I never thought much about mental health until my sophomore year, when depression slowly entered my life like a heavy fog. At first, I told myself it was just regular stress. I was juggling AP classes, swim team practices, and weekly volunteer shifts at the food pantry while trying to keep up with my social life. But then small things began to slip away. I would sleep through several alarms despite going to bed early. My swim times got worse, even though I was training harder. At the pantry, where I usually enjoyed chatting with regular clients, I started avoiding conversations just to get through my shifts. The turning point came when I failed a chemistry test I had actually prepared for. Looking at the red marks on my paper, I realized my brain hadn’t absorbed any of the material, like I had been trying to read underwater. That’s when I finally opened up to my parents, who were surprised because I had always been the “put together” kid. My dad, who designs life-saving medical devices, admitted he had noticed changes but thought they were just typical teenage mood swings. That conversation taught me that even those who work with health crises every day can miss warning signs in their own family. Getting help wasn’t an instant solution. The first counselor I saw didn’t get me, and my initial medication made me so drowsy that I struggled to stay awake in class. What ultimately helped was learning to balance my schedule emotionally, not just academically. My swim coach adjusted my practice schedule when I needed rest days. My chemistry teacher let me retake tests in a quieter space when the classroom felt overwhelming. At the food pantry, my supervisor paired me with a volunteer partner so I wouldn’t have to tackle hard days alone. The most important lesson came from my grandfather, who manages diabetes. He explained that dealing with mental health is like monitoring his blood sugar; it’s not about curing something but about learning to live well with it. Now I structure my weeks differently, making time to recharge. I still challenge myself with activities like leading the math team and preparing for chemical engineering at Michigan, but I’ve learned to recognize when I’m running on empty. This experience completely changed how I define success. I used to think it meant pushing through everything on my own. Now I understand it’s about knowing when to ask for help, whether that’s academic support or just having a friend sit with me during lunch on hard days. My struggles with depression didn’t simply vanish, but they taught me to build a life with safety nets instead of pretending I would never stumble. This is the lesson I will take to college and beyond: real strength isn’t about never falling down, but learning how to get back up in a way that works for you.

I never thought of diabetes as an addiction until I saw what it did to my grandfather. He'd been living with it for years, but when the eruptive xanthomatosis broke out across his skin - these angry yellow bumps covering his arms and legs - that's when it got real. Suddenly I was helping measure his blood sugar before meals, watching him struggle to resist the sweets he'd loved his whole life, seeing how this disease had its hooks in him just as deep as any drug. Those months caring for him changed how I see addiction. It wasn't just about willpower. I'd watch his hands shake when we passed the bakery at the mall, see the frustration in his face when he had to refuse my grandmother's homemade mooncakes during Mid-Autumn Festival. The cravings were physical, but the emotional toll was worse - the shame when his numbers spiked, the way he'd snap at us when we reminded him to check his levels. I started noticing how everything in our culture revolves around food - family gatherings, celebrations, even condolences - and how cruel it was to ask someone to opt out of that connection. What surprised me most was the healthcare system's approach. They'd give him pamphlets about nutrition, then send him home with no real support. The doctors could treat the symptoms but didn't seem equipped to handle the daily battles. That's when I started helping - researching meal plans, finding sugar-free alternatives to his favorite foods, even learning to give his insulin shots when his hands were too shaky. It felt like we were piecing together our own treatment plan because the standard options weren't enough. The experience reshaped my understanding of care. I used to think medicine was about diagnoses and prescriptions, but now I see it's just as much about patience and creativity. Like when I figured out freezing grapes satisfied his sweet tooth without spiking his sugar, or how we turned his evening walks into a family ritual so it didn't feel like a chore. Those small adaptations made more difference than any lecture about self-control ever could. Seeing him recover - slowly, unevenly - taught me that healing isn't linear. There were good weeks where his numbers stayed perfect, followed by sudden setbacks when stress or holidays threw him off track. What mattered was that we kept trying different approaches until something clicked. Now that he's stable, I catch myself applying those lessons elsewhere - whether it's helping teammates work through creative blocks or breaking down big projects into manageable steps. This experience has me thinking differently about my future. I used to be drawn to the hard sciences for their clear answers, but now I'm just as interested in the messy human side of healthcare - how to design systems that account for cravings and cultural pressures and all the intangible factors that don't show up in lab results. My grandfather's journey showed me that the most effective treatment considers the whole person, not just the disease. That's the kind of approach I want to bring to whatever work I do next - one that leaves space for both data and compassion, for science and the stubborn, complicated reality of human behavior.

