My first scientific course was Sociology. Not in a classroom, but on my block in Brownsville, Brooklyn, one of New York City's most under-resourced neighborhoods. By age six, I watched older kids I went to school with join the Crips or Gang Disciples, not out of ambition, but out of necessity, seeking household income or simply protection. There were a few quality hospitals nearby, a few supermarkets, and even fewer success stories for children to look to. Brownsville had adapted a collective resignation, an anomie that quietly discouraged professional careers, college degrees, or dreams that extended beyond the immediate neighborhood. Nobody in my immediate world pushed back against that narrative. Not because they did not care, but because they had never been shown another way. My parents had not gone to college. The path to higher education had not been walked in my household before me. That changed when my family moved to Bedford-Stuyvesant. There, for the first time, I encountered older kids who described careers I had never imagined: computer engineers, specialized surgeons, professionals with futures that stretched far beyond the block. It was the first time I understood that the community we live in can either limit our dreams or nurture them. I made a decision then, quietly and without ceremony, that I would be the first in my family to walk across a graduation stage with a college degree, and that I would not stop there. Being a first-generation student means navigating systems that were never explained to you at home. It means learning the language of financial aid, office hours, research opportunities, and professional networking largely on your own, while also carrying the weight of representing something larger than yourself. There were moments in my freshman year at Howard University, compounded by grief after losing both grandparents to cancer within fourteen months of each other, when the path felt genuinely unclear. I had the desire but lacked the emotional footing. It took mental health counseling, discipline, and the memory of everything my family had endured without surrendering to pull me back to center. What kept my motivation intact, even in the hardest moments, was the clarity of what I am working toward. I am pursuing a Sports Medicine degree with a minor in Business Administration because I intend to do two things simultaneously: practice as a clinician and build a physical therapy chain designed specifically to serve low-income communities like the one I came from. Right now, as a Physical Therapy Aide at Athletico Pivot Physical Therapy, I assist patients with therapeutic exercises, document their progress, and observe who is in the room and who is not. This summer, volunteering in the ambulatory unit at Hospital for Special Surgery will continue building that clinical foundation. The business minor is not incidental. It is the infrastructure behind my larger vision. I want to build a practice that accepts Medicaid and Medicare, pursues federal funding and community health grants, and embeds itself in neighborhoods where the nearest quality care is too far, too expensive, or too unfamiliar to feel safe. A torn ligament in Brownsville should receive the same quality of rehabilitation as one treated on the Upper East Side. That gap is not inevitable. It is a choice, and I intend to make a different one. I am the first in my family to pursue this path. I will not be the last person my community watches do it.

Faith has always been a quiet constant in my life, not the loudest voice in the room, but the one still speaking when everything else goes silent. Growing up in Brownsville, Brooklyn, in a community where hopelessness had become its own kind of culture, faith was often the only framework that made persistence feel rational. When the neighborhood around you normalizes limitation, believing that something better is possible for your life is, in itself, an act of faith. It was that belief, held carefully and stubbornly, that kept me oriented toward a future I could not yet see clearly. Brownsville shaped me in ways I am still understanding. It was a neighborhood of a few quality hospitals, minimal resources, and even fewer blueprints for children to follow into professional careers. By age six, I watched older kids I went to school with join gangs, not because they lacked intelligence or ambition, but because the environment around them had quietly convinced them that certain doors were not meant for them. I absorbed that message too, until I did not anymore. Faith, for me, became the practice of unlearning it. It became the discipline of showing up to school, taking my grades seriously, and believing that Howard University was a place I was allowed to belong, even when imposter syndrome suggested otherwise. That faith was tested most severely during my junior and senior years of high school, when I lost both of my grandparents to cancer within fourteen months of each other. I nursed them through chemotherapy, cooked their meals, cleaned their apartments, and spent sleepless nights researching care recommendations on NIH, trying to do what medicine could not. When my grandmother passed in July 2024, just before my freshman year at Howard, I arrived on campus hollowed out by grief. My first year was harder than I expected. Focusing felt impossible. Opportunities passed by that I was not mentally present enough to catch. What pulled me through was a combination of faith, counseling I began in March 2025, and the memory of what both my grandparents had endured without surrender. Watching them fight, with grace and without bitterness, through some of the most brutal treatments the body can withstand, redefined resilience for me permanently. If they could face that, I could face a difficult semester. I owed them a future they did not get to see. Brownsville itself, in its own painful way, also pushed me toward higher education. Not by offering opportunity, but by showing me so clearly what the absence of it costs. I watched what happened to people who never had a doctor they trusted, who let conditions go untreated because the system had never given them reason to believe it cared about them. That image sits with me now as I work as a Physical Therapy Aide at Athletico Pivot Physical Therapy and prepare to volunteer in the ambulatory unit at Hospital for Special Surgery this summer. Every patient I assist is a reminder of why I am here. Faith, for me, is not separate from ambition. It is the reason ambition survives the hard years. It is what keeps the vision of a PT chain serving underserved communities from feeling naive. It is what makes me believe that a Black woman from Brownsville, who lost her grandparents and found her way to Howard University, belongs in every room she enters and in every future she is building toward.

My first scientific course was Sociology. I grew up in Brownsville, Brooklyn, one of New York City's most under-resourced neighborhoods, where the anomie of not believing in college or professional careers had settled quietly into the culture around me. By age six, I watched older kids join the Crips or Gang Disciples, not out of ambition, but out of necessity. There were a few quality hospitals nearby, a few supermarkets, and even fewer success stories for children to look to. I did not yet have the language for what I was witnessing, but I felt its weight every day. Healthcare was not something my community trusted. I watched people around me avoid doctors until their bodies had no other choice, partly because of cost, and partly because of a deep, earned distrust rooted in generations of medical neglect. Neighboring hospitals like Brookdale carried reputations that did not inspire confidence. The message, spoken and unspoken, was that the healthcare system was not built for people like us. That distrust became personal during my junior and senior years of high school, when both of my grandparents were diagnosed with cancer. My grandfather had battled bladder cancer that returned after COVID weakened his immune system. He passed in May 2023. Two months later, my grandmother was diagnosed with lung cancer. As a senior balancing college applications and a 3.8 unweighted GPA, I became one of the few family members who showed up consistently, cooking meals, cleaning her apartment, and spending nights researching diet and care recommendations on NIH to feel like I was doing something. When she passed in July 2024, right before I began my freshman year at Howard University, I carried both grief and a new clarity. I had seen what cancer does to a body and to a family. I had also seen what it looks like when someone fights to survive with dignity, and I knew I wanted to be the person in the room who fights alongside them. That calling led me to Howard University, where I am pursuing a degree in Sports Medicine with a minor in Business Administration. It also led me to my current position as a Physical Therapy Aide at Athletico Pivot Physical Therapy, where I assist patients with therapeutic exercises, document their progress, and observe firsthand the full arc of what recovery actually requires. This summer, I will volunteer in the ambulatory unit at Hospital for Special Surgery, deepening my clinical exposure and preparing for the kind of patient-centered care I want to provide throughout my career. As a woman in healthcare, and specifically as a Black woman from Brownsville, I understand that representation is not a formality. It is medicine. I have seen how the phrase "I don't trust the doctor" keeps people in pain until their conditions become emergencies. I have sat with women at Bethany Women's Day Center through my work with the National Council of Negro Women and watched their eyes shift when they feel genuinely heard. I have asked children at Tubman Elementary what they want to be and seen them light up with answers they had never been encouraged to speak aloud before. My presence in this field, my face, my background, my insistence on being taken seriously, is itself a form of impact. I am not simply pursuing a healthcare career. I am building a life in medicine that reaches back toward every community that was told it did not deserve better and proves them wrong.

