My interest in medicine began long before I understood what it truly involved. As a child, I loved watching Doc McStuffins. I thought she was so cool. She hugged her toys, listened to them, and helped them feel better. To me, doctors were superheroes. They could make something scary feel safe just by showing care. That idea stayed with me as I grew older, even as my understanding of medicine became more realistic. I did not stop believing that healing could be gentle as well as strong. As I grew more aware of real illness, that belief became more grounded. Learning about children facing cancer, especially through letters from St. Jude, left a deep impression on me. Reading their words showed me how honest and brave children can be in the face of fear. Writing letters to children battling serious illness taught me that even small acts of kindness can matter. A few words of encouragement can remind someone that they are not alone. Those experiences reinforced my belief that medicine is not only about treatment, but about connection. These experiences are what drew me to pediatric oncology. I am drawn to this field because it requires both scientific skill and emotional strength. Children facing cancer endure long treatments and uncertainty, and their families carry constant worry. I want to be a doctor who understands that weight. I want to take time to explain things clearly, listen without rushing, and advocate for families who feel overwhelmed or unheard. I know what it feels like to sit in a medical space filled with confusion and fear, and I want to help make those moments more bearable. As a woman pursuing STEM, I know I am choosing a field that will ask a lot from me. There will be difficult classes, long nights of studying, and moments when I question whether I am capable of reaching the career I have imagined for myself. But I do not want being a woman in medicine to be something I simply acknowledge. I want it to be something I use to encourage other girls to take their own interests seriously, even when they do not yet know where those interests will lead. I hope that one day a young girl can see me as a pediatric oncologist and think that medicine is possible for her too. I want to be the kind of woman who answers questions, shares what she has learned, and reminds younger students that they do not have to have their entire future figured out at thirteen, sixteen, or even twenty. I started with a cartoon doctor and a fascination with helping people feel better; that small idea grew with me. STEM gives me the opportunity to turn that childhood fascination into something real. I want to learn the science deeply enough to treat children, but never become so focused on the science that I forget the child sitting in front of me. I want to bring both sides of medicine with me: the knowledge to fight disease and the humanity to make someone feel cared for while doing it.

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” Matthew 7:7 is a verse I have carried with me because it captures what education means to me. Learning has never been a straight road for me. Sometimes I have had to knock more than once, ask for help, and keep going when the answer did not come easily. Education has taught me that the door does not always open on the first try, but that does not mean I should stop knocking. I learned this early when I struggled to read. In first grade, books felt like locked doors. Letters blurred together, and while my classmates moved ahead, I stayed behind, aware of every pause when it was my turn to read aloud. My mother came with me to tutoring, and at home we practiced night after night at the kitchen table. Little by little, reading became easier. I learned that struggling with something does not mean I cannot do it. Sometimes it means I have to keep knocking until I find a way through. That lesson still follows me through school. When I do not understand something, I have learned to ask questions instead of pretending I do. I have learned to accept that some things take time and that asking for help does not make me less capable. It means I care enough to keep learning. My education has also helped me understand what I want to do with what I learn. I have wanted to work in medicine since I was young, when all I knew was that I wanted to become a pediatrician. In middle school, my AVID class wrote letters to children at St. Jude during the Christmas season. I received a response, and it stayed with me. It made me want to learn more about pediatric cancer and the children and families living through it. That experience helped turn a childhood idea into a goal: becoming a pediatric oncologist. I hope to become a pediatric oncologist, and I know there is a long road ahead of me. There will be difficult classes, exams, medical school, residency, and years of learning. I do not see those years as obstacles between me and my career. They are the preparation I need to one day sit beside a child and their family with more than good intentions. I want to have the knowledge to explain what is happening, the skill to provide care, and the compassion to remember the person behind the diagnosis. Education, to me, is the key I am still learning how to use. I started as a child who struggled to read, and I am now working toward a career that once felt like only a dream. I still have many doors ahead of me, but I am not afraid of them. I know how to ask, how to seek, and most importantly, how to keep knocking.

