My commitment to the healthcare profession is rooted in both personal experience and a deep desire to serve people beyond their physical needs. Healthcare, to me, has never been just a career choice — it is a calling shaped by the moments in my life that tested me, shaped me, and ultimately showed me what it means to care for others when they are at their most vulnerable. From a young age, I witnessed firsthand the impact illness has not only on the individual but on the family surrounding them. When I was six years old, I watched my grandmother battle stage four breast cancer. At that age, I did not fully understand the medical terminology or the complexity of her illness, but I understood the quiet heaviness that filled the room. I remember sitting beside her while my mother and I fed her, trying to clean her mouth, only for her to try and eat the wipe because cancer had spread to her brain. I did not have the words to process it then, but I knew even as a child that healthcare was more than just medicine. It was presence. It was compassion. It was dignity. That experience shaped my view of healthcare forever. I saw my mother carry a silent strength in caring for her mother while holding herself together for me. I saw how illness affects families emotionally, mentally, and spiritually — not just physically. This realization became the foundation of my passion for public health and medicine. I want to pursue a career where I can treat not just illness but people in their entirety — their fears, their struggles, their need to be seen beyond their diagnosis. Throughout high school, I have worked to live out this commitment through service to my community. I have volunteered through organizations such as the Red Cross, where I assisted in blood drives and learned life-saving techniques like CPR. I have worked with Operation Smiles to create cards for children facing medical challenges and for the elderly who may feel isolated. With Simple Bare Necessities, I packaged essential hygiene products for individuals in need, knowing that something as simple as soap or toothpaste can restore a sense of dignity and care. These experiences reinforced my belief that healthcare starts long before a patient enters a hospital room — it starts in the community, in small acts of kindness, and in meeting people where they are. My chosen field of study is public health with a focus on pre-medicine. I am committed to becoming a physician who not only treats illness but also works to address healthcare disparities, promote education, and create access for underserved communities. I am passionate about combining medical knowledge with outreach, advocacy, and compassion to make a tangible difference in people’s lives. Healthcare is not just about curing diseases; it is about seeing people fully and treating them with respect, empathy, and understanding. My commitment to healthcare is lifelong. It is a promise I made to myself as a child sitting in that quiet room with my grandmother. It is a promise I renew every time I volunteer, serve, and learn. I am determined to build a career where science and compassion meet — where I can be a source of light in moments of darkness and hope in moments of uncertainty. This is not just what I want to do — it is who I am becoming.

To me, empowerment is not loud. It is not always standing on a stage or leading a crowd. Empowerment, in its truest form, is quiet — it is the moment someone realizes they are worthy, capable, and seen, even if no one else is watching. Empowerment is giving someone the tools to believe in their voice when life has tried to silence it. It is about creating space for growth, healing, and confidence in places where fear and uncertainty once lived. Empowerment has shaped my life not through grand moments, but through small, quiet battles I have had to fight within myself. Growing up as a military child, I lived in a world of constant change. I moved between schools, states, and environments that forced me to adapt before I ever had the chance to get comfortable. I was often the “new kid,” walking into rooms where I didn’t know a single face. At first, I thought empowerment was about being fearless — about never feeling lost or lonely. But life taught me something different. Empowerment, I realized, is not the absence of fear — it is the courage to keep going in spite of it. One of the most defining moments of my life was losing my grandmother to stage four breast cancer when I was six years old. At that age, I didn’t fully understand illness, but I understood loss. I understood what it felt like to sit beside her, trying to care for her in the smallest ways, while feeling helpless. I understood what it felt like to watch my mother carry her grief silently, never letting it stop her from loving or showing up for me. Those experiences taught me strength. They taught me responsibility. But most importantly, they taught me that empowerment sometimes comes from surviving what was meant to break you. Today, empowerment affects every part of how I live and how I serve others. I have given back to my community because I know what it feels like to need support. Through volunteering in clubs like the Red Cross, Operation Smiles, and Simple Bare Necessities, I have worked to give people small reminders that they are cared for — whether through blood drives, handwritten cards, or care packages of hygiene essentials. These may seem like small actions, but I know firsthand how small acts of love can make a world of difference. Empowerment, to me, is also about education. It is about using knowledge not to elevate yourself above others, but to lift others with you. My academic and professional goals are rooted in public health and medicine because I want to serve communities that are often unseen. I want to become a physician who treats not just illness, but the whole person — their fears, their struggles, and their dreams. Empowerment is not about saving people — it is about reminding them they have the power to save themselves. It is about sitting with someone in their darkness and helping them find their light again. That is what empowerment means to me. And that is the life I am determined to live.

