I am proud to be Palestinian, and even more proud to be the granddaughter of my Sidi, Nawaff Hammad. He grew up in El Bireh, Palestine, one of fifteen siblings in a home filled with resilience, faith, and deep love for family. His childhood was interrupted by a violent occupation that forced him and his family to leave everything behind. I never forget the story of how the Israeli military once threatened the life of his younger brother. That was the moment his mother decided they had no choice but to flee. They left behind their home, their land, their neighbors, and their history. Hearing my grandfather’s stories has shaped who I am in ways that go beyond words. I carry the weight of what he went through, even though I’ve never lived it myself. I feel it in the way my family holds tight to tradition, and in the way we celebrate, mourn, and keep each other close. I feel it every time someone mispronounces Palestine or avoids saying the word altogether. I feel it in the silence we’re expected to keep. But I don’t want to be silent. Being Palestinian is not something I hide or minimize. It’s something I hold close, even when it feels like the world would rather I ignore it. My Sidi taught me to be strong and to lead with purpose. His journey is the reason I value education so deeply. It is a privilege that was taken from him, and one that I now pursue not just for myself, but for every generation before me that did not have the same chance. This fall, I am beginning my undergraduate studies at the University of Connecticut as a psychology major with a minor in criminal justice. My long-term goal is to become a psychiatrist with my own private practice while also working in the justice system. I plan to specialize in forensic psychiatry, providing mental health care and evaluations for individuals who are incarcerated or involved in legal proceedings. I want to work at the intersection of mental health and justice, where too many people are forgotten or misunderstood. My Palestinian heritage fuels that goal. I have seen what happens when people are dehumanized, when their voices are dismissed, and when their pain is ignored. I want to be someone who listens. I want to help people who have never had the space to speak. Whether they are struggling with trauma, mental illness, or simply trying to survive in a system that was not built for them, I want to be the person who shows up. Carrying my heritage into my work is important to me because representation matters. I want young Arab girls to see someone who looks like them and know they are allowed to take up space in medicine, in advocacy, and in leadership. I want them to know that their story, their culture, and their background are not weaknesses. They are strength. My Sidi always tells me that no matter where we go in life, we must never forget where we come from. I never will. El Bireh is far from where I live now, but it lives in me. It lives in the way I treat people, in the things I choose to study, and in the kind of doctor I want to become. I am Palestinian. I am the granddaughter of Nawaff Hammad. And I plan to carry his legacy forward with pride, compassion, and purpose.

When I think about Alzheimer's and dementia, I don’t think of a definition or medical explanation. I think of my great aunt Fern. She was my grandmother’s sister and someone I remember from my childhood as kind and quiet, with a soft smile. A few years ago, she passed away after living with dementia, and the way her illness affected not only her but everyone around her changed the way I view memory, connection, and the role mental health plays in our lives. At first, when my family told me she had dementia, I didn’t fully understand what that meant. I thought it was just forgetting little things like where you left your glasses or what day it was. I didn’t know that it could erase entire relationships, or that one day I could walk into a room and be unrecognizable to someone who had once held me as a baby. But that is exactly what happened. Visiting Aunt Fern in the later stages of her illness was one of the most emotionally confusing things I’ve ever experienced. I would walk in, excited to see her, hoping she might remember something. I would smile and say, “Hi Aunt Fern, it’s Leila.” But she would just stare at me. There was no warmth, no recognition. I had become a stranger. It felt like I was reaching out to someone behind glass. I wanted to hug her, to sit next to her and talk, but we were told not to touch her or be too familiar. She didn’t know who we were, and even the smallest gesture might startle or upset her. That was so hard. I knew she hadn’t done anything wrong, but it still hurt to feel so invisible to someone who had once been part of my life. I remember looking at my grandmother during those visits. This was her sister, someone she had grown up with and loved for a lifetime. Watching her try to stay strong, even when Aunt Fern didn’t recognize her either, made me realize how deep and painful these illnesses can be. It is not just the person who is suffering. The family suffers too. You lose someone slowly, over and over, each time they forget a piece of who they were. Through this experience, I started to understand how much of our identity is tied to memory. Without it, you lose the foundation of who you are, the people you love, the places you’ve been, and even the way you respond to the world. It also showed me how important patience and compassion are. Even though Aunt Fern couldn’t remember me, I still remembered her. I could still be present, even if it was just sitting quietly or smiling from across the room. I learned that love doesn’t stop just because someone forgets. If anything, you have to love even harder. This experience has shaped the way I think about mental health. It is one of the reasons I am studying psychology and why I want to become a psychiatrist. I want to understand how the brain works, not just so I can treat patients, but so I can support families who are going through experiences like mine. I want to be someone who listens, someone who helps others navigate the emotional side of these illnesses, not just the medical part. I also think it taught me something important about time. We don’t get to choose how long we have with someone or how clearly they will remember us. What we can choose is how we show up for them. I’m glad I visited Aunt Fern, even when it was hard. I’m glad I tried. I carry that with me now, and it motivates me to keep going, even when things feel out of my control. Losing my aunt Fern to dementia was painful, but it also opened my eyes. It showed me how fragile and precious our minds are. It gave me a deeper appreciation for what it means to remember, to connect, and to care. Most of all, it gave me a reason to keep learning and to one day be the kind of doctor who treats people not just as patients, but as full human beings, even when their memories fade.