I grew up in Brownsville, Brooklyn, one of New York City's most under-resourced neighborhoods. My first real education in sociology was not in a classroom. It was my block. By age six, I watched older kids I went to school with join the Crips or Gang Disciples, not out of ambition, but out of necessity, seeking income for their households or simply protection. There were a few quality hospitals nearby, minimal supermarkets, and even fewer success stories for children to reach toward. Brownsville had adapted what I would later learn to call anomie, a collective resignation from pursuing professions, degrees, or careers beyond what the immediate neighborhood could offer. I did not yet have the language for it, but I felt its weight. Everything shifted when my family moved to Bedford-Stuyvesant. There, for the first time, I met older kids who described careers I had never imagined: computer engineers, specialized surgeons, professionals with futures that extended far beyond the block. It was the first time I understood that the community we live in can either limit our dreams or nurture them. That realization did not just motivate me. It became my mission. Today, as a Sports Medicine student at Howard University with a minor in Business Administration, a Physical Therapy Aide at Athletico Pivot Physical Therapy, and an incoming volunteer in the ambulatory unit at Hospital for Special Surgery, I am building the clinical and entrepreneurial foundation for a career that is equal parts medicine and service. My business coursework is not incidental to my goals. It is the infrastructure behind them, equipping me with the financial, legal, and operational knowledge needed to build and sustain a practice that actually serves people who have historically been left out of quality healthcare. Working at Athletico, I assist patients with therapeutic exercises, document their progress, and observe the full arc of recovery. What I have also observed is who does not make it through that door, and why. When a young athlete in an under-resourced neighborhood suffers a torn ligament or a laborer develops a chronic back injury, the path to recovery is often long, expensive, and never completed. The consequence is not just physical. It is economic. Untreated injuries pull people out of work, derail potential, and generate healthcare costs that cause generational debt. This is why, alongside my clinical practice, I intend to open a physical therapy chain built specifically to serve communities like the one I came from. Affordability will not be an afterthought. I will structure the business from day one to accept Medicaid and Medicare, pursue federal funding opportunities, and actively apply for medical and community health grants that make subsidized care legally and financially sustainable. Sliding-scale pricing will be embedded into the business so that income doesn't exclude my patients. Cultural competency will be equally central. My membership in the National Society of Black Women in Medicine and the National Council of Negro Women has deepened my understanding of how socioeconomic barriers directly shape health outcomes. Through youth outreach at Tubman Elementary School and service at Bethany Women's Day Center, I have sat with children who light up describing futures as doctors and lawyers, and with women quietly pursuing degrees while relying on food services to survive. These interactions remind me that the deficit in underserved communities is never ambition. It is access. I am not simply hoping to run a successful practice. I am building an institution that proves care, equity, and profitability are not in tension. The most innovative thing a healthcare entrepreneur can do is go where others won't, and stay.

I never saw a woman who looked like me standing in an operating room. Not in my neighborhood, not in my family, and rarely on the screens I grew up watching. Growing up in Brownsville, Brooklyn, a low-income community where few quality hospitals existed, and professional careers felt out of reach, the image of a Black woman as a surgeon was not something my environment offered me. That absence became my answer to why. My why is representation. And my why is access. I am a pre-med student at Howard University pursuing an MD/PhD to become an orthopedic surgeon. But the deeper goal, the one that gets me through every late night of studying and every moment of self-doubt, is gaining access to research laboratories where I can directly tackle the diseases and conditions that disproportionately devastate communities of color and go persistently understudied because the people they affect have been historically undervalued by science. The data is not abstract to me. It lives in my family and my community. Uterine fibroids affect up to 90% of Black women by age 50, yet research funding and clinical urgency surrounding the condition remain disproportionately low relative to its prevalence. Black women face higher mortality rates from breast and ovarian cancers than their white counterparts, not solely because of biology, but because of inequities in early detection, treatment access, and research representation. I have watched women in my community dismiss their own pain, delay care, and distrust a medical system that has given them little reason to believe it sees them fully. That is not a personal failing. That is the consequence of a scientific and medical establishment that for too long did not include women like them at the table, in the laboratory, or behind the research questions being asked. That is exactly why I need to be in those laboratories. Not as a passive observer but as a woman who understands from lived experience which questions are not being asked and why they must be. Research shaped by diverse women in STEM does not just produce better science. It produces more complete science, science that accounts for the full range of human biology and experience rather than defaulting to a narrow standard that has excluded too many for too long. At Howard University, I work as a physical therapy aide at Athletico and volunteer at the Hospital for Special Surgery's Ambulatory Care Unit, the number one ranked orthopedic hospital in the nation. These experiences have reinforced what I already knew from watching my family struggle without adequate answers or access. Proximity to good medicine should not be determined by zip code. The research questions driving clinical innovation should not ignore entire populations. And the women who have been most failed by the system should be among those most empowered to fix it. I chose STEM because the problems I care most about solving live here, in the gap between what science currently knows and what communities like mine desperately need it to discover. I chose it as a woman, and I chose it loudly, because the laboratory is one of the most powerful places to create change for people who have been waiting far too long for science to finally turn its full attention toward them. My why has never been just about becoming a surgeon. It has always been about becoming someone with enough access, enough training, and enough platform to make sure that the women who look like me never have to fight as hard as they currently do just to be seen by medicine.