I was raised in a life of constant movement — the life of a military child. Change shaped me before anything else did. I grew up learning how to be adaptable, how to make new environments feel like home, and how to find pieces of stability within people rather than places. But one thing that remained constant for me was my love for science — for learning how the world works, how the human body functions, and how knowledge could one day be used to save lives. My passion for pursuing STEM is deeply personal. It isn’t just rooted in a love of learning or curiosity — it’s rooted in experience, in loss, and in the quiet lessons life taught me long before I ever sat in a biology classroom. When I was six years old, I watched my grandmother on my mother’s side battle stage four breast cancer. I was too young to understand the medical terminology, too young to fully grasp what was happening — but I was old enough to feel the weight of it. I remember sitting beside her while my mother and I fed her, holding a baby wipe to clean her mouth, only for her to try to eat it. The cancer had spread to her brain, taking not only her health but pieces of who she was. Watching her lose her battle with cancer shaped me — not because I understood the science then, but because I understood the pain of it. I understood what it felt like to want to help someone and feel powerless. That feeling never left me. It’s what fuels my passion for public health and medicine today. I want to pursue a degree in public health with a focus on pre-medicine because I believe healthcare is not just about treating illness — it’s about serving people. It’s about meeting them in their most vulnerable moments with compassion, respect, and care. I want to study how healthcare systems work, how public health initiatives can reach underserved communities, and how medicine can be used not just to heal bodies, but to restore dignity. My goal is to become a physician who advocates for equitable healthcare access, especially in communities that often go unseen. My mother’s family history of socio-economic hardship and mental health challenges — paired with my father’s experience growing up in Nigeria, where public health crises are a lived reality — have shown me that health is about more than biology. It is about people. It is about their stories, their environments, and the resources available to them. College is the next step in this journey. It will give me the tools I need to serve with both knowledge and heart. I want to use my education in STEM not just to build a career, but to build a life of service — one where science and compassion coexist, where data meets dignity, and where every patient I encounter knows they are seen and valued. STEM, for me, has never just been about formulas or lab reports. It has always been about people. It has always been about carrying light into places darkened by illness, fear, or isolation. This is what I yearn to do.

My academic and professional goals are deeply rooted in service — not service for recognition, but service that reaches people who are often overlooked, unheard, or forgotten. I want to pursue a career in public health and medicine, not because it is easy or glamorous, but because I have seen what happens when people fall through the cracks of a healthcare system that does not always see them as human first. Growing up as a military child, I learned early on that life is unpredictable. Moving between schools, cities, and communities shaped my adaptability, but it also shaped my heart. My experiences showed me that every community has invisible struggles — families carrying grief silently, individuals battling illness behind closed doors, and people living without access to the resources they desperately need. This realization became deeply personal when I was six years old, watching my grandmother battle stage four breast cancer. I was too young to fully understand what was happening, but I saw the impact — not just on her, but on my mother, who carried her grief while caring for her mother and raising me. That experience taught me that health is not just about curing disease; it is about compassion, dignity, and presence. It is about showing up for people when life feels unbearably heavy. Inspired by this, I have made it my mission to give back to my community in ways that reflect empathy and care. Through organizations like the Red Cross Club, I have volunteered at blood drives, prepared snacks for donors, and learned life-saving techniques like CPR. In Operation Smiles, I have created cards for children battling illnesses and for the elderly, reminding them that they are not forgotten. With Simple Bare Necessities, I have packaged essential hygiene items for those in need — items that seem small but can restore dignity to someone going through a difficult time. I have also tutored students through the Black Student Committee, providing academic support and mentorship to those who need guidance and encouragement. Each of these experiences has shaped my view of service. They have reminded me that even the smallest acts of kindness can create ripples of change in someone’s life. Community service is not about grand gestures — it is about meeting people where they are, seeing them fully, and reminding them they matter. Looking ahead, I want to take this mindset with me into my future career. I want to become a physician who not only treats illness but advocates for healthcare access, health education, and equity in underserved communities. I want to combine public health initiatives with medicine to address not just the symptoms of a problem, but its root causes — poverty, lack of education, and social isolation. College is the next step toward making this vision a reality. It will give me the tools, knowledge, and experience I need to serve others with compassion and excellence. But more importantly, it will prepare me to live out what I believe to be true: that the greatest impact we leave on this world is not in what we achieve for ourselves, but in what we give to others. That is the kind of difference I want to make — and that is the life I am committed to building.