To some, STEM might be a building on a campus, a requirement on a degree plan, or simply an acronym students hear in class. To me, STEM is a path toward the future I have imagined for myself since I was young. I have always been drawn to medicine, even before I understood what Biology or Chemistry meant or how much work would stand between me and the career I dreamed of. I only knew that I wanted to become a pediatrician. That dream became more specific in middle school, when my AVID class had us write letters to patients at St. Jude during the Christmas season. Receiving a response made those children and their experiences feel real to me, and it sparked a curiosity that eventually led me toward pediatric oncology. I began to understand that medicine is not only about science; it is also about the people behind it. That realization connects closely to one of the earliest struggles I remember: learning how to read. In first grade, books felt like locked doors. Letters blurred together, and sounds refused to settle in my mouth. While my classmates moved ahead, I stayed behind, painfully aware of every pause when it was my turn to read aloud. My mom came with me to tutoring, and sat beside me as my teacher patiently taught phonics like ph, th, and sh, and even tried to learn them herself so she could help me at home. Night after night, we sat at the kitchen table sounding out words. Little by little, what once felt impossible became something I could do. I did not realize it then, but those nights were teaching me more than how to read. They were teaching me that being behind does not mean you cannot catch up, and that persistence can turn a locked door into an open one. Learning about children with cancer and writing letters to children at St. Jude showed me how much courage children can carry, even when they are afraid. It also made me realize that medicine isn’t only about knowing what treatment to give. It’s about being someone a child can trust and a family can lean on when they do not know what comes next. I hope to become a pediatric oncologist who brings both knowledge and compassion into those moments. I want to make the world better not only through the treatments I prescribe, but through the comfort I offer families during their darkest times. Science gives us the tools to fight cancer, but empathy can help a patient feel strong enough to keep fighting. I want to help children understand what is happening, listen to families without rushing them, and remind them that they are not facing everything alone. The path toward that goal will not be easy. I know there will be demanding classes, difficult exams, and moments when the distance between where I am and where I want to be feels overwhelming. But I have already learned what it means to sit with something that feels difficult and keep trying anyway. I want to keep my passion alive through the long hours of study, and to never lose sight of the human behind the chart. The first-grade student who once struggled to put sounds together eventually learned to read. Today, I am still learning, still working, and still moving toward a future in medicine. STEM is my path, and I am ready to follow it wherever it leads; to the children who need me most.

I was raised to go to church every Sunday. Growing up, I was taught that God was my friend; someone I could turn to when I was happy, worried, or carrying something I did not know how to handle on my own. As I got older and life became harder, that idea started to mean more to me. My faith became something I leaned on, especially during the moments when I felt like I did not have the strength to keep going. My grandmother had Alzheimer's and was bedridden for two years. During that time, I watched someone I loved slowly change. Conversations became shorter, memories faded, and the person who once told me stories from the Bible began to slip away. When I was sixteen, she passed away. I knew that day would eventually come, but I still was not ready for it. I felt lost for a while. Prayer was what helped me get through those days and wake up hoping the next one would be a little easier. That experience taught me how long and exhausting illness can be, not just for the patient but for the people who love them. It also showed me how much patience, dignity, and simply being there for someone can matter when you cannot make everything better. Learning about children facing cancer, especially through letters from St. Jude, also left a deep impression on me. Reading their words showed me how honest and brave children can be in the face of fear. Writing letters to children battling serious illness taught me that even small acts of kindness can matter. A few words of encouragement can remind someone that they are not alone. These experiences reinforced my belief that medicine is not only about treatment, but also about connection. These experiences are what drew me to pediatric oncology. I dream of one day working with children and families who have to face the struggles, fear, and uncertainty of illness and treatment. I want to provide them with hope, empathy, and a chance at better health—a tomorrow. I want to be a doctor who understands the weight that illness places on an entire family, who takes time to explain things clearly, listens without rushing, and advocates for families who feel overwhelmed or unheard. I also believe my faith will help me through the long journey of becoming that doctor. I still have years of education ahead of me: completing my bachelor's degree, studying for the MCAT, getting into medical school, completing medical school, and residency. There will be days when it feels overwhelming, stressful, or difficult to keep going. During those moments, my faith and prayers will remind me why I started and help me trust that my efforts will lead me closer to the career I dream of. I know pediatric oncology can also carry a heavy emotional burden. My faith will not make the pain of losing or seeing a patient suffer disappear, but I hope it will give me the strength to continue showing up with compassion and empathy, even on the hardest days. I once came across a quote that said, “If you are hanging by a thread, let it be the thread of His garment.” I found that deeply comforting, and I hope to live by it. My faith has carried me through difficult moments in my own life, and I believe it will continue to guide me as I work toward becoming the helping hand and doctor I hope to be.