Calculus is the language that STEM uses to describe change, and almost everything worth studying in science, technology, engineering, and medicine involves something that is changing. Without calculus, we would have the vocabulary to describe where things are, but not the tools to understand where they are going or why. At its core, calculus is built on two ideas: derivatives and integrals. Derivatives measure how quickly something changes at any given moment. Integrals measure accumulation, the total effect of something building over time. Those two concepts sound abstract until you realize they are embedded in nearly every field that STEM touches. In medicine, calculus is present in ways that directly affect patient outcomes. Pharmacokinetics, the study of how drugs move through the body, relies entirely on calculus. When a physician determines a dosage, the goal is to maintain a therapeutic concentration in the bloodstream without reaching toxic levels. That calculation requires understanding rates of absorption, distribution, and elimination, all of which are modeled using differential equations rooted in calculus. As someone pursuing an MD/PhD to become an orthopedic surgeon, I think about this often. Surgical planning, biomechanical modeling of joints and bone stress, and even the physics of implant design all depend on mathematical frameworks that calculus makes possible. Understanding how force accumulates across a joint over time, or how quickly inflammation spreads through tissue after surgery, are not just biological question. They are calculus questions. In engineering, calculus is foundational to building anything that moves, generates power, or processes information. Structural engineers use it to calculate how stress is distributed across a bridge or a building under load. Electrical engineers use it to model current and voltage as they change over time in a circuit. Aerospace engineers use it to determine the trajectory of a spacecraft, accounting for gravitational pull, velocity, and atmospheric resistance simultaneously. None of these calculations is possible with arithmetic alone. They require the tools calculus provides to handle continuous change across time and space. In technology, machine learning and artificial intelligence are built on calculus. The process by which an algorithm learns from data, called gradient descent, is a direct application of derivatives. The algorithm measures how wrong its predictions are, calculates the rate at which its error is changing relative to its parameters, and adjusts accordingly. Every recommendation you receive from a streaming platform, every image a diagnostic AI analyzes for signs of disease, every navigation route recalculated in real time is the product of calculus operating invisibly in the background. In biology and environmental science, calculus models population growth, the spread of disease, and the rate at which ecosystems respond to climate change. Epidemiologists used differential equations throughout the COVID-19 pandemic to model infection rates and project hospitalization surges. Those models informed policy decisions that affected millions of lives. What makes calculus particularly important is not just its applications but what learning it develops in a student. Calculus teaches you to think in terms of rates, limits, and continuous processes rather than isolated snapshots. It builds the mental flexibility to move between the infinitely small and the enormously large, to see how a single moment of change compounds into a significant outcome over time. That kind of thinking is exactly what STEM demands. The fields that are solving the most pressing problems in the world, climate, cancer, artificial intelligence, structural safety, and drug development, all speak calculus fluently. Learning is not just an academic requirement. It is an entry point into the conversations that matter most.

I am a pre-med student at Howard University, and most of my time is spent studying the human body, understanding how systems work together, and learning what happens when they break down. Medicine taught me that the most important thing you can do for another person is truly see them, not just their symptoms, not just their surface, but the full picture of who they are. That is exactly the challenge I would bring to Love Island. I call it "Anatomy of Us." Love Island is at its best when it strips away performance and gets to something real. "Anatomy of Us" is designed to do exactly that. It is a challenge that tests whether couples actually know each other beneath the highlight reel, because just like in medicine, a correct diagnosis requires more than a glance. The Setup The villa transforms into a sleek, modern examination room, meets a romantic evening gala. Think white linen draped over diagnostic tables, soft candlelight, anatomical heart projections on the walls, and islanders dressed in elegant white and gold. It is clinical and romantic at the same time, because real love requires both precision and warmth. Round One: The Vitals Check Each islander is handed a card with five questions about their partner. Not surface-level questions like favorite color or dream vacation. These go deeper. What is one thing your partner has never said out loud, but you can tell weighs on them? What does your partner need when they are overwhelmed but will never ask for? What is one moment this villa where you saw your partner be completely themselves? Couples answer simultaneously, then compare. The pairs with the most matching answers earn a "Healthy Connection" score and move forward with an advantage. The pairs who struggle are not eliminated, but they are sent to Round Two with a mirror held up. Round Two: The Diagnosis This is where it gets honest. Each islander sits across from their partner and completes one sentence out loud, no editing, no rewinding. "The version of myself I have been hiding from you is..." The villa goes quiet. No music. No commentary from other islanders. Just two people and the truth sitting between them. Islanders in the audience vote on which couple showed the most genuine vulnerability, not the most dramatic moment, but the most real one. Round Three: The Prescription Every good diagnosis ends with a treatment plan. In the final round, each islander writes their partner a handwritten note that answers one question: What do you commit to doing differently so this connection can grow? The notes are read aloud at a candlelit table set for two. No cameras close in. No dramatic music swells. The host simply steps back and lets the moment breathe. The couple voted most transformed by the challenge, meaning the pair who visibly deepened their understanding of each other across all three rounds, wins a private dinner and immunity from the next recoupling. Why This Challenge Matters The best relationships, like the best medicine, require you to ask better questions, listen more carefully, and commit to understanding what is actually happening beneath the surface. "Anatomy of Us" would give Love Island something it does not always have enough of: stillness, sincerity, and the radical act of two people choosing to truly know each other. Drama is entertaining. But watching two people actually see each other? That is unforgettable television.

Cancer did not arrive in my family as a single event. It came in waves, and each wave asked more of us than the last. During my junior and senior years of high school, both of my grandparents were fighting cancer simultaneously. My grandfather had battled bladder cancer that was once in remission for years, until his immune system weakened significantly after COVID, leaving his cancer to grow back. My grandmother, who had spent so much of herself keeping him healthy and comfortable, ignored a worsening cough she had started to develop. She put his needs above her own for so long that by the time she turned attention to herself, it was too late. After my grandfather passed away in May 2023, my grandmother passed away with lung cancer in July. As a senior in high school, balancing college applications, maintaining a 3.8 unweighted GPA, and keeping up with extracurriculars, I was one of the few family members who seized every moment to nurse her. I cooked for her, cleaned her apartment, and gave her the simple company of a granddaughter who was not ready to let go. On nights when insomnia took over, I spent hours reading medical websites and nutrition guides, trying to understand what her diet should look like to support her body through chemotherapy. I was not a doctor. I was a teenager doing everything I could think of to keep her alive. She passed right before I started my freshman year at Howard University, which was pretty traumatic. Watching her body, and my grandfather's before hers, deteriorate through chemotherapy was one of the most difficult things I have ever witnessed. I told my mother once, "I did all I could do to keep them alive." That feeling of helplessness followed me into my first year of college, and it showed. I struggled to focus, felt the weight of grief in everything, and watched opportunities pass me by because I was not mentally or emotionally ready for them. What changed was a decision I made to take my healing seriously. Sophomore year, I committed fully to therapy and mental health counseling, not as a last resort but as an active investment in my future. The discipline that commitment required translated directly into my academics. I am maintaining a 3.4 cumulative GPA as a pre-med student, and I am more present, more intentional, and more driven than I have ever been. Therapy taught me that showing up for yourself is not separate from showing up for others. It is the foundation of it. That lesson connects directly to what I learned through caregiving for my grandparents: hospitality and genuine human care are not soft skills sitting on the edges of medicine. They are the first and most essential skills a physician must develop. Long before I understood cell cycle regulation or surgical technique, I understood what it meant to sit beside someone who was suffering and make them feel less alone. I learned how to read a person's comfort, anticipate their needs, and offer presence as a form of treatment. Those are the instincts I am now building a medical career on top of. Cancer taught my family about endurance. It taught me about the kind of doctor I refuse to become. Every hour I spent at my grandmother's bedside, every therapy session I showed up to, and every exam I pushed through as a pre-med student have been preparation for the orthopedic surgeon I am working toward becoming, one who understands that healing a body begins with caring for the whole person inside it.