Title: The Girl Who Carried Light Opening Scene: Fade in. The screen is quiet — too quiet — except for the hum of a car engine moving steadily down a long, empty road. It’s late. The sky is painted in that fragile space between night and morning, where the stars are still clinging on, but the horizon is already softening with light. A little girl sits in the backseat, knees pulled to her chest, her forehead resting against the cool window. She’s staring out — not at anything in particular — but in that lost, tired way children do when life has already demanded too much from them. The car is packed. Suitcases. A backpack filled with schoolwork. Blankets from two different houses. She is a military child — one who has learned that home isn’t a place you stay — it’s a place you carry. And she has carried it from city to city, state to state, goodbye to goodbye. But tonight feels heavier. The camera shifts to her mother, driving. Her grip on the steering wheel is tight. There’s music playing softly — a song meant to comfort, but the weight in the car is too thick to cut through. Her mother’s eyes are tired — not just from the drive — but from years of holding it all together. In the rearview mirror, we see the little girl again — six years old — but with eyes that look older. Eyes that have seen too much. Flash. The scene cuts — blurred images of her grandmother’s hospital bed. The sound of a breathing machine. A memory stitched into her forever. She is trying to help feed her grandmother, wiping her mouth gently, only for her grandmother to try and chew the wipe — lost in a world cancer stole from her. The girl doesn’t cry. She doesn’t even fully understand what’s happening. But she remembers how quiet love can be. How loud grief can feel even when no one says a word. Flash. Another scene. She’s older now — in high school. Her life looks normal from the outside. Class presentations. Track practice. Volunteering. Laughing with friends. But beneath it all — she is still carrying it. The weight of movement. The ache of loss. The responsibility that came too soon. Voiceover begins. "People think strength looks like loud victories. Like trophies, medals, or moments when the world claps for you. But I learned early that strength is quieter than that." "Strength looks like sitting beside someone you love when you can’t save them. Strength looks like holding yourself together when life pulls you apart. Strength looks like carrying light into places that feel impossibly dark — even when you have to create that light yourself." The scene shifts. She is walking through a college campus now — older, steady, her face calm but determined. There’s a stethoscope hanging from her bag. Medical textbooks tucked under her arm. She pauses beneath a tree — the sunlight breaking through its branches in quiet beams. "This is why I want to go into medicine." "Not because I believe I can save everyone. But because I believe people deserve to be seen — fully, completely — even in their hardest moments. I want to sit in the rooms no one wants to be in. I want to bring dignity to stories that often end in silence." Flash to future scenes — glimpses of her sitting with patients. Holding the hand of someone who is scared. Speaking life into someone who feels forgotten. Not rushing to fix — but staying. Listening. Being present. "I was not born into stillness. I was born into movement — into change, into loss, into love that often hurts. But I have learned to carry light anyway." Final shot. The little girl in the backseat fades into the young woman standing beneath the tree. She looks up — directly into the camera — with the quiet, unshakable look of someone who has survived what was meant to break her. "This is my story. This is my beginning. And I’m just getting started." Fade to black. Title appears: The Girl Who Carried Light.