From the time I was a kid, I had a passion for medicine, even though I was not aware of all the courses, the struggles patients and families endure, or what the words biology or chemistry even meant. I was oblivious, yet deeply driven to one day become a pediatrician. Looking back, I realize that dream was not rooted in understanding medicine. It was rooted in my desire to help children when they needed it most. In middle school, that feeling became something deeper. I wrote letters to children at St. Jude, hoping to offer encouragement during their treatment. One day, I received a response from a parent who told me that my letter helped their family feel stronger during an incredibly difficult time. Reading those words changed me. It made me realize how powerful presence and compassion can be, especially for families facing serious illness. That moment inspired me to learn more about oncology, and from then on, I knew exactly what I wanted to become: a pediatric oncologist. Wanting to pursue that dream meant learning the science behind it. During high school, I enrolled in PLTW Biomedical Sciences, where I looked through microscopes, conducted gel electrophoresis, debated the ethics of cochlear implants, learned forensic science, and dissected fetal pig organs. Every lesson strengthened my curiosity and reminded me that medicine is both a science and an opportunity to change someone’s life. Building on that foundation, I took a Medical Assisting course where I transitioned from textbook knowledge to real world clinical skills. I learned how to draw blood, give injections, perform EKGs, and take vital signs. To some, that may look like a simple list of skills, but to me, those were days of choosing courage over fear and trying again until I perfected each technique. Competing in HOSA Phlebotomy at the state and national levels, when I was once afraid to even look at a needle, showed me that I can overcome any fear and master any skill. It also taught me that being vulnerable while learning is not a weakness. Children with cancer, lung disease, and rare medical conditions face realities that no child should ever have to experience. Some may be in the early stages of illness, while others are fighting diagnoses that are life threatening. Regardless of the stage or outcome, every child experiences fear, pain, and uncertainty. I want to be there for those children; I want them to know they are not alone in their struggle. I plan to make a difference in my career not only through the treatments I prescribe, but through the comfort I offer to families during their darkest times. Science gives us the tools to fight cancer, but empathy gives patients the strength to keep fighting. Just as a bridge needs both strength and support to carry people safely across, medicine requires both knowledge and compassion to truly make a difference. I believe being a doctor is not just about medications or treatment plans. It is about heart, connection, and showing up for patients when they are most vulnerable. I think of it like this. Anyone can draw a stick figure, but not everyone can create something worthy of being hung in a museum. In the same way, anyone can practice medicine, but not everyone can do it with genuine compassion. Through a career in healthcare, I want to be a light for my patients, a beacon of hope through their physical treatment and a source of comfort when they need it most.

The teacher who most deeply influenced me was my high school CTE Patient Care instructor. She taught me during my junior year in an introductory course, and again this year as I completed my CCMA certification. What began as a class requirement became one of the most formative relationships of my high school experience. From the first week of class, she created an environment that felt structured yet personal. Patient care is technical. There are procedures to memorize, steps to follow, safety protocols that cannot be ignored. But she never allowed the course to become mechanical. Before we reviewed vital signs or practiced venipuncture techniques, she would ask me how my day was going. She asked about my family. She asked if I was overwhelmed in my other classes. Those conversations were brief, but they were consistent. Over time, they built trust. One of the habits she instilled in me was to pause in moments of stress and pray for guidance. When I felt anxious before a skills assessment or presentation, she would quietly remind me to ask the Lord for clarity and steadiness. Over time, I realized it was teaching me something deeper. She was showing me that competence is strengthened by reflection. Instead of reacting to pressure, I learned to slow down, breathe, and approach challenges with intention. She also changed how I see myself. I have always been naturally reserved, especially when speaking in front of others. During presentations, I would feel my voice shrink. In clinical practice, I hesitated the first time I held a needle to draw blood. She noticed immediately. Rather than stepping in to take over, she encouraged me to step forward. She reminded me that confidence is not loudness. It is preparedness. When I was learning how to perform an EKG or draw blood, she stood beside me, correcting my hand placement and posture. Her belief in my ability extended beyond the classroom. When I prepared for my HOSA competition in phlebotomy, she stayed late many afternoons to practice with me. We reviewed procedure steps repeatedly. She corrected small details I would have overlooked. That discipline helped me place third in the event. But more than the medal, I remember the investment of her time. The moment that most changed how I approach life happened during HOSA nationals. Three weeks before the competition, my grandmother passed away after battling Alzheimer’s and other health complications. Grief felt physical. It sat heavy on my chest, making it difficult to focus. I questioned whether I should even compete. When I returned to class, my teacher did not begin with instructions. She hugged me and asked how I was really doing. It was a simple question, but it opened a space for honesty. I spoke about my grandmother, about watching her memory fade, about the quiet ache that remained. She listened without rushing me. At that moment, I felt steadied. I realized that strength does not mean ignoring grief. It means acknowledging it and continuing forward with support. Her response taught me that leadership in healthcare is not limited to skill. It includes empathy. Patients do not enter clinics as diagnoses. They carry loss, fear, and uncertainty. Watching her care for her students the way she would care for patients reshaped my understanding of medicine. Because of her, I approach challenges differently. I prepare thoroughly. I ask for guidance instead of isolating myself. I step forward even when I feel hesitant. Most importantly, I try to treat others with the same attentiveness she showed me. She did more than teach patient care. She modeled it.

