove that the suffering I experienced was not an inevitable part of life, but a result of systemic failures that can be corrected through research. In the future, I want to make an impact by humanizing the field of epidemiology. I plan to use my BS/MPH degree to lead community-based research that moves toward active, empathetic intervention. I am particularly interested in studying the syndemic interactions between poverty, environmental hazards, and mental health. I want to understand how the stress of financial instability alters the biological landscape of a community and how we can build systems to reverse that damage. My goal is to design healthcare systems built on trust and cultural competence, ensuring that Black and LGBTQIA+ individuals are seen and believed when they are in crisis. I want to be the professional who bridges the gap for the outsiders of the world. I want to make sure a student’s zip code, mental health status, or family financial standing does not determine their survival. My impact will be measured by the number of people who no longer have to fight their battles in the dark. I want to create a world where a child in the fourth grade struggling with mental health is met with resources rather than silence. By bringing my full, authentic self to the stage of public health, I will justify the investment my family and friends made in me. I am no longer the misunderstood child in a house of mice and roaches; I am a future leader who knows the cycle can be broken.

My journey with mental health did not begin with the high pressure environment of a university. It began in the fourth grade. For over a decade, I have been locked in a battle with a mind that often felt like it was working against me. Growing up in a home defined by instability and the roaches and mice of systemic neglect, my early struggles were dismissed or ignored. My father prioritized financial comfort over the safety of his family, leaving us in a house that was often unsafe and emotionally volatile. By the time I reached my second semester of college, the weight of ten years of untreated trauma, coupled with the back to back deaths of my grandfather and my uncle, led to a total physical and mental collapse. At my lowest point, the suffering was not just emotional. It was violently physical. I was vomiting every day from the sheer force of my anxiety, unable to keep food down as my body reacted to a world that felt increasingly hostile. I found myself spiraling into self harm and an attempt on my life as the world around me grew dark and silent. I experienced hyper sexuality as a desperate, frantic way to feel something other than the void left by grief. To make matters worse, I was surrounded by people who did not believe in the reality of mental health. I was bullied, ignored, and deeply misunderstood by a community that viewed my clinical crisis as a lack of willpower or a spiritual failure. I was a Black, LGBTQIA+ student drowning in a system that refused to throw me a life vest. The cycle felt never ending because of the cruel interaction between my environment and my ADHD. Even when I had the courage to seek help, the lack of money made consistent therapy feel like an impossible luxury. When I did manage to access medication, my neurodivergence often sabotaged my progress. Because of my ADHD, I would forget my objectives, lose track of my doses, and fall back into the fog of depression. It felt like I was running a race with my legs tied together, being punished for not keeping up with people who had never known a single day of instability. The frustration of forgetting the very things meant to save me only added to the cycle of shame and self loathing. However, surviving this decade long battle has given me a perspective that no textbook can ever provide. I am pursuing a combined BS/MPH degree in Public Health and Anthropology because I want to be the professional who finally believes the person in crisis. I saw firsthand how a lack of money, cultural stigma, and neurodivergence can combine to create a death trap for marginalized youth. I want to use my education to dismantle the stigma that nearly cost me my life. My background allows me to see the "human why" behind the statistics of health inequity. I want to build healthcare systems that account for the reality of ADHD and the financial barriers that keep marginalized people in a state of permanent survival. I am not just studying data. I am studying the very cycles I have had to break through sheer grit and the support of the few people, like my uncle, who truly saw me. My plan for continuing to manage my recovery is built on the structure and accountability I once lacked. I have moved away from trying to survive in isolation. I now use a combination of professional clinical support and digital management tools to ensure my ADHD does not get in the way of my health objectives. I have built a chosen family of mentors and peers who validate my journey rather than mocking it. Most importantly, I am using my voice as a tool for advocacy. By being radically honest about my history of self harm, my childhood struggles, and my recovery, I am reclaiming my power from the bullies and the skeptics who tried to silence me. I am no longer the misunderstood child from the fourth grade or the college freshman vomiting from the weight of the world. I am a future public health leader who understands that the cycle can be broken with the right resources and a community that actually listens. My background is not a source of shame. It is my greatest scientific edge. I know exactly what it looks like when the system fails, and I am dedicating my life to ensuring it never fails someone like me again. I am here to bring the song of my community to the forefront, ensuring it is heard with all the power and nuance it deserves.