A college degree will not just change the path of my life—it will redefine it entirely. Coming from a family where college wasn't always a given, pursuing higher education feels like both a privilege and a responsibility. For me, it represents more than academic achievement. It’s about stepping into a future that I’ve worked hard to build, while also paving the way for the generations that come after me. This fall, I’ll begin my journey at the University of Connecticut in the Honors Program, where I’ll major in psychology and minor in criminal justice. My long-term goal is to earn my PhD and become a psychiatrist. I want to focus specifically on children and adolescents, especially those struggling with mental illness, trauma, and identity. I’m also drawn to the criminal psychology side of the field—the overlap of mental health and the justice system, and how early intervention can completely change the course of someone’s life. Being the first in my immediate family to pursue a doctorate, I know my path will look different than those before me. But I also know it will make a difference—for me, for my little brothers, and for anyone who sees my journey and realizes they can do it too. Personally, a college degree means freedom. It’s the freedom to pursue a career I actually care about, to study ideas that challenge me, and to become someone who helps others in a real, lasting way. It means I’m no longer stuck in roles that other people created for me. As a model, I’ve spent years learning how to pose, smile, and fit into someone else’s vision. I became good at playing the part others expected. But education gave me the tools to explore my own voice and direction. It shifted the spotlight off how I look and onto who I am and what I can offer. That shift alone changed everything. I’m passionate about mental health, and I’ve already started laying the foundation for my future. I created a program at my school called the Bernardian Bridge Program, where high school students work directly with younger students in tutoring, mentorship, and workshops. I’ve also worked at Seven Hills Foundation as a group leader for individuals with special needs, helping them navigate everyday life and celebrating their strengths in environments where they are often overlooked. Through these experiences, I realized how much I love working one-on-one with people and helping them uncover parts of themselves they’ve been told to hide or ignore. That’s what I want to do for the rest of my life. To me, success isn’t just earning a degree or holding a title. It’s creating safe spaces for others to heal and grow, and changing the way people think about mental health—especially for kids and teens who are too often misunderstood. A college degree will help me make that dream a reality. It’s not just my path forward; it’s my way of leaving a light on for others.

Growing up, I learned early on how to navigate different versions of myself. As a model, I was trained to embody perfection—to pose, smile, and create an image of flawlessness. At school, I took on the role of a leader, someone expected to be composed and responsible. At home, I was the quiet observer, the older sister to my twin brothers. Each environment came with expectations, shaping me into someone who could adapt but often struggled with authenticity. It wasn’t until I began exploring psychology that I truly understood the weight of these roles and how much identity is shaped by external forces. My interest in psychology, particularly psychiatry, was influenced by both my personal experiences and the world around me. I have seen firsthand how mental health is often overlooked or misunderstood, and I want to be part of the change. That’s why I plan to attend the University of Connecticut’s Honors Program, majoring in psychology with a minor in criminal justice. I aim to earn a PhD and specialize in psychiatry, focusing on the intersection of mental health and the justice system. I want to help individuals, particularly young adults, navigate the complexities of identity, trauma, and mental illness—especially those who have been ignored or dismissed by traditional systems. One of the biggest challenges I have faced is the struggle for self-definition. Modeling placed me under a constant microscope, where I had to fit a standard that often felt impossible. The experience was more than physically exhausting—it was emotionally draining, forcing me to bury parts of myself to meet an expectation. Learning to separate my real self from the image I was expected to present was a process that took years. I had to unlearn the idea that my value was based on how well I performed in different spaces. That challenge taught me resilience, self-awareness, and the importance of mental health in shaping personal identity. It also reinforced my passion for psychiatry—helping others confront the pressures that make them feel fragmented, just as I had to. Someone who has greatly inspired me is my mother. She embodies strength, perseverance, and compassion, and she has always encouraged me to pursue what I love, even when it defies expectations. She taught me that success isn’t just about external achievements—it’s about finding purpose and using your voice to make a difference. After graduating, I plan to continue my studies, earning my PhD and specializing in psychiatry. Beyond working directly with patients, I want to advocate for better mental health policies and contribute to research that deepens our understanding of psychiatric disorders. My ultimate goal is to bridge the gap between mental health care and accessibility, ensuring that treatment is not just a privilege but a right. Pursuing higher education in the United States is more than just an academic step—it’s a pathway to achieving my vision. I want to be part of a system that transforms how we view mental health, where people no longer feel trapped in roles that don’t reflect who they truly are.