My legacy will be built at the intersection of medicine, community, and access. The plan is specific, and it starts now. I currently volunteer at the Hospital for Special Surgery's Ambulatory Care Unit, ranked the number one orthopedic hospital in the nation, where I also work in physical therapy. Being in that environment, watching patients relearn movement, rebuild strength, and reclaim independence after injury or surgery, has shown me what medicine looks like when it is done right. It is not only the surgeon's precision in the operating room but the months of physical rehabilitation that follow. I want to own both of those sides of recovery, and my time at HSS is the first step toward understanding how they work together. The plan is to become an orthopedic surgeon and, from that platform, open a physical therapy chain rooted in underserved communities. The business model I envision would offer sliding scale pricing, community health partnerships, and staff that reflect the patients being served. I was raised in Brownsville, Brooklyn, where few quality hospitals existed, and Brookdale Hospital, our neighboring facility, carried a high mortality rate. I watched people delay care, distrust doctors, and suffer longer than necessary because the system had failed them repeatedly. My physical therapy chain would be placed intentionally in neighborhoods like Brownsville, where follow-up rehabilitation care is rare, and patients are most likely to abandon recovery due to cost or distance. Locations would also prioritize transit accessibility because I know firsthand that getting to an appointment is a barrier in itself. To build toward this, I am pursuing an MD/PhD in orthopedics to develop both the surgical expertise and the research foundation needed to make evidence-based decisions as a practitioner and business owner. Through my role on the Economic Empowerment Committee of the National Council of Negro Women, I have already begun learning how to design and execute programs for underserved communities, creating financial literacy workshops from the ground up. That same organizational thinking will carry over into structuring a business that not only treats injuries but also invests in the long-term mobility and well-being of patients who have historically been overlooked. I shine my light through presence and preparation, but the final piece of my legacy is making sure others have the opportunity to shine theirs. Inspired by scholarships like the Let It Shine award, I plan to create a scholarship fund specifically for low-income students from communities like Brownsville. Growing up in a neighborhood where the anomie of not believing in college or professional careers felt like the only available script, I know that financial barriers are often the difference between a dream that lives and one that disappears quietly. My scholarship would target first-generation students pursuing healthcare and STEM fields, because those are the pipelines that communities like mine need most and benefit from least. The physical therapy chain treats the body. The scholarship invests in the mind. Together, they form the two pillars of what I hope to leave behind: a neighborhood that heals and a generation that believes it can build something too.

Growing up in Brownsville, New York, shaped the person I am today. My community is a low-income Black neighborhood where many families rely on Medicare or Medicaid and where chronic conditions such as arthritis are common. I saw people lose mobility at young ages, and I learned early that health outcomes are not equal across communities. The experience that shaped me most deeply was watching my aunt develop severe arthritis this past year as a complication of sickle cell disease. She is still young, yet she struggles to stand, walk, and complete daily tasks that should be simple. Seeing her lose mobility made me realize how many people of color face preventable orthopedic-related diseases without access to the care they need. Her experience is one of the reasons I chose to pursue STEM through health science. My passion for rehabilitation through medicine drives my commitment to becoming an orthopedic physician or a physical or occupational therapist. I want to help people regain independence, restore mobility, and prevent the long-term complications that disproportionately affect Black communities. I began exercising this purpose during my sophomore year of college when I started working as a physical therapy aide. I assist patients with therapeutic exercises, track their progress, and support them through the emotional challenges of recovery. This role has shown me how powerful rehabilitation can be when it is delivered with patience, cultural understanding, and scientific knowledge. Service is a core value that guides my work. Since 2024, I have been a loyal volunteer at Thrive DC, where I distribute food to low-income families and make sure that the options include nutritious foods with essential macronutrients. I want to support communities that resemble the one I grew up in, where access to healthy food is limited and chronic disease is common. I also serve as secretary of the Physical Therapy Club and am an active member of the Howard Heart Club and the National Council of Negro Women. These organizations have allowed me to promote health education, support community wellness, and develop leadership skills that I will carry into my future career. My degree in sports medicine is preparing me for my goals by teaching me biology through a musculoskeletal lens. This foundation is essential for the work I hope to do in orthopedic care and rehabilitation. I will also be participating in research under my professors, which will strengthen my scientific skills and deepen my understanding of injury, mobility, and prevention. In the future, I hope to create more efficient medical devices that address orthopedic issues in underserved communities. I also plan to establish scholarship programs for undergraduate and medical students from low-income backgrounds, because I understand the financial barriers that make STEM careers feel out of reach. My goal is to uplift others in the same way I hope to be uplifted through this opportunity. This scholarship would help me continue my education without carrying the financial burden that often limits students from communities like mine. With this support, I will continue working toward a career dedicated to equity, innovation, and meaningful impact.

I grew up watching my aunt live with a level of pain that no one her age should have to endure. She has sickle cell disease, and by her early thirties, the repeated blockages of blood flow to her joints had caused severe arthritis and avascular necrosis. I remember helping her stand from the couch and seeing her pause before taking a single step. Her body moved as if it belonged to someone much older, and I could not understand why a disease that affected so many people of color received so little attention. Those early memories shaped my understanding of health and planted the first seeds of my desire to enter the healthcare field. As I learned more, I realized that my aunt’s experience was not an isolated case. Sickle cell disease disproportionately affects Black families, and many patients develop early joint degeneration and chronic pain that limit their ability to perform basic daily tasks. These are preventable forms of suffering that continue because of gaps in access, education, and culturally competent care. I chose to pursue health science because I want to help close those gaps. I want to be part of the generation that reduces the disproportionate burden of orthopedic-related disease in communities of color. My own injury as a dancer strengthened this purpose. When I tore a muscle during rehearsal, I temporarily lost the ability to move in the ways that defined me. That loss of independence gave me a deeper understanding of what my aunt had lived with for years. Later, while working as a physical therapy aide at Athletico, I saw how many patients struggle not only with pain but with the loss of daily function. Many are trying to regain the ability to dress, cook, work, or care for their families. These experiences led me toward occupational therapy, a field that restores participation, identity, and quality of life. I also want to make a difference through education and prevention, especially for young athletes. I know what it feels like to push through pain and ignore warning signs, and I have seen how common it is for athletes to train without proper guidance on fueling, recovery, and long-term joint health. I want to teach athletes how to protect their bodies early so they do not face preventable mobility loss later in life. Prevention is a form of empowerment, and it is one of the most meaningful ways to reduce long-term health disparities. The mission of the Jeune Mondestin scholarship resonates with me because I understand how difficult it can be to enter the health field without financial support. The education required to become a healthcare professional is significant, and many students with the passion and drive to serve their communities are forced to choose alternate paths because of financial barriers. This scholarship would allow me to continue my education without carrying the weight of that burden and would support my goal of becoming a clinician who creates real impact. I want to help patients regain independence, prevent avoidable suffering, and ensure that no one’s mobility or future is determined by their race or their resources. That is the difference I hope to make.