My first year of college was intended to be a milestone of celebration as a first generation student. Instead, it became a period of profound loss that tested the limits of my resilience. During my first semester, I lost my grandfather, a man who represented the deep roots and history of my family. Before I could even begin to process the void he left behind, my second semester brought the loss of my uncle. My uncle was more than a relative. He was the person who stepped in to provide the emotional and physical security I lacked in my childhood home. Losing both of them in such a short window caused my mental health to deteriorate. I found myself navigating the heavy fog of depression and the frantic noise of my ADHD while trying to meet the rigorous demands of my freshman year. The deterioration of my mental health felt like a physical weight. There were days when the simple act of attending a lecture felt like a marathon. I was grieving the men who had cheered for my admission into university while simultaneously trying to prove that I belonged in a high level BS/MPH program. This experience shaped my life by forcing me to confront the fragility of the human condition and the vital importance of mental health advocacy. I realized that health is not just the absence of physical disease. It is the ability to access support and find balance when life becomes unbearable. My grief did not just teach me how to mourn. It taught me how to survive and how to seek help when the weight became too much to carry alone. These losses have directly influenced my commitment to the STEM field. I watched how the stress of systemic instability and the lack of accessible, culturally competent healthcare impacted the men in my family. Their passing has turned my academic pursuit into a personal mission. I am no longer just studying public health to understand data points. I am studying it to honor their legacies. I want to build a healthcare system that recognizes the syndemic nature of grief, poverty, and mental illness. I want to ensure that other first generation students have the structural support they need so that when tragedy strikes, they do not have to choose between their education and their healing. My grandfather and my uncle are the reasons I refuse to stay silent. Their memories are now woven into every lab report I write and every community project I lead. I have learned that while grief can temporarily break the spirit, it can also forge a heart that is uniquely equipped to serve others. I bring a level of empathy to my research that cannot be taught in a textbook. I understand that behind every statistic is a family navigating loss and a student trying to find their way through the dark. I am pursuing this degree for them, for myself, and for every community that has lost a pillar too soon. By turning my pain into a platform for health equity, I am ensuring that their influence continues long after they are gone.

I chose to pursue a degree in STEM because I realized early on that data is one of the most powerful forms of advocacy available to marginalized communities. My interest in the sciences did not begin in a pristine laboratory. Instead, it began in a home defined by instability and neglect. Growing up in a household where the bills often went unpaid and the walls were shared with mice and roaches, I saw firsthand how systemic failures manifest in the physical environment. I understood at a young age that my surroundings were impacting my health and my potential, but I lacked the language to describe it. Pursuing a combined BS/MPH degree is my way of acquiring that language and using it to protect others who are currently living in the blind spots of our society. My decision was further solidified during a leadership expedition in Lansdale, Pennsylvania. Standing under a discolored, orange sky with air quality so hazardous that it was physically painful to breathe, the theories of environmental health and epidemiology became a terrifying reality. I realized then that the climate crisis and the spread of infectious diseases are not abstract concepts. They are immediate threats that disproportionately affect families who look like mine. I chose STEM because I want to be the person who stands in that discolored light and uses rigorous data to demand change. I want to turn my lived experience into the technical expertise needed to close the gaps in our healthcare and environmental systems. As a person of color in STEM, I hope to have an impact by humanizing the data and challenging the traditional top-down approach to research. Often, scientific studies treat minority communities as static variables or data points to be solved rather than human beings with complex histories. Because of my background in anthropology, I look at these communities from the inside out. I want to lead research that accounts for the syndemic overlap of infectious disease, substance use, and food insecurity, while also acknowledging the cultural nuances that influence health outcomes. I hope to design public health interventions that are built on a foundation of community trust and cultural accessibility rather than just clinical observation. Furthermore, I aim to dismantle the hidden curriculum of higher education for those who come after me. The STEM field can often feel like an exclusive club where first generation, Black, and LGBTQIA+ students are made to feel like outsiders. By being transparent about my journey, from managing ADHD and depression to succeeding in a high-level master’s program, I want to show that our perspectives are not deficits, but specialized toolkits. I want to ensure that public health policy is informed by leaders who have actually lived through the crises being studied. My impact will be measured not just by the research I publish, but by the number of students from marginalized backgrounds who see my work and realize that they belong in the lab, in the field, and at the decision-making table.