I was six years old when I first learned that love could break your heart. Cancer is far too complex for a child to understand fully, but its effects do not need explanation. I did not know the medical terminology. I did not understand what "stage four breast cancer" meant. But I understood what it looked like. I understood what it felt like to sit in a house where joy had been replaced with silence, where care had been replaced with caretaking, and where life slowly began to slip away. My grandmother on my mother’s side battled cancer until her last breath. I was not old enough to form the kind of relationship people cherish in their memories. Most of the time I spent with her was not filled with storytelling or laughter. I remember moments that no child should have to remember — sitting beside her as my mother and I fed her, holding a baby wipe to clean her mouth, only for her to try and eat it. The cancer had spread to her brain. The woman who once helped me with homework could no longer recognize the world around her. What hurt even more than watching my grandmother fade was watching my mother break quietly beside her. She tried her best to be strong — for her mother, for me, for herself, for her family, but I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the weight of grief she tried to hide from me, and the love that both held her together and tore her apart. That kind of pain changes a person. Even as a child, I knew she would never be the same. Losing my grandmother at such a young age shaped me in ways I did not understand until I was older. It taught me that life is fragile, and that love is not always soft or easy. Sometimes love means sitting beside someone in their weakest moments, even when there is nothing you can do to save them. Sometimes love looks like patience, sacrifice, and presence. This experience is what drives me to pursue a career in the medical field. I want to work in public health and medicine because I have seen firsthand what illness does to families. I have lived the quiet moments that healthcare rarely sees — the moments after the doctor leaves the room, when reality sets in, and when people are left to grieve in silence. I want to be the person who stays. The person who understands that medicine is not only about curing disease but about caring for people when they are most vulnerable. Attending college is more than just a step toward a degree for me. It is a step toward fulfilling a promise I made to myself — a promise to turn pain into purpose. I want to use my education to serve others with compassion, to reach families like mine who are carrying invisible burdens, and to bring dignity and humanity into every room I enter. Cancer took my grandmother before I was old enough to truly know her, but her story — and my mother’s strength — lives within me. They have shaped my heart, my future, and my purpose. I will carry them with me into every classroom, every hospital, and every life I have the privilege of touching.

I was raised in a life of movement — the life of a military child. I grew up watching the world not from one window, but from many. New schools, new homes, and new faces shaped my earliest memories. I didn’t have the luxury of comfort zones or permanent places. Instead, I learned adaptability, resilience, and how to find pieces of home in people rather than in places. In 2021, my parents divorced, which added another layer of adversity to my life. Suddenly, I was traveling frequently between states to spend time with both of my parents. I became familiar with airports, packing routines, and tearful goodbyes. But the hardest part wasn’t the travel — it was feeling like I belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once. Every time I settled in one place, it felt like I was already halfway out the door. Yet, it was in these moments of instability that I found clarity about who I wanted to become. I want to go into the medical field, specifically public health and medicine because I know what it feels like to navigate challenges quietly. I know what it feels like to carry invisible struggles while still showing up for responsibilities and people. I’ve learned that health is not only physical — it is emotional, mental, and deeply rooted in community and connection. I want to be the person who meets others in their hardest moments and reminds them they are seen, heard, and valued. My inspiration comes from many places. My mother’s side of the family has faced generations of socio-economic hardship and mental health struggles. My father is from Nigeria, where access to healthcare is often limited and public health crises are a lived reality. Their stories opened my eyes to the disparities in healthcare across communities and countries. But more than that, they showed me the power of perseverance, faith, and compassion. Another source of inspiration has been the small moments — watching nurses comfort my loved ones during hospital visits, seeing doctors advocate for patients who didn’t have a voice, and learning about public health leaders who create change not for recognition but for impact. These are the people I look up to — not because of their titles, but because of their hearts. I know the medical field is challenging. It requires sacrifice, commitment, and a willingness to meet people in their most vulnerable states. But I also know I was built for this. My life has been shaped by transitions, obstacles, and growth in uncomfortable spaces. I’ve learned to listen before I speak, to show up even when it’s hard, and to lead with empathy above all else. Medicine is not just a career to me — it’s a calling. It’s the intersection of science and humanity. It’s where knowledge meets compassion, and where small acts of care can change someone’s life forever. I want to spend my life not just treating illness but building trust, creating access, and helping people feel whole again. My story has not been perfect — but it has been purposeful. And I believe every chapter, every challenge, and every lesson has prepared me for a future in medicine. This is who I am. And this is why I am ready to serve.

I was not born into stillness. I was born into movement — the life of a military child. Change was my first language. My earliest memories were not rooted in one house, one town, or one school, but in a rhythm of packing boxes, tearful goodbyes, and walking into unfamiliar rooms with my head held high, even when my heart felt unsure. In 2021, my parents divorced, adding a new layer of adversity to my story. It wasn’t just a separation of people — it was a separation of stability, routine, and childhood innocence. Due to custody agreements, I traveled frequently between states to spend time with both of my parents. The back-and-forth left me feeling split in half — always leaving someone, always missing something. It challenged me mentally, emotionally, and academically. But I refused to let this hardship define me. Instead, I let it shape me. Adversity has a way of refining people. It either hardens them or softens them into strength. I chose the latter. The instability I faced strengthened my resilience, sharpened my time management skills, and cultivated in me a heart of empathy. I realized that while I couldn’t control my circumstances, I could control how I showed up for myself and others. This is why I want to pursue a career in public health and medicine. I have seen firsthand how health is never just about biology — it’s about people, their stories, their environments, and the invisible struggles they carry. My mother’s family history is rooted in socio-economic hardship and mental health challenges. My father grew up in Nigeria, where public health crises are often a lived reality. I grew up watching both sides of my family navigate systems that didn’t always serve them well — and I promised myself I would become part of the solution. I want to make the world a better place by serving people who feel unseen, unheard, or forgotten by healthcare systems. Public health is not just about curing illness — it’s about building trust, creating access, and walking beside people in their hardest moments. It’s about treating people as whole human beings, not just patients or statistics. My dream is to combine community outreach, education, and medicine to create programs that address both health and the social conditions that shape it. Education is my tool, but service is my purpose. My family’s journey taught me that adversity is not a setback — it is a lesson in compassion. It is a reminder that there are people everywhere who need someone to show up for them. I plan to be that person. I plan to use my education not for titles or recognition but to carry light into places darkened by struggle. If I have learned anything from my childhood, it’s this: You don’t have to have a perfect life to create a meaningful one. You just have to be willing to turn your pain into purpose. That’s exactly what I plan to do.

In 2021, my parents divorced, and in many ways, so did my childhood. No one prepares you for what it feels like to have your life split in two. I didn’t just lose the picture-perfect idea of family — I lost consistency, routine, and a version of home that would never exist again. The divorce didn’t just divide a house. It divided holidays, memories, and pieces of me I didn’t even know were fragile. Because of custody agreements, I traveled often between states to spend time with both of my parents. I became familiar with airport terminals and late-night drives. I became a professional at packing bags, but not always so good at unpacking emotions. Every time I left one home, I left behind part of my life — my friends, my routine, my sense of comfort. Every time I arrived at the other, I had to readjust to a different environment, a different rhythm, and sometimes, a different version of myself. I didn’t realize at first how heavy that would feel. Balancing school on top of this was hard in ways I never said out loud. I would sit in unfamiliar rooms trying to finish homework while my mind wandered to everything I missed. Sometimes it wasn’t the big things that hurt the most — it was the small, quiet moments. The empty chair at dinner. The holiday traditions faded. The feeling of being a guest in places that were supposed to feel like home. But despite how difficult it was, I made a promise to myself: I would not let this break me. I would not let my circumstances write my story. School became my anchor. No matter where I was, my education was something no one could take from me. I stayed committed to my classes. I stayed involved in clubs and leadership roles. I fought to keep showing up for myself, even when it would have been easier to stop trying. There were nights I cried quietly while finishing essays. Days I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. But I kept going. Looking back now, I know that this experience shaped me in ways nothing else could. It taught me resilience — not the loud, glamorous kind, but the quiet kind that happens when no one is watching. It taught me how to adapt, how to manage my time, and how to find strength in moments of loneliness. More than anything, it taught me empathy. When you’ve sat in the ache of missing people you love and had to navigate life feeling like a visitor in your own story, you start to see people differently. You realize how many others are carrying invisible weights and you learn to meet them with kindness. My parents’ divorce was not the end of my story. It was the beginning of a new one — one where I discovered who I am when life doesn’t go according to plan. I am not defined by what I lost. I am defined by what I chose to build in its place — strength, compassion, and an unshakable commitment to my future.