I was sixteen when I first understood how quickly the body can fail. During a ballet rehearsal, after weeks of underfueling and pushing through pain, I felt a sharp tear in my groin that forced me to the floor. The injury was not catastrophic, but the loss of mobility felt life‑altering. I could not lift my leg, sit comfortably, or move with the ease that had always defined me. For the first time, I experienced what it meant to lose access to the activities that shaped my identity. That moment stayed with me, long after the physical pain faded, and it became the foundation of my commitment to a career in occupational therapy. Working as a physical therapy aide at Athletico deepened that commitment. I assist patients with therapeutic exercises, monitor their progress, and support them through the emotional frustration that accompanies recovery. What I have learned is that healing is never limited to muscle strength or joint mobility. Many patients are trying to regain their ability to perform daily tasks: dressing, cooking, working, caring for their families, and participating in the routines that give their lives meaning. Occupational therapy’s focus on restoring function and independence resonates with me because it addresses the full human experience, not just the physical injury. My own injury also shaped another part of my purpose: educating young athletes about healthy training practices. I know what it feels like to ignore warning signs, to push through pain, and to believe that performance matters more than long‑term health. Too many young athletes train without proper guidance on fueling, recovery, and injury prevention. As an occupational therapist, I want to intervene early by teaching athletes how to protect their bodies, train sustainably, and preserve their future mobility. Preventing injury is just as important as treating it, and I want to be a clinician who helps young people understand that strength and longevity must coexist. My awareness of health disparities has further shaped my path. At Athletico, I noticed who was missing. Black patients, who experience a disproportionate burden of musculoskeletal disease, are often absent from orthopedic and rehabilitative spaces. This inequity is especially visible in conditions like sickle cell disease. Approximately one in 365 Black infants is born with sickle cell disease (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, 2023), and more than 90 percent of affected individuals in the United States are Black (Office of Minority Health, 2022). Many develop early joint degeneration, avascular necrosis, and chronic pain that make basic tasks difficult long before adulthood. These patients need occupational therapy not only to manage pain but to maintain independence and quality of life. Yet many never reach a specialist because of systemic barriers I witness every day. My academic and community involvement has reinforced this mission. Through the National Council of Negro Women, the Howard Heart Club, and leadership in the Physical Therapy Club, I have engaged in health education, advocacy, and service. Each experience has shown me how transformative it is when people receive the support they need to participate fully in their lives. Pursuing a bachelor’s degree is the next step in my path toward becoming an occupational therapist. I want to serve communities that are too often overlooked, help patients rebuild their lives after injury or chronic illness, and empower young athletes to train in ways that protect their long‑term mobility. My injury taught me how devastating it is to lose independence. My work has shown me how meaningful it is to help someone regain it.

Growing up, I watched my aunt struggle with severe arthritis that limited her mobility and reshaped the way she moved through the world. At the time, I only understood it as a painful joint condition. As I grew older and began studying Sports Medicine, I learned that arthritis is not only a common degenerative disease but can also be a secondary complication of sickle cell disease. That realization changed everything for me. It made me think about the countless individuals whose joint deterioration is accelerated not by age, but by a genetic blood disorder that disproportionately affects Black communities. It also made me imagine what it would mean to create a medical device or therapeutic intervention that could slow, prevent, or ease that progression. This personal connection is what drives my commitment to orthopedic surgery and research, and it is also why diverse representation in STEM is not just important but essential. Diverse representation in STEM careers ensures that the scientific questions being asked reflect the lived experiences of all communities, not only those historically centered in research. When people from different racial, ethnic, gender, and cultural backgrounds enter scientific fields, they bring with them unique perspectives that shape the direction of innovation. Without this diversity, entire categories of health disparities can remain overlooked or under‑researched. Sickle cell disease is a clear example. Although it affects millions globally, it has historically received less research funding and fewer therapeutic advancements compared to other genetic conditions. This imbalance is not accidental. It reflects a long‑standing pattern in which diseases that disproportionately impact marginalized groups receive less scientific attention. When STEM fields lack representation, the consequences are not abstract. They directly influence which diseases receive funding, which technologies are developed, and which communities benefit from scientific progress. My aunt’s arthritis, and the knowledge that similar joint damage affects many individuals with sickle cell disease, is a reminder that scientific innovation must be informed by the needs of all populations. A more diverse STEM workforce increases the likelihood that researchers will identify these gaps, advocate for them, and design solutions that are culturally and clinically relevant. This belief aligns deeply with the spirit of the Julia Elizabeth Legacy Scholarship, which honors individuals who are committed to uplifting others and creating meaningful change. Julia Elizabeth’s legacy emphasizes compassion, leadership, and the courage to pursue work that improves the lives of others. Diverse representation in STEM embodies that same mission. It ensures that scientific progress is not limited to a narrow set of experiences but is instead shaped by people who understand the urgency of addressing inequities that affect their own communities. My goal to become an orthopedic surgeon who develops innovative surgical techniques and medical devices for sickle‑cell–related joint degeneration is rooted in this understanding. I want to be part of a generation of scientists and clinicians who not only treat disease but also challenge the systemic gaps that allow certain conditions to remain under‑addressed. Diverse representation in STEM is not simply about inclusion. It is about transforming the scientific landscape so that every community has the opportunity to be seen, heard, and healed.

Sitting in my grandmother’s private doctor’s office, I listened as he slowly disclosed the results of her recent scans. The tumors had grown larger. She didn’t look surprised—her frail body had already warned her—but the news weighed heavily on me. That day, as hard as it was, became my turning point: the moment I realized I was meant to be a doctor. It wasn’t the medical facts that amazed me—it was the doctor’s attitude. He was respectful, compassionate, and humane. He even went out of his way to praise the radiologist who had detected the tumor growth early, showing me how healthcare is an ecosystem that relies on teamwork. That experience changed my view of radiology—not just as a background science but as a vital part of cancer treatment and diagnosis. I saw my future as a doctor who could bring clarity to people in need. Shortly after in my Freshman year, I faced the steep cost of my physics course, including test fees. My father—a single parent—had just finished paying our bills when he told me, regretfully, that he couldn’t afford the class that month. It was near the end of the add/drop period, and I was forced to drop a required pre-med course. That moment was stressful, not just because it set me back on my requirements, but because I saw my father’s shame on FaceTime. My undergraduate years at Howard University are preparing me to serve patients. As a double major in Sports Medicine and Biology, I want to understand the human body from all sides. My time in college is not just a path to medical school—it’s a chance to become professionally ready through coursework, research, and hospital volunteering. I’m gaining the mindset and skills for a career in medicine. My goal is to become a radiologist. It’s a specialty that fits my interests in science and problem-solving. Beyond that, I want to help create a healthcare system that is more diverse and innovative. Someday, I hope to do research with agencies like the National Cancer Institute and help develop diagnostic technology. I also want to create mentorship and shadowing opportunities for students, especially those from underrepresented groups. As a low-income student, I’ve felt how disparities affect education and medicine. I’m applying for ScholarshipDetective’s Launch Scholarship to make sure moments like dropping that physics class don’t happen again. This award will help me cover the cost of classes at Howard University, stay on track with medical prerequisites, and focus on becoming a radiologist who advances diagnostic technology. My inspiration to become a physician comes from empathy and a passion for service. I want to heal people and change systems from within. Becoming Dr. Scott honors my grandmother, helps others, and creates space for new voices in healthcare. College is the first step—and I plan to make the most of every opportunity.