I grew up in a home where education was treated as an opportunity, not an obligation. My parents immigrated to the United States with the belief that hard work could open doors that once felt unreachable. That belief shaped me early. I learned to approach school with discipline and gratitude, understanding that every class was a step toward something larger. After graduation, my plans are structured and intentional. This summer, I plan to work as a medical assistant. I have been completing the requirements for my Certified Clinical Medical Assistant credential, and I want to apply those skills in a clinical setting as soon as possible. I do not want to wait until medical school to gain real patient experience. Drawing blood, taking vital signs, measuring hemoglobin levels, and preparing exam rooms may seem routine, but to me they are foundational. They are the first layer of trust between provider and patient. Academically, I completed sixty college credit units while still in high school. Because of that, I will begin college as a first time freshman with junior standing. I will pursue a Bachelor of Science in Biomedical Sciences at California Baptist University and plan to graduate in 2028. Alongside my coursework, I will begin preparing now for the MCAT so that I can sit for the exam in April 2027. I see preparation like training for endurance. You do not wait until the last minute to build stamina. You practice consistently, even when no one sees the effort. Being bilingual in English and Arabic has deeply influenced who I am. English is the language of my education and professional training. Arabic is the language of my home, my family, and many of my earliest memories. Growing up between two languages sometimes felt like standing in two different worlds at once. One of the challenges I faced appeared early. In first grade, reading in English did not come easily. I remember going to tutoring sessions with my mom sitting beside me. English was not her first language either, but she came in effort to learn. We sounded out words together slowly. At times, I felt behind compared to my classmates. It felt like trying to assemble a puzzle without having all the pieces yet. But those moments built resilience. I learned patience with myself. I learned that improvement is gradual. Over time, bilingualism became a strength. Switching between Arabic and English strengthened my ability to think flexibly. It is similar to adjusting focus on a microscope. You learn to shift perspectives quickly and recognize subtle differences in meaning. In Arabic, certain expressions carry emotional depth that cannot be translated directly. In English, especially in science, terminology provides precision. Moving between both has sharpened my communication skills. There are practical benefits as well. In healthcare settings, language can determine whether a patient feels understood. Being able to speak Arabic allows me to connect with patients who might otherwise struggle to express their concerns. When someone hears medical instructions in their first language, it reduces anxiety. Being bilingual required extra effort at times, but it also gave me perspective. It taught me adaptability, empathy, and persistence. As I move forward toward my degree, the MCAT, and eventually medical school, I carry both languages with me. They are not separate identities. They are two parts of the same foundation guiding me toward a career centered on service and understanding.

One of the greatest values of education is not printed on a transcript. It is not measured by GPA or test scores. It is the human connection formed along the way. None of us are self made. We are shaped by teachers who stay after class to explain a concept again, by friends who study beside us when we are exhausted, and by mentors who see potential in us before we fully see it in ourselves. If a close friend came to me for guidance on a major life decision, I would not start with an answer. I would start with silence. In healthcare training, especially while working toward my CCMA certification, I learned that rushing creates mistakes. When drawing blood with a butterfly needle, if your hands move faster than your awareness, you miss the vein. When taking blood pressure, if you inflate the cuff without paying attention to the patient’s comfort, you lose trust. Advice works the same way. You cannot respond before you understand. I imagine a situation where a friend tells me she is considering turning down a college acceptance because she feels overwhelmed. Instead of telling her she would regret it, I would ask her what is really behind that fear. Is it academic pressure. Is it finances. Is it leaving family. I would help her separate temporary anxiety from long term values. I would ask her where she sees herself in five years and what decision aligns with that vision. I would remind her that fear is not always a warning sign. Sometimes it is simply the feeling of growth. I have lived this before. One of my friends wanted to leave our HOSA chapter after performing poorly in a competitive event. She felt embarrassed and believed she did not belong. As someone who placed third in phlebotomy last March, I understood how much preparation goes into those moments and how crushing disappointment can feel. But I also knew that competition does not define purpose. Instead of convincing her to stay, I asked her why she joined in the first place. She said she wanted hands on medical experience and to explore healthcare careers. I reminded her that one result does not erase that goal. I told her about the months I spent practicing venipuncture techniques and reviewing procedure protocols before competing. Improvement is rarely visible to others. It is repetitive and quiet. She chose to stay. Not because I persuaded her, but because she realized she still cared. That moment showed me that effective guidance means helping someone rediscover their own reasoning. I did not solve her problem. I walked beside her while she solved it herself. The second part of my journey in STEM has required that same resilience. One of the greatest challenges I have faced is balancing my academic workload of Honors and AP courses with clinical training and college level lab classes. I have taken over sixty college credits while still in high school. At the same time, I have