When the curtain rises on Wicked, it is more than just a show. It is a sensory explosion that challenges every bias I hold. The songs and the scenes do not just tell a story; they provide a blueprint for understanding the human why that I am so passionate about. Seeing Cynthia Erivo take on the role of Elphaba is a monumental moment for representation that resonates deeply with my own journey. Watching a Black woman inhabit a character defined by being an outsider—someone whose skin color is the very thing that makes society fear her—is incredibly powerful. Her presence is a reminder that our Blackness is not a barrier to being the lead. It is the lens through which we bring a deeper truth to the story. Take the scene for The Wizard and I. On the surface, it is a hopeful song about a girl finally being seen. But through an anthropological lens, it is a look at how marginalized people feel they must fix themselves to be worthy of the system. Cynthia Erivo brings a soulfulness and a vocal power to this moment that reclaims the narrative. She sings about her green skin and her power with a soaring, desperate cadence. As a Black, first-generation student, I feel that melody in my chest. It represents the pressure to be twice as good just to get a seat at the table. Then the show shifts into the emerald green glory of One Short Day. The scene is a masterclass in color and energy. The vibrant greens are so bright they almost hurt, representing the peak of Oz’s clinical and polished power. But the music is fast and frantic. It mirrors the ADHD mind that I navigate every day. It is beautiful and overwhelming all at once. It captures the feeling of being in a new university and wanting to soak in every piece of data, even when the sensory input is almost too much to bear. The most profound moment for me is Defying Gravity. The scene begins with a heavy and somber discord as Elphaba realizes the Wizard is actually the villain. The music then builds into a triumphant anthem. When she takes flight, it is a physical manifestation of breaking away from a system that wants to cage you. There is a specific grit in Cynthia’s voice that mirrors the resilience I have had to cultivate. The way the music moves from a whisper to a roar is how I feel about my own advocacy for food security and mental health. Finally, For Good is the song that reminds me of my uncle. The scene is quiet and stripped of the neon lights. The lyrics talk about how people are led into our lives like seeds on a wind. It proves that the most impactful health interventions are the ones that happen through connection and mentorship. Cynthia Erivo’s portrayal reinforces my desire to study anthropology. I want to look at the systems that decide who is good and who is healthy and uncover the biases hidden underneath. I am here to bring my full self to the stage of public health, ensuring the song of my community is heard with all the power it deserves.

To be a first-generation student is to be a pioneer in a system that was not originally designed for you. My journey into higher education was not paved with inherited wisdom or financial security; it was forged in a home defined by volatility. I grew up in an environment where the bills went unpaid and the walls were shared with pests, watching my father choose financial survival over his responsibility to me. As a Black, LGBTQIA+ woman navigating the sudden reality of chronic depression and ADHD, I often felt like an "outsider" looking in. However, I have learned that my identity is not a series of deficits, it is a specialized toolkit. I plan to motivate other first-generation students by teaching them to turn their lived experiences into their greatest academic strengths. I intend to inspire others through radical transparency. Many first-gen students feel they must hide their struggles with mental health or poverty to "fit in" at a university. They feel they must present a perfect image to prove they belong. I choose to lead by doing the opposite. By openly sharing my journey, from my uncle’s life-saving support to my current path in a rigorous BS/MPH program, I want to show them that a diagnosis or a difficult upbringing is not a stop sign. It is a lens. I want to motivate my peers to see themselves as "Anthropological Epidemiologists" of their own lives: observers who can identify systemic gaps because they have lived within them. When we are honest about where we come from, we give others permission to be honest, too. My plan to motivate others is rooted in active mentorship and visibility. Just as I mentored young Black girls at leadership camps on topics of consent and self-love, I plan to create spaces for first-gen students to master the "hidden curriculum" of college. This means teaching them how to navigate financial aid appeals, how to approach professors for research opportunities, and how to manage the unique imposter syndrome that follows us into the classroom. I want to ensure they know how to advocate for their needs when the system feels overwhelming. I will share the lessons I learned under the orange, toxic skies of Lansdale, PA reminding them that our communities cannot afford for us to stay silent or invisible. Ultimately, I don’t just want to be the first in my family to graduate; I want to ensure I am not the last in my community to lead. I will use my platform to prove that being "first" doesn’t mean you are alone, it means you are the one holding the map for everyone else. By combining scientific rigor with the grit of a survivor, I will show every first-gen student that they are not just "entering" a system; they are here to redefine it, piece by piece. We are not just students; we are the researchers, advocates, and leaders that the future of public health desperately needs.