Growing up, I never really fit into one box. Some days, I timed splits at swim practice. Other days, I debugged code for Hack Club. Sometimes, I wandered through the woods with my camera, trying to capture the perfect sunset. That mix of interests might seem random, but looking back, it all makes sense. Each piece taught me something different about pushing myself and connecting with others. The pool was where I first learned what real discipline felt like. I started competitive swimming when I was eight with Phoenix Swim Club, and by high school, I was juggling varsity and club teams. Those 5 AM practices weren't just about getting faster. They showed me how small, consistent efforts add up over time. I remember one meet where I shaved two seconds off my 100 free and finally qualified for states. That moment stuck with me because it proved that the work actually mattered, even during those mornings when progress felt invisible. But my life wasn't just about chlorine and flip turns. Math team gave me a different kind of challenge. I enjoyed the rush of solving problems under pressure at competitions like MATHCOUNTS and Math Olympiad. What I loved most was how collaborative it was, despite being an individual sport. We huddled together before meets, sharing strategies like teammates calling plays. That mix of competition and teamwork surprised me. I had expected cutthroat rivalry but found a supportive community instead. Volunteering at the food pantry showed me a different side of my town. While translating for elderly Mandarin speakers during client intake, I saw how something as simple as language could mean the difference between someone getting help or walking away hungry. It wasn't glamorous work. I sorted canned goods and entered donor data, but it mattered in a tangible way that school activities didn't. Those Saturday mornings stocking shelves taught me more about real-world problems than any classroom could. Then there were the quieter passions, like piano and photography. I have played since third grade, and while I’ll never be a concert pianist, there's something magical about muscle memory kicking in during a Chopin piece. Photography became my antidote to all the structured activities. It was just me and my camera, chasing golden hour light through the trees. When my nature photo made it into the UMass Dartmouth exhibition last year, it validated that art could be more than just a hobby. What ties all this together? Maybe it’s that I’ve never been satisfied with just one way of engaging with the world. The same focus that helps me solve a math problem also helps me adjust my stroke technique. The patience I developed while teaching kids at Chinese School translates to explaining code to teammates. I used to worry about not having a single "thing," but now I see how these different experiences inform each other. Looking ahead, I don't want to lose that multidimensional approach. Whether I study computer science or environmental policy, or some combination I haven't discovered yet, I know the best solutions come from those who can think logically and creatively, who understand data but also human needs. My background has given me that dual perspective, and that's what I hope to build on next. The common theme isn't a particular subject. It's the willingness to dive deep into different worlds and find the connections between them.

I think science and leadership are like two sides of the same coin when it comes to building a better future. Science gives us the tools to solve problems, while leadership determines how those solutions actually reach people. My experiences in STEM programs have shown me that breakthroughs alone aren’t enough, they need leaders who can bridge the gap between labs and communities. When I worked on developing PFAS-free materials during a summer research program, I realized the science was only half the battle. The real challenge was convincing manufacturers to adopt these safer alternatives. That’s where leadership comes in, taking complex scientific concepts and making them accessible to decision-makers. Like when I presented my research to local businesses, I had to translate chemical properties into practical benefits like worker safety and long-term cost savings. Good scientific leadership also means asking the right questions. In my father’s lab, I’ve seen how teams led by curious thinkers develop more impactful solutions. They don’t just ask “Can we make this?” but “Should we make this?” and “Who will this help?” The future needs scientists who can lead and leaders who understand science. Whether addressing climate change or healthcare disparities, we’ll need people who can both develop innovations and implement them responsibly. That’s why I’m pursuing chemical engineering while also developing leadership skills through campus organizations. I want to be the kind of professional who doesn’t just create new technologies, but ensures they serve society equitably. I think what really matters about leadership in science is that it’s not just about being the smartest person in the room. From watching my dad work on artificial hearts, I’ve seen how the best scientific leaders are the ones who listen to nurses, technicians, and even patients when developing solutions. That’s the kind of scientist I want to become, someone who combines technical knowledge with the ability to bring people together.