I sat in the office of a private doctor with my grandmother and listened as she slowly disclosed the results of her recent scans. The tumors had grown. Though my grandmother wasn’t surprised—her body had already warned her—the news shook me. I was a high school senior at the time, in the early stages of applying to college. That day, as difficult as it was, became a turning point: the moment I knew I was meant to be a doctor. It wasn’t just the medical facts that affected me—it was the doctor’s demeanor. She was compassionate, respectful, and gentle, even as she delivered hard news. She praised the radiologist who had caught the tumor’s growth early, which made me see radiology not just as a behind-the-scenes specialty, but as a vital, collaborative part of patient care. That experience opened my eyes to a future I had never considered: a future where I could bring hope, dignity, and clarity to people during their most vulnerable moments. Today, I’m double majoring in Sports Medicine and Biology. My short-term goal is to attend medical school and become a radiologist. I chose this field because it blends my interests in science, technology, and human connection. Radiology offers the chance to solve medical puzzles while also impacting lives—often behind the scenes but always at the heart of diagnosis and care. As a long-term goal, I hope to lead or collaborate on research initiatives through institutions like the National Cancer Institute, working on imaging technologies that detect tumors early and accurately. I also want to create shadowing and mentorship programs in the radiology departments I work in—especially for students from underrepresented or low-income backgrounds. I envision opening doors for future healthcare professionals the same way others have held them open for me. Being a Black woman in medicine profoundly shapes my goals. I’ve experienced how racism, bias, and lack of representation in healthcare can harm patients and discourage young people from entering the field. When patients see a physician who looks like them or understands their culture, it builds trust. It leads to better communication and outcomes. And when young Black girls see women like me in a white coat, they begin to imagine their own possibilities. But the road here hasn’t been easy. As a low-income student, affording college has been a constant stressor. Every semester comes with financial uncertainty—books, lab fees, tuition gaps, and living costs all add up. This scholarship would help lift a significant burden, allowing me to focus on my education, clinical work, and preparation for medical school without the constant fear of falling behind financially. More than that, it would be an investment in a future physician who is deeply committed to both patients and progress. I chose medicine because I want to heal, solve problems, and change the healthcare system from within. I want to honor my grandmother’s memory, help people through their hardest days, and build a future where young, Black, first-generation students like me don’t have to choose between surviving and dreaming. This scholarship would not only support my education—it would help me become the kind of doctor I needed to see growing up.

I sat in the office of the private doctor with my grandmother and listened to her slowly tell me the results of her most recent scans. The tumors were enlarging. She did not look shocked—her body had already informed her that something was wrong—but the news did not agree with me. I was a senior in high school then, in the early stages of college application. That day, hard as it was, became my awakening: the day I realized that I was meant to be a doctor. It was not the medical facts that surprised me that day so much—it was the attitude of the doctor. He was compassionate, polite, and very human. He even went so far as to praise the radiologist who had identified the growth of the tumor early, showing how medicine is an ecosystem dependent on collaboration. That encounter changed my view of radiology—not just as a technical science in the shadows, but as a vital and compassionate aspect of patient care. I knew then that I would be a physician who would be able to bring hope, dignity, and clarity to the most challenging of times. As a Sports Medicine major and double major in biology, I desire to know the human body from all sides. College is not simply a path to med school—it's a way for me to get intellectually, emotionally, and professionally prepared. Through class, research, and volunteering at hospitals, I will achieve my short term goal of gaining the attitude and skills necessary for a career in medicine. My vocational and overall aspirations for my future as a medical career are to be a radiologist. It is the only specialty that unites my interest in science, problem-solving, and caring. But even more than this, I want to work in a more diverse, more innovative, and more accessible healthcare system. My aspiration is to eventually carry out research with institutions like the National Cancer Institute or the National Institute of Biomedical Imaging and Bioengineering to contribute to the development of cancer imaging and diagnostic device technology. I also plan to initiate programs in the radiology departments where I work—providing mentorship and shadowing for students, especially those from underrepresented and underserved communities. Being a low-income Black student myself, I have seen firsthand how inequalities of opportunity affect everything from education to medicine: affirmative action in reverse to scientific racism. Racial diversity is business as usual to me because it makes patients feel more comfortable in a vulnerable environment of a hospital or medical office. Representation builds a tighter patient-physician relationship. But the road has been accompanied by a heavy cost: paying for an increasing tuition. A student from a low-income family who lives in a single-parent household, every semester wondering about the affordability of books, cost of living, and more. SigLa's award would remove such burden and cover any other costs required to complete my coursework. Beyond that, it would be an investment in a future physician committed to patients and progress. I chose medicine because I want to heal, repair, and change the healthcare system from the ground up. I want to make my grandmother proud, help others on their worst days, and make a world where younger, Black, first-generation students like me don't have to become survivors or dreamers but do both. The scholarship would not only pay for my education—it would make me the kind of doctor I needed to have when I was a child.

I sat in the office of a private doctor with my grandmother and listened as she slowly disclosed the results of her recent scans. The tumors grew larger. She did not look surprised—her body had already warned her that something was wrong—but the news weighed on me. I was in the midst of being a senior in high school at the time, in the early stages of applying to colleges. That day, as hard as it was, became my turning point: the day I realized I was meant to be a doctor. It wasn't the medical facts that amazed me that day so much—it was the attitude of the doctor. He was compassionate, respectful, and very humane. He even went out of his way to praise the radiologist who found the growth of the tumor early, showing how healthcare is an ecosystem that depends on teamwork. That experience changed my outlook on radiology—not just as a technical science in the background, but as an essential and compassionate aspect of patient treatment. I realized at that point that I would be a doctor who would be able to bring clarity, hope, and dignity to the most difficult of moments. College is important to me because it's the foundation that will allow me to become that kind of physician. I'm double majoring in Sports Medicine and Biology, as I wish to understand the human body from all sides. My time in college is not merely a path to medical school—it's a chance for me to become academically, emotionally, and professionally prepared. Through coursework, research, and hospital-based volunteer experience, I'm gaining the mindset and skills it takes for a career in medicine. My professional and overall ambitions for my career in medicine are to be a radiologist. It is the only specialty that aligns my interests in science, problem-solving, and compassionate care. But in addition to this, I hope to serve in a healthcare system more diverse, more innovative, and more accessible. My aspiration is to someday do research with agencies like the National Cancer Institute or the National Institute of Biomedical Imaging and Bioengineering, assisting in the progression of cancer imaging and diagnostic equipment technology. I also plan to establish programs within the departments of radiology that I work in—providing for mentorship and shadowing programs for students, especially those from underrepresented and underserved groups. As a low-income Black student, I have seen first-hand how disparities of opportunity affect everything from education to medicine. That's why I believe increasing the racial diversity of medicine is not only an imperative—it's an emergency. Patients are more comfortable, listened to, and respected when they see someone who shares or honors their identity. Representation creates trust. It erases stereotypes. It's about visibility, as well. Young students see doctors, researchers, and leaders that look like them and know that they can belong there, as well. My big goal in the long run is to create scholarships for students like me—ambitious and bright but stymied by financial limitations. I hope to be a person who shatters barriers, not just for patients, but for aspiring doctors, as well. My inspiration to become a physician arises from empathy, curiosity, and a passion for service. I wish to heal people, assist individuals with significant problems, and change systems from within. Through being a physician, I can be an act of reverence to my grandmother, assist others to get well, and make space for new voices in the healthcare sector. College is the first step to that process—and I plan on making the most of each opportunity.