When I discuss climate change with my inner circle, I start with the most immediate impact: energy efficiency. In a world where utility bills are often a source of deep anxiety, reducing energy consumption is a win-win. I advise my family to perform a "home audit" by checking for drafts around windows and doors. Simple fixes, like using heavy curtains to keep heat in during the winter or switching to LED bulbs, drastically reduce the demand on power plants while keeping more money in their pockets. We often think of the climate as something "out there," but the climate of our homes is the first place we can exert control. Next, I address the "Anthropology of Food." As someone passionate about food security, I encourage my friends to look at the distance their food travels. When we buy local produce or choose more plant-based meals, even just a few times a week, we are cutting out the massive carbon cost of long-haul shipping and industrial factory farming. I suggest starting a small community "share" or visiting local farmers' markets. Not only does this reduce emissions, but it improves our nutritional health, which is the first line of defense against the health crises I study in epidemiology. I also emphasize the power of conscious consumption and waste. We live in a "throwaway" culture that encourages us to buy cheap, plastic-heavy products that end up in landfills, releasing methane and polluting the groundwater in marginalized communities. I challenge my friends to the "Repair over Replace" rule. Before throwing something away, can it be fixed? Can it be donated? Can we avoid single-use plastics that eventually break down into the microplastics found in our drinking water? Reducing our footprint means breaking our dependence on the corporations that profit from pollution. Finally, I tell them that the most powerful thing they can do is advocate and educate. Individual actions are important, but systemic change happens when we vote for leaders who prioritize air quality and green infrastructure in our neighborhoods. I share my experience from the Chesapeake Bay, describing the physical difficulty of breathing in a climate-impacted zone. I want them to understand that the "orange sky" isn't just a weather event, it’s a signal that we must change how we live. Reducing our carbon footprint isn't about being perfect; it’s about making intentional choices, piece by piece, to ensure that the next generation can breathe a little easier. When we protect the planet, we are quite literally protecting our own mental and physical health.

Entering higher education as a first-generation student feels less like a traditional academic journey and more like a solo expedition into an unmapped territory. As an "outsider" to the system, I do not have the luxury of inherited institutional knowledge. I cannot call a parent to ask how to navigate a FAFSA error, how to approach a professor for research opportunities, or how to manage the unique "imposter syndrome" that arises when you are the only one in the room who grew up in a house with mice in the walls and unpaid bills on the table. My journey has been defined by the silent weight of being the "first," a role that is as much a burden as it is an honor. My experience as a first-generation scholar has profoundly impacted my educational journey by turning me into a student of systems. Because the "hidden curriculum" of college was not explained to me at home, I had to become hyper-observant. I had to learn how to advocate for myself when my financial aid was threatened and how to seek out mental health resources for my ADHD and depression when the system felt designed to let me slip through the cracks. This "outsider" status forced me to develop a level of grit and resourcefulness that my peers—those with generations of college graduates behind them—often do not have to cultivate. I have learned that being an outsider doesn't mean I am less capable; it means I have a more critical eye for where the system is broken. This perspective has directly shaped my future goals as an aspiring Epidemiologist with an anthropological focus. My "outsider" status is exactly what makes me a better scientist. In the world of public health, many experts look at marginalized communities from the top down, treating them as data points to be solved. Because of my background, I look at these communities from the inside out. I understand that the "non-compliance" a doctor might see in a patient is often actually a lack of food security, a struggle with untreated mental illness, or a systemic distrust of a medical system that has historically excluded them. My goal is to use my BS/MPH degree to bridge the gap between the "system" and the people it is meant to serve. I am specifically driven to study the syndemic intersections of infectious disease, substance use, and mental health. I want to ensure that the public health interventions of the future are not just scientifically sound, but culturally and humanly accessible to the "outsiders" of the world. My hope for higher education is that it will provide me with the technical toolkit to turn my lived experience into systemic change. My concern is that the system will continue to overlook the brilliance of students who don't fit the traditional mold. However, I am not here just to graduate; I am here to ensure that the next first-gen, Black, LGBTQIA+ student who enters these halls finds a system that is finally ready to receive them. I am not just a student; I am a pioneer, and I am building the map as I go.