I think what draws me to chemical engineering is the unique opportunity to solve problems where innovation and safety intersect. Growing up watching my father design artificial hearts, I learned that true engineering excellence isn’t just about creating something new, but about ensuring it improves lives without unintended consequences. That lesson became even clearer during a STEM summer program where I toured paper mills and saw firsthand how industrial processes can impact both workers’ safety and environmental health. When I later designed PFAS-free paper plates as part of that program, it wasn’t just an academic exercise, it was a revelation about how chemical engineers can prevent harm before it happens. What drives me most is the challenge of balancing progress with protection. Too often, industries treat safety as an afterthought rather than a design requirement. I want to change that approach, particularly in consumer products and manufacturing. My vision is to develop materials and processes that are inherently safer from the ground up, like creating non-toxic flame retardants or designing solvents that don’t require hazardous handling. This isn’t just theoretical for me, after meeting paper mill workers who described their exposure risks, I understand how engineering decisions directly affect real people’s wellbeing. The values guiding my career come from both my father’s example and my own experiences. From him, I learned that meticulous testing and risk assessment aren’t obstacles to innovation, but the foundation of meaningful progress. From my STEM program mentors, I saw how sustainability and safety can drive rather than limit creativity. Now, as I pursue chemical engineering, I’m particularly interested in green chemistry principles that eliminate hazards at the molecular level. I plan to stand out by bridging the gap between technical solutions and practical implementation. Too many great innovations fail because they don’t consider workforce realities or cost barriers. My approach involves collaborating directly with the people who will use these technologies, whether it’s factory workers or supply chain managers. That’s why I’ve already started building this skillset through internships analyzing safety protocols and volunteering with organizations that train workers on hazardous material handling. Ultimately, I want my career to prove that the most impactful innovations aren’t necessarily the most disruptive, but the most responsible. Whether developing safer industrial chemicals or creating closed-loop manufacturing systems, I believe chemical engineering should advance both technology and quality of life. This scholarship would support that mission by helping me access advanced research opportunities in material science and process safety, bringing me closer to a future where progress never comes at the expense of people’s health.

I think most students remember one teacher who changed how they saw themselves, and for me, that was Mr. Largess. Before his English class, I hated writing the way some people hate going to the dentist, with this same sense of dread and inevitability. I used to think good writing was about using fancy words and sticking to formulas, so I'd cram my essays with awkward synonyms from the thesaurus and hope for the best. But Mr. Largess didn't care about any of that. On the first day, he told us "I don't want perfect papers, I want honest ones," and that changed everything. What made Mr. Largess different was how he turned our classroom into this space where being wrong was actually interesting. Like when we analyzed poetry, he'd make us defend interpretations he knew were shaky, not to embarrass us, but to show how much meaning exists beyond the obvious. I remember one time I insisted a poem was about lost love, and he kept asking "But what if it's actually about creative block?" until I started seeing metaphors I'd completely missed. That was his thing, pushing us past our first ideas until we found something we actually cared about. The real shift came when he had us write personal essays using only simple language. "If you can't say it clearly, you don't understand it well enough," he'd say. I wrote about failing my first track meet, expecting it to be boring, but Mr. Largess pulled me aside and said "This is the first time your writing sounds like you." That paper got a B for grammar issues, but he gave it a sticky note that said "A+ for voice," and I still keep that in my notebook. Now, as I prepare for college, I realize Mr. Largess wasn't just teaching English, he was teaching how to think. His class was where I learned that confusion isn't the opposite of understanding, it's part of the process. That lesson bled into everything, from how I approach math problems (looking for multiple solutions instead of just the right one) to how I lead study groups (asking "What are we missing?" instead of just "Who knows the answer?"). I think what made Mr. Largess so impactful was that he didn't just want us to learn the material, he wanted us to notice how we learned it. That's why I still hear his voice when I'm stuck on an assignment, telling me "Don't rush to be done, rush to be curious." This scholarship would help me honor his legacy by pursuing that same spirit of inquiry in college, not just in my writing, but in how I engage with every challenge, every idea, and every opportunity to think differently.