been completing the requirements for my Certified Clinical Medical Assistant license. On paper, it sounds impressive. In reality, it has been exhausting. There were nights when I studied my AP psychology notes until midnight and woke up before sunrise to review pharmacology notes. There were afternoons when I practiced taking blood pressure readings and measuring hemoglobin levels, then went home to complete college level biology assignments. I remember one specific week when I had two college exams and a practical skills assessment scheduled within days of each other. I felt stretched thin. For the first time, I questioned whether I had taken on too much. But instead of withdrawing, I organized my time the way a clinic organizes appointments. I blocked study hours. I prioritized by urgency and difficulty. I treated my schedule like a treatment plan. When something was not working, I adjusted it rather than abandoning the goal. What sustained me most was connection. A professor stayed after class to clarify a complex topic. A classmate shared her study outline. My clinical instructor corrected my hand positioning during a blood draw with patience instead of criticism. Each interaction reminded me that STEM is not isolated work. It is collaborative. I also learned to reframe setbacks. When I scored lower than expected on one exam, my first reaction was disappointment. But I approached it analytically. Where did I lose points? Was it content misunderstanding or time management? I reviewed the material systematically and adjusted my preparation. That shift from emotional reaction to structured response changed the way I view challenges. In medicine, abnormal results are not moral failures. They are information. I began treating academic obstacles the same way. Through this process, I discovered that perseverance in STEM is less about natural intelligence and more about disciplined consistency. It is about showing up prepared even when motivation fades. It is about asking for help without seeing it as weakness. It is about remembering why you started. For me, that reason has always centered on serving patients. Working toward my medical assisting certification has allowed me to see healthcare from the ground level. I have learned how to calm a patient before drawing blood, how to explain procedures clearly, and how to maintain composure in fast paced environments. These skills cannot be mastered alone. They are passed down through mentorship and repetition. Education has given me knowledge, but human connection has given that knowledge direction. Whether guiding a friend through uncertainty or navigating my own demanding path in STEM, I have relied on listening, structure, and community. None of us reach our goals independently. We are shaped by those who challenge us, correct us, and believe in us. The greatest value of education is that it allows us to become that person for someone else.

When I was born, stability did not come quickly. We moved from apartment to apartment, often sharing cramped spaces with extended family who had just arrived from Egypt with no car, no job, and young children of their own. Our apartment was frequently full, but so was my parents’ sense of responsibility. They helped relatives and friends who had nowhere else to go, trusting that generosity would lead to something better. Over time, those families found their footing and left with gratitude and lasting bonds. By the time I was two, nine of us lived in a small house. There was one car, and only my dad and uncle could drive. My parents, aunt, and uncle worked opposite shifts, which meant there was usually one tired adult caring for six children. Groceries meant walking fifteen minutes to the store with bags in our hands and kids trailing behind. Even so, joy was never absent. Ice cream trips and afternoons at the park reminded me that love does not require comfort. Responsibility came early as my older cousins helped raise us, teaching me patience, cooperation, and care. Starting school introduced a different kind of struggle. I entered preschool barely speaking English while my family grieved the sudden loss of my uncle and grandfather. Our home was quiet, marked by mourning and tradition. A teacher noticed and chose compassion over assumption. She sent home movies and games to help me learn and later encouraged tutoring. My mother attended every session with me so she could support me at home. She taught me that effort matters more than perfection and that progress, no matter how slow, still counts. That lesson followed me into my love for science, where curiosity turned into understanding. My connection to healthcare deepened through my grandmother, who believed I would one day become a doctor for children. When her health declined and she developed dementia and Alzheimer’s, I helped care for her daily while balancing advanced coursework. Helping in feeding her , bathing her, and sitting beside her during hospital visits taught me that medicine is not just knowledge, but presence and empathy. My dream of becoming a pediatric oncologist grew through small commitments. In middle school, I began writing monthly letters to children at St Jude. Hearing back from families showed me the power of consistency and compassion and pushed me toward the physician I hope to become. As my focus sharpened, I began working toward my medical assisting certification to gain hands-on experience. Learning phlebotomy taught me the balance between technical skill and trust, especially when patients are anxious. That balance became real when I competed in HOSA phlebotomy, earning third place at the state level in California and placing among the top competitors internationally. I also volunteered in clinics, observing how healthcare teams support patients and families through uncertainty. Being raised in an immigrant family meant facing financial strain, language barriers, and limited resources, but it also meant learning resilience and responsibility early on. This scholarship would ease the financial pressure on my family and allow me to continue my education with focus and stability. I hope to become the kind of pediatric oncologist who stands beside children and their families in their most difficult moments, offering both knowledge and comfort, just as my family once stood beside others when they had nothing.