I sat in a private doctor's office beside my grandmother and listened as her doctor slowly disclosed the result of her previous scans. The tumors had grown. She didn't respond with shock—her body had already told her something was wrong—but it bothered me. I was a senior in high school at the time, just beginning the college application process. That encounter, as painful as it was, was the beginning of something wonderful: a clear recognition that I was interested in a career in medicine. That doctor wasn't just a medical doctor with a medical degree—he was a communicator, a listener, and an calming presence. He even went out of his way to praise the radiologist who found the changes in the scan early on, and it impressed me. It taught me to see radiology as not this behind-the-scenes specialty but as an integral part of patient care. I saw how science and empathy could meld together to give light and reassurance in one's most vulnerable moments. That was the kind of power I wanted to have. College is important to me because it's the next step in becoming that person. I desire my college experience to provide me with the knowledge, experiences, and networks that will equip me to be a physician—namely, a radiologist who is both innovative and empathetic. I am double majoring in Biology and Sports Medicine currently because I think that having an understanding of the human body from all sides will help me to be a better rounded, ready candidate for medical school and the world beyond. But college isn't merely the doorway to medical school. I hope it will be a period of growth—academically, professionally, and personally. I've started along that track by shadowing physicians in different specialties and working in hospital settings where I watch doctors work with patients at their most vulnerable. I hand out blankets, listen to doctors discuss diagnoses, and witness the human and technical skill involved in medicine. These are the times that make me remember why I'm here and why I keep striving. Other than striving to prepare for my career, I would like to utilize my college experience to begin paying it forward. Being a low-income student, I am familiar with firsthand the stress and anxiety produced by financial distress. That is why one of my long-term goals is to establish scholarships and mentorship opportunities for students like me—bright and driven but in way hindered by circumstance. In the future, I also hope to establish and administer shadowing programs in radiology suites to give high school and college students a realistic and inspiring view into the medical field. Ultimately, I hope that college can equip me not just to have a positive effect on the lives of my future patients, but also on the lives of other students, researchers, and young physicians. I would like to be among the bigger picture by contributing to national research studies with agencies like the National Cancer Institute or the National Institute of Biomedical Imaging and Bioengineering. Supporting the research into cancer treatment imaging technologies would be the greatest way to honor my grandmother's memory and my first encounter with that small examination room. College isn't just something I'm entering as a stepping stone—it's a cornerstone. It's where I'll learn the tools I need to pursue a calling larger than myself. I don't want to emerge from my college years with more than a degree; I want to emerge with a stronger sense of how to serve, lead, and heal.

I was sitting in a small, humble doctor's office with my grandmother and her main. Next to her thinning body, her eyes were low but bright. This was a follow-up visit, but I had prepared myself instinctively for bad news. Before long, the doctor came—not only with comparative charts, but with a sympathetic note to his greeting: "I hope the hassle of coming here wasn't bad today." Next thing I knew, he brought up side-by-side scans and examined her lungs in front of us—one from the scan eight weeks ago, one from the latest scan. The side-by-side wasn't worrisome in itself, but it was unavoidable: the tumors had grown. My grandmother observed, not surprised, for she could sense the effect of the cancerous tumor on her body. But for me, as a high school student navigating the college application process, it was burdensome. It was the beginning of finding myself in a degrading period in my life. But it did also spark my interest in medicine. Looking back, I can acknowledge that I approached medicine as science and as humanity—that shaped the way I learned healthcare. It's not just the diagnosis; it's the dignity and clarity you bring to patients and their families. Having such an amazing primary, who even boasted about the radiologist who discovered these changes in my grandmother, encouraged me to pursue the field of radiology to follow. Those scans verified how much work those physicians performed, and I alternated caring for my grandmother on weekends or weeknights whenever possible throughout the remainder of the year. Since then, I have been discovering this vocation by shadowing doctors in other specialties—such as radiology over this past summer break prior to my sophomore year in college. In addition to shadowing, I also volunteer distributing blankets to patients while observing doctors interpret diagnoses or results. These experiences reiterated my respect for the cooperation and precision that define the medical life. The observation of a few families consoled and cared for by the presence of a doctor reassured my belief in the beauty and goodness of medicine. As a double major in Sports Medicine and Biology, with some research experience under my belt, my intention is to go on to medical school and ultimately match for a radiology residency. My purpose is to practice radiology for decades and give back to my community of low-income future medical professionals. First, I plan to work as a medical assistant or research assistant during medical school—expanding my understanding and forging clinical networks. Once I continue my professional career in medicine after graduating from medical school, I plan to provide scholarships to low-income medical undergraduates and medical students, dismantling the economic barriers of rising tuition that I've experienced firsthand. I also look forward to coordinating shadowing schemes in my future working environment, that is in the radiology department, to give actual exposure to young bright minds whose ultimate dream is to be a doctor. Following the relinquishment of these programs, my final giveaway to humanity would be enrolling in national research programs provided by the National Cancer Institute (NCI) or the National Institute of Biomedical Imaging and Bioengineering (NIBIB), through which I can be contributing to innovations in radiologic science and cancer imaging. My profession is medicine because it allows me to combine the morals of helping another human being with the aspiration of being an innovator. With compassion and determination, I want to offer treatments to patients, develop new discoveries, and inspire people who have a passion for medicine.

Walking past the sharp scent of hairspray, the polyrhythms of bass-heavy music, and crowds of friendships, I stepped into a ballroom for the first time—it felt like walking into a dream. My queer friends from my professional dance world had invited me; they were part of a house and planned to walk in the “Face,” “Body,” and “Fashion” categories. Although I had seen clips online and watched HBO Max’s Pose, nothing compared to the exciting energy in person. I wasn’t competing—just there as a guest, on a date with my ex-girlfriend at the time, holding her hand as we managed through the crowd. The experience was monumental because there was no judgment of anyone’s identity. There was no need to explain my coming out story or quiet my joy. My queerness wasn’t just tolerated—it was celebrated. The crowd roared with every turn, dip, and strut, and I felt that pleasure ripples through me like electricity. Later, I met my friend’s house mother, and when she looked at us and said, “You guys are more than beautiful together". I was embraced. I hadn’t realized how deeply meaningful it could be to receive that kind of affirmation from someone rooted in the LGBTQIA+ community. Her words carried a weight and warmth that no compliment from my straight friends ever had—in that moment, she became my mother too. That night, I witnessed people living fully, loudly, and beautifully, and I saw the version of myself I had always dreamed of becoming. When I left the ballroom, I walked out a little taller, a little freer—finally understanding that queerness wasn’t something I had to protect. It was something powerful. Something sacred. Something mine. Because of that transformative experience, as someone who identifies as bisexual, I am passionate about giving back in meaningful ways—particularly through healthcare. In the future, I plan to become a doctor, specializing in internal medicine or radiology. I want to use my medical career not only to provide excellent patient care, but also to support LGBTQIA+ health equity through research, advocacy, and education. I hope to work with organizations like The Fenway Institute or GLMA to contribute to inclusive medical research, develop culturally competent care practices, and mentor future queer healthcare professionals. As someone in this community, I wouldn’t have any internalized homophobia that could block me from truly doing my mission of giving to LGBTQIA+. Giving back to my queer family—one that helped me grow into myself—is a personal commitment. Currently, my father is a single parent living with heart failure, which often causes him to miss hours at his part-time job. As a result, our household income is limited, and I actively seek scholarships to help cover the growing costs of my education—especially with tuition increasing by thousands this year. Receiving financial support would allow me to focus fully on my studies without needing to work a part-time job, giving me more time to excel academically. I’m currently majoring in Sports Medicine, with plans to double major in Biology and participate in faculty research during the spring semester. Earning this specific scholarship would be a huge mental relief for both me and my father, and it holds personal meaning to me as someone who is queer. As a first-generation college student from a low-income household, we are learning how to navigate higher education together, but the financial burden remains a major stressor. My father gives everything he can, despite his health and income challenges, and I want to do everything I can to ease that burden while achieving my academic and career goals.