For much of my life, the concept of "home" was synonymous with instability. While I should have been focused on my studies, I was often preoccupied with the survival of my environment. My biological father was a ghost in my life, a man who chose his own financial comfort over his responsibilities to me, eventually leaving me behind entirely. I grew up in a household where the bills were rarely paid, and the walls were often shared with mice and roaches. This environment of neglect didn't just affect my physical safety; it chipped away at my sense of worth. It is difficult to believe in your full potential when your basic needs are treated as an afterthought. However, in the midst of this volatility, my uncle stepped in to rewrite the definition of fatherhood. He became the architect of my potential, showing me that while I could not control the chaos I was born into, I could absolutely control the trajectory of my future. My uncle became the anchor for our entire extended family, stepping into a void that could have easily swallowed our collective futures. He was the one in the audience at every recital, the one who ensured there was food on the table, and the voice on the other end of the phone when the weight of my senior year felt too heavy to carry. When I was on the verge of giving up on high school graduation, paralyzed by the fear that I wasn’t enough, he was the person who stayed on the line until I believed in myself again. Perhaps his most profound impact, however, was his response to my mental health. In a community where chronic depression and anxiety are often stigmatized or dismissed as "weakness," my uncle chose to lead with empathy. He provided the emotional security I had never known, comforting me through the darkest episodes of my depression and helping me find the strength to navigate my ADHD. By validating my struggles rather than judging them, he taught me that my mind was not a "broken" thing, but a place of unique perspective and power. His influence is the direct reason I am now pursuing a combined BS/MPH degree. My uncle modeled what it means to see a gap and step in to fill it. He didn’t just pay bills; he provided a foundation of safety that allowed me to dream beyond my zip code. As I study the "broken pieces" of our society—from infectious disease and substance use to the crisis of food insecurity—I am driven by the same spirit of service he modeled for me. I plan to use my education to be a "public health anchor" for marginalized communities. Just as my uncle stepped into my life to provide the structural and emotional support I needed to survive, I want to design public health systems that provide that same safety for others. I am not just looking for a career in epidemiology; I am looking to honor the man who realized my potential long before I did. I intend to spend my life ensuring that no child’s future is determined by the pests in their walls or the absence of a parent, but by the strength of the community built to catch them.

The world is not a series of isolated data points; it is a complex tapestry of human stories, cultural habits, and systematic structures. As a black, lgbtqia+, and first-generation college student, I have my life navigating the intersections of these realities. However, my most profoundly education hasn't come from the classroom, but from my own lived experience. My most recent diagnosis of chronic depression, ADHD, and severe anxiety has not been a detour; they have been my revelation. They have provided me with the fiery fuel to drive me to pursue a combined Bachelor of Science and Master of Public Health (BS/MPH) degree. I don't just want to study the statistics of illness; I want to dismantle the barriers that make those illnesses so much heavier and marginalized communities, while looking the way I do. I never hear people of my gender and my complexion pursuing these types of these fields. My commitment to this field is rooted in radical empathy and advocacy. This was most evident during my time as a mentor at a leadership camp for young black girls. There, I facilitated vital conversations about consent, bodily autonomy, and self-love. Teaching these young women to navigate their identities with pride taught me that mental health is the bedrock of physical wellness. I realized that public health fail when it's ignored the unique psychological burdens placed on marginalized people. I am driven to be the advocate I needed when I was their age. Someone who understands that neurodivergence and mental health struggles are not deficits, but specialized lenses to view the world. Beyond mentorship, I have sought to understand the anthropological aspects of health through global immersion. Participating in a cultural exploration expedition allowed me to study how different societies interact with their environments and traditions. This experience taught me that health interventions, especially regarding infectious disease, are only successful if they are culturally competent. You cannot solve a health crisis without first understanding the "why" behind human behavior. This belief is what draws me to study of syndemics: the overlapping crises of infectious disease, substance use disorders, and mental illness. Through my volunteer work in accomplishing food security in multiple communities, I have seen the direct link between nutritional scarcity of both addiction and mental health struggles. I am particularly drawn to the study of how infectious diseases like HIV or Hepatitis C disproportionately affect communities where mental health resources and drug education are suppressed. My goal as an Epidemiologist is to use my BS/MPH and professional Co-op to research how we can treat the "whole person" rather than just the pathogen. I want to design harm-reduction strategies that prioritize the mental dignity of the patient as much as their physical recovery, ensuring that the "war on drugs" or the stigma of mental illness no longer blocks access to the life-saving care. I plan to use my education to ensure that "marginalized" does not mean "invisible". By combining the clinical rigor of epidemiology with the ethnographic depth of anthropology, I will advocate for public health policies that are as diverse as the people they protect. I am not just pursuing a degree to advance my career; I am building a bridge so that the next generation of first-generation, black and lgbtqia+ scholars that struggle with their own mental health can walk the world where health equity is a guaranteed right and where their lived experiences are seen as their greatest strengths. This is not about the money. This is about what is right