The movie that has impacted my life the most isn’t one, but two: A Beautiful Mind and The Notebook. One tells the story of a family erased from memory through dementia and Alzheimer’s, while the other portrays a family known only to a single mind through schizophrenia. I watched these films on a Tuesday evening while completing extra credit for my AP Psychology class. I didn’t know they were about to hit close to home; that my understanding would come not from a scripted scene, but my own life. I watched The Notebook first. Seeing Allie unaware of the memories life had given her felt like handing someone the keys and asking them to drive in endless darkness on a shaky road. When I realized the narrator was Noah, her husband, my perspective shifted. I understood that illness does not only hurt the patient; it reshapes the family. It is not just witnessing pain you cannot fix, but losing shared memories and still choosing to show up for someone who questions who you are. I did not pity Noah. I admired him. He chose to reopen love each day rather than reopen a wound. A Beautiful Mind revealed its truth more slowly. What first appeared as a balanced, successful life unraveled into a reality where much of John’s world existed only in his mind. If The Notebook showed the pain of watching love fade, this showed the devastation of losing what once felt safe and real. After watching both I could not stop thinking about them.Then my life shifted. My grandmother was diagnosed with a brain tumor, too advanced to return. Six months after that Tuesday evening, what once felt like fiction became reality. I told myself I had to be strong, to show up like Noah, even when the one who tucked me into bed no longer knew my name. I wasn’t sorry for myself. I was heartbroken for her, for my parents and aunt, and for the way our family’s world suddenly changed. Unsure where to begin, I decided that showing up was a start. I went to my aunt’s house every day after school and sat with my grandmother. Some days she mistook me for someone else. Other days she barely noticed I was there. Still, she smiled, blew me a kiss, and whispered “thank God” in Arabic when words failed her. In those moments, I understood Noah more clearly. Strength was not found in reliving pain, but in presence. I learned to live in the moment, holding onto small smiles and fleeting connections for as long as I could. I looked forward to spending more time with her in the summer, only to be seated on the first morning of summer to my brother telling me she had passed. For two years, I lived in the space between these films, carrying the endurance of Noah and the loss John Nash faced. I realized that A Beautiful Mind was not just about hallucinations, but about acceptance, about saying goodbye to what once felt real. Together, these stories taught me that healing does not always mean curing. Sometimes it means staying. These experiences refined my goal to become a pediatric oncologist. I don’t want to be only someone who treats disease, but a steady presence for both the child and their family, a shoulder they can lean on when certainty disappears. Like Noah, I want to show up every day. Like the lessons these films gave me, I want to be an anchor in a storm, offering compassion, steadiness, and understanding when medicine alone is not enough.

Education has always felt like climbing a ladder. When I was very young, I could see the top but not how to reach it. Reading was difficult. Letters and words seemed tangled together, and I struggled to understand what others seemed to take for granted. My mother sat with me during tutoring sessions, patient and steady, guiding me hand by hand, step by step. Those moments taught me that progress is built slowly, carefully, and with support. By fifth grade, I had earned reading trophies, small markers that I was climbing higher than I thought I could. Each one was a reminder that persistence mattered more than speed. After elementary school, the ladder became steeper. My mom could no longer help me with homework the way she had before. The rungs were higher, and I had to reach for them myself. I learned to ask questions, to take risks in class, and to trust that effort would get me further than hesitation. Those moments of stepping up on my own were difficult, but they taught me something crucial: education is not something that happens to you. It is something you climb, and each careful step matters. As I moved into more advanced classes, especially in science, I realized that climbing this ladder required more than effort. Biology taught me to see systems, how each part contributes to the whole. Understanding did not come in leaps. It came in repeated practice, careful attention, and steady movement. I learned to build routines that carried me forward, even when motivation waned. The saying “You don’t rise to the level of your goals, you fall to the level of your systems” became real for me. The ladder does not carry you. You have to step consistently, deliberately, and intentionally. Teaching younger students at my church gave me another perspective on climbing. I had to slow down and meet them where they were, just as my mother had met me. Watching a student finally understand something reminded me of my fifth-grade reading trophies. It showed me that learning is not only personal. It is relational. Each person has to find their own way up, but guidance and support make the climb possible. Volunteering at Riverside Free Clinic and Riverside Community Hospital showed me what it takes to be responsible for someone else’s care. I spent hours observing, learning how clinics operate, and seeing how much effort goes into helping patients feel safe and supported. It wasn’t glamorous or dramatic. It was long days, paying attention to small details, and realizing how much knowledge and preparation matter in healthcare. I am currently working toward my CCMA license, learning skills I never had before. Each time I draw blood with a butterfly needle, take a patient’s blood pressure, or measure hemoglobin levels, I feel the weight of responsibility—and the privilege of being able to help someone in a small but meaningful way. The process is challenging, sometimes intimidating, but every skill I gain is another rung on the ladder I can use to lift others, to make their experience a little easier, and to remind me why I chose this path in the first place. Writing a letter to a patient at St. Jude during the holidays made all of that feel real in a new way. At first, I wasn’t sure what to say. When I received a reply, reading their words hit me harder than I expected. It wasn’t about recognition. It was about knowing that my effort, my attention, and what I’ve learned could reach someone else. That moment showed me that pediatric oncology is a place where my education, persistence, and care could actually make a difference. Even before these experiences, I knew I wanted to work in medicine, and specifically with children. I remember watching Doc McStuffins as a kid and feeling captivated by the idea of helping sick kids feel better. It wasn’t just the show—it was the feeling of knowing I wanted to be a doctor, someone who could care for children when they felt most vulnerable. That early fascination has stayed with me and shaped every step I’ve taken. From my first tutoring sessions to volunteering in clinics, every experience has confirmed that working with children in healthcare is where I belong. Challenges were never absent. Balancing school with responsibilities outside the classroom often made the ladder feel wobbly. I learned that perseverance alone is not enough. Systems matter. Structure matters. The current of effort is not enough if you do not have a plan. That is what education taught me: discipline, patience, and intentionality. Through all of these experiences, my sense of direction became clear. I am drawn to healthcare because it combines knowledge, precision, and care. I want to work with children and families, where small interventions can make a meaningful difference. Education has taught me that preparation and understanding are forms of support, and I want to apply what I have learned to help others climb their own ladders. Looking back, I see that every step—learning to read with my mom, earning reading trophies, figuring out how to ask questions for myself, volunteering in clinics, and writing to a patient at St. Jude—has been part of the same climb. Each step has taught me patience, persistence, and how to use what I know to help others. I am still learning, still building skills, and still climbing, but now I understand the purpose behind it. My education is not just about what I achieve for myself. It is about the ways I can support children and families, help them find stability in difficult moments, and be someone they can rely on when life gets overwhelming. Step by step, I hope to keep moving upward—and to make sure others can climb alongside me.

Ever since I was a kid, I knew I wanted to be a doctor. I would run to the TV every afternoon to watch Doc McStuffins, imagining myself as someone who could guide children through fear and pain, like a lighthouse in a storm. I saw pediatric patients as real-life superheroes, facing battles no child should have to fight. My passion for pediatric oncology was formed when I sent a letter to St. Jude for a class assignment and received a reply that made me realize the power of hope. I knew I wanted to be a pediatric oncologist—someone who cares for children through the hardest days. I am a part of my school’s Biomedical Sciences program. It taught me how to think like a healthcare professional and understand that every patient has a story beyond their symptoms. Competing in HOSA brought these lessons to life. Placing third in phlebotomy taught me that technical skill and composure matter just as much as empathy. Standing with a needle in my hands, I understood that patients trust you with both their care and their comfort. I am currently earning my Medical Assistant license, this certification will give me the ability to actively assist patients. Every skill I learn, whether it’s taking blood pressure or doing an EKG brings me closer to my dream- working in healthcare. Volunteering has been the part of my journey that has shaped me the most. At Riverside Free Clinic, I helped with patient intake and saw firsthand how chronic illness impacts families in my own community. At Riverside Community Hospital, I rotated through the emergency room, lab, and errand room, learning that every role is important to making patient care run smoothly. At La Casa, I assisted in the office by documenting patient information and updating charts, which taught me that careful attention to detail supports both staff and patients. I also serve at my church, teaching 5th and 6th graders, guiding them through lessons and activities. These experiences have shown me that service is about paying attention, showing up, and helping others in ways that matter most to them. If I could start my own charity, it would be called “Little Lights,” dedicated to supporting children with chronic illnesses and their families. The mission would be to lighten both the emotional and practical burdens of long-term care. Volunteers would be trained to provide tutoring so children can stay on track in school, offer encouragement during treatments, and organize care packages that bring comfort during hospital stays. The charity would also coordinate transportation and help families navigate appointments and medical resources. Beyond the practical support, “Little Lights” would create a community where families could connect and share experiences. My time in clinics, hospitals, and teaching at my church has shown me that small acts of support can have an enormous impact, and I want this charity to be a consistent source of hope and guidance for children and families facing serious health challenges After high school, I plan to pursue a pre-medical track in college with the goal of becoming a pediatrician, focusing on oncology. Every experience I have had has shaped the pediatrician I hope to become: someone who combines knowledge, skill, and compassion to help children and families face challenges with hope and care.

The first thing that struck me about Dr. Jack Terry’s story was not only what he survived, but the patience it must have taken to rebuild himself afterward. After losing his entire family and enduring the horrors of multiple concentration camps, he chose to learn, to serve, and to help others understand pain rather than be consumed by it. His life shows that adversity does not end when danger passes. It lingers quietly, shaping who you become and asking what you will do with what remains. Some of my earliest memories of struggle are tied to learning how to read. In first grade, books felt like locked doors. Letters blurred together, and sounds refused to settle in my mouth. While my classmates moved ahead, I stayed behind, painfully aware of every pause when it was my turn to read aloud. What grounded me during those moments was my mother’s presence. She came with me to tutoring and sat beside me as my teacher patiently taught phonics like ph, th, and sh. My mom tried to learn them too, even when it was unfamiliar, so she could help me at home. Night after night, we sat at the kitchen table sounding out words, teaching me patience and persistence one syllable at a time. Alongside these academic struggles, loss has always been part of my family’s story. When I was two years old, my father lost both his brother and his father within two months. My uncle died suddenly in a car accident, and my grandfather passed due to complications from high blood sugar. My mother had already experienced loss earlier in her life, losing one of her brothers as a teenager. My grandmother, a wife and mother shaped by grief, never fully healed. While battling chronic illness herself, including diabetes, she later developed a tumor and schizophrenia. Over two years, I watched her become bedridden, her world shrinking until she passed away last May. Even now, part of me still expects to walk into her room and find her there. Living alongside so much loss changed the way I understand presence and care. I became aware early on that people are not permanent, and that love can disappear without warning. Grief did not make me fearful, but it made me attentive. I learned to notice voices, habits, and moments because I understood they could become memories at any time. Watching my grandmother decline taught me that suffering is not only physical, but emotional and spiritual, and that illness often brings loneliness alongside pain. That awareness shaped my empathy and my patience. It taught me how to sit with discomfort, how to listen without rushing, and how to acknowledge pain rather than look away. Dr. Jack Terry made that same choice. After unimaginable loss, he devoted his life to learning, healing, and sharing his story so others would not feel alone in theirs. Inspired by his example, I plan to use my studies to give back through pediatric oncology. Children facing cancer are among the most vulnerable, forced to confront fear and uncertainty before they fully understand what is happening to them. Through my education, I want to become a physician who brings patience into those spaces, who explains gently, listens fully, and treats both children and their families with dignity. Giving back, for me, means using knowledge not only to treat disease, but to reduce fear, restore steadiness, and remind families that they are not alone. In doing so, I hope to honor Dr. Jack Terry’s legacy by turning perseverance, empathy, and faith into care that helps others endure and heal.

When a child is sick for a long time, life stops feeling like a series of days and starts feeling like waiting. Waiting for results. Waiting for relief. Waiting for good news. I first understood that kind of waiting when I was asked to write a letter to a patient at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital during the Christmas season. Even though it was an assignment, I could not stop thinking about the child who might read it. While others were celebrating, that child was waiting in a hospital room. I realized then how powerful it is to simply remind someone that they are not alone in that wait. That moment clarified my purpose. I am drawn to medicine because I want to be present during the longest and hardest waits of someone’s life, especially for children facing chronic and life-threatening illness. Pediatric oncology is not only about treating disease. It is about consistency, trust, and showing up when progress is slow and fear is constant. I want to be someone children recognize, someone who brings steadiness into a space that often feels uncertain. My interest in chronic illness comes from understanding how exhausting it is to live in a body that requires constant care. Conditions that do not resolve quickly demand patience from both patients and providers. Through my education, I want to learn how to treat illness with precision while never losing sight of the human experience behind it. Children deserve care that sees them beyond their diagnosis, care that acknowledges their fear, resilience, and need for comfort. My faith shapes how I see this responsibility. Proverbs 3:27 says, “Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act.” I interpret that as a call to serve when I am able, not only when it is convenient or easy. Medicine gives me the opportunity to act with compassion during moments that matter deeply. Through my college education, I will prepare myself to give back as a physician who serves children facing long-term illness. I want to support families during periods of waiting, uncertainty, and hope. By becoming a steady presence in pediatric oncology, I hope to give children something every patient deserves: care that is skilled, consistent, and deeply human.

About two years ago, I was diagnosed with GERD, functional acid reflux. At first, it felt minor—a burning sensation after meals that I could ignore. Over time, I realized how much even a “small” condition can affect daily life. Eating, sleeping, and focusing in school all required careful attention. Managing GERD meant adjusting routines, planning meals, and learning to recognize the subtle signs