I think what resonates most about Kalia's story is how she embodied excellence in every aspect of her life while still making time to uplift others. Like Kalia, I've always believed that success isn't just about personal achievement, but about what you contribute to the world around you. As a swim & dive athlete and volunteer tutor at my high school, I've tried to follow that same path of balancing academics, athletics and service. Hearing about Kalia's dedication to her studies, her ROTC ambitions, and her leadership in the Black Student Union reminds me why this balance matters so much. My own journey hasn't been without challenges. When I joined the swim team sophomore year, I struggled to keep up with both early morning practices and advanced coursework. There were days I wanted to quit, but I remembered why I started, to push myself physically while building the discipline that would serve me in college. Like Kalia working as a dorm front desk clerk while excelling academically, I've learned that hard work compounds over time. I know exactly how each small effort prepares me for bigger opportunities. This scholarship would help tremendously as I prepare to study chemical engineering in college. Like Kalia planned to do through military service, I want to use my education to serve others, specifically by researching affordable products for underserved communities. The financial assistance would allow me to focus more on campus involvement rather than excessive work hours. What I admire most about Kalia's story is how she found joy in simple moments, watching sunsets or dancing with her niece. In my own life, I've learned the importance of these balances, whether it's mentoring younger athletes after practice or taking my little cousins to the park on weekends. These moments remind me that excellence isn't just about achievements, but about the lives you touch along the way. Winning this scholarship would honor Kalia's memory by helping another student pursue ambitious goals while staying grounded in community and compassion. I think she would appreciate that her legacy continues through students who, like her, refuse to choose between being exceptional and being kind. With this support, I could focus on becoming the type of engineer and leader who makes access to healthcare more equitable, all while maintaining the work ethic, service commitment and joyful spirit that defined Kalia's immensely impactful life. This scholarship would help me continue balancing my academic rigor with service for others, just as Kalia did. Whether in the lab or the community, I want my work to reflect her belief that excellence isn't measured solely by grades or accolades, but by the lives we positively impact through our dedication and compassion.

I think my involvement in my community has always been about paying attention to the small things that make a big difference. Like when I noticed how many kids at my local library seemed uncomfortable on the computers, I realized they might be dealing with cyberbullying or inappropriate content. That's why I started volunteering with a youth digital literacy program, where we teach kids how to navigate online spaces safely. A big part of what we do focuses on recognizing and reporting bullying behavior, both in person and online. I've found that most kids know bullying is wrong, but they don't always know what to do when they see it happening. One thing I emphasize is the importance of reporting violations on social media platforms. I think a lot of young people don't realize how powerful the report button can be. When we go through examples of harmful posts together showing clear violations of terms of service (TOS), I explain how reporting isn't "tattling" it's protecting yourself and others. I share my own experiences with reporting hate speech or graphic content, and how platforms actually do take action when enough people flag problematic material. We practice identifying what counts as harassment versus just rude behavior, because understanding that distinction helps kids feel more confident about speaking up. Financially, pursuing higher education is challenging for my family. My parents both have jobs but with the rising costs of everything, there isn't much left for college expenses. What worries me most is the thought of taking on so much debt that I'd have to choose between graduate school or finding work immediately after undergrad. I want to be able to focus on my chemical engineering degree without constantly stressing about whether I can afford next semester's lab fees. In our community, we've tried to create safer spaces by starting a peer mentoring program at the high school. Older students get trained in conflict resolution, and then make themselves available to younger kids who might need advice about dealing with bullies. I think this works better than just adult-led interventions because teenagers often listen more to someone closer to their age. What I've learned from all this is that safety, whether online or in person, comes down to education and empowerment. When young people understand both their rights and their responsibilities in digital spaces, they're better equipped to protect themselves and others. And when communities make support systems visible and accessible, it creates a culture where bullying becomes unacceptable rather than inevitable. That's the kind of environment I'll keep working to build, both now and wherever my education takes me next.