With every note from the trumpet, my body followed suit effortlessly. I heeded my body as it gracefully stepped on stage right and pulled my body’s torque while I completed multiple turns. As I perfected my pointed feet, I stood still. Under the hot lights, my body felt tepid as my arms and head reached for the sky. I thought about the lyrics to “Home” as the music was drowned out by the sound of cheers. I had choreographed my movements to Diana Ross, as I thought about my own Blackness. I contemplated the inherited “criminal” Stereotypes of being Black in the United States and my desire to find a haven from police brutality. With each emphasized expansion and contraction of my body, I found myself responding to the pain of Breonna Taylor’s or George Floyd’s deaths. It was hard to rid myself of the feelings that I might be next. With the movements to “say her name,” the mental exhaustion was too much to bear. I took every concern and worry to begin journaling- translating them into movement. Choreographing my movements to Diana Ross, I grappled with my Black identity in the US, seeking solace from police brutality: a big societal problem. My translations became choreography, and I committed myself to executing the dance moves. Each gesture echoed the pain of Breonna Taylor and George Floyd's deaths, evoking a haunting fear of becoming the next victim. During my choreographic process, I remembered a few months ago- my father's advice during a tense traffic stop in South Carolina: "Record everything, Kyara." But our fight against injustice extends beyond protests and riots. Seeking solace in art, especially in dance's transformative power, I teach my black community: that we rise above our challenges. Dance becomes a tool of resilience, a defiant expression against oppression, healing the wounds of collective trauma. Through dance, we will affirm the sanctity of Black bodies and rise, united in our quest for justice, determined to carve out a future where every step is imbued with the joy of liberation. As a Black artist, I aim to become a dance professor or teacher at performing arts schools, guiding people of color to experience similar catharsis I did. I will fulfill the duty to inspire youth-adults to merge their passion for activism and dance, evoking both coping reflection and advocating art. Moreover, I aspire to add empowerment of people of color artists by deepening their appreciation of being Black, through learning versatile black thematic dances, unity, and a deeper analysis of black cultural dances or classical dance. Especially since we can be drowned by online media that reflect such hate against our simple existence of being black. My passion and profession of dance with the task of preparing fearless leaders of art, 100%, is my vision of how I change the world. As a Black woman, I aim to affirm others in a space that fosters both creativity and advocacy, turning dancer by dancer their stationary potential into reality.

Dancing Through My Blackness With every note from the trumpet, my body followed suit effortlessly. I heeded its graceful steps as it moved stage right, pulling my body’s torque while I completed multiple turns. Perfecting my pointed feet, I stood in a moment of stillness, bathed in the hot lights. My arms and head reached for the sky, and the lyrics to “Home” echoed in my mind, drowned out by the sound of cheers. Choreographing my movements to the spirit of Diana Ross, I reflected on my own Blackness. What did it mean to be Black in the United States? How could I find a haven from the relentless storm of police brutality? Each emphasized expansion and contraction of my body became a response to the pain of Breonna Taylor’s and George Floyd’s deaths. The fear that I might be next clung to me, and the movements to “say her name” left me mentally exhausted. I took my concerns and worries, translating them into dance. My journal entries transformed into choreography, and I committed myself to executing those moves. With every step, my heart stung—the pain of watching my community suffer at the hands of officials weighed heavily. Dance became my refuge, easing the mental burden of my Black pain and giving me a voice of advocacy. My love for dance began in elementary school. I grew up watching shows like “Shake It Up,” mimicking Zendaya’s moves and grooving to the beat of “Swagger.” As I matured, life’s circumstances deepened my commitment to the arts. Whether it was processing the grief of police brutality victims or coping with the recent loss of my grandfather, choreography remained my solace. Now, as a Black artist, I envision spaces where my artistry intersects with advocacy for Black communities. Definitely a collegiate dance program will be that canvas—a place where my movements can continue to tell stories, heal wounds, and amplify voices. A program such as Howard’s dance program that I have recently been admitted to. Here, I will eagerly learn about versatile black thematic dances, unity, collaboration, and a deeper analysis of black cultural dances, tribal dances. Howard's Dance curriculum and Dance Ensemble in all genres would not only support my growth but deepen my appreciation of the performance of choreography. As an aspiring professional dancer, Howard’s dance program is key in my development and preparation as I work to train in either classical or commercial-based dance companies. Furthermore, the Rylie Scholarship with the task of preparing fearless leaders of art, 100% aligns with my goal of being a Professional dancer. I believe in Howard’s faculty turning my stationary potential into reality and this scholarship will help me be able to attend and engulf all of my teachings.

With each note from the trumpet, my body effortlessly followed suit, gracefully stepping stage right and executing multiple turns. As I perfected my pointed feet, I stood still under the hot lights, feeling the warmth as my arms and head reached toward the sky. Thoughts of the lyrics to “Home” were drowned out by the cheers of the audience. I had choreographed my movements to the likes of Diana Ross, as I thought about my own Blackness. I thought about what it meant for me to be Black in the United States and my desire to find a haven from police brutality. With each emphasized expansion and contraction of my body, I found myself responding to my pain of Breonna Taylor’s or George Floyd’s deaths. It was hard to rid myself of the feelings that I might be next. With the movements to “say her name”, the mental exhaustion was too much to bear. Turning my concerns and worries into dance movements, I created choreography that expressed my pain and frustration. With each step, I felt the sting in my heart as I watched my community endure violence at the hands of authorities. As a Black artist, I aspire to use my artistry to advocate for Black communities. Joining a collegiate Dance program or future dance companies, I hope to further my art of advocacy. While facing challenges such as how to best convey my message and which issues to address, the process of brainstorming content helps me find solutions. For a Black artist like myself, dance offers the opportunity to explore versatile Black thematic dances, unity, collaboration, and a deeper understanding of Black cultural and tribal dances. Enrolling in a dance program like Howard’s would not only support my artistic growth but also deepen my appreciation for choreography. Cheogrsohy created in my “African Dance l-lll” and “African and Seminar” classes that develop my West African and Afro-Caribbean training with access to professors such as Ofosuwa Abiola and Royce Zackery. Overall, my aspirations to join classical or commercial-based dance companies, Howard’s dance program is essential for my development and preparation. The Gayle scholarship brings me closer to achieving my goal of joining Howard’s dance program and becoming a professional dancer. I believe that Howard’s faculty can help me unlock my full potential and prepare me for success in future dance companies. As a Black woman, it is important for me to be affirmed in a space that fosters both my creativity and my passion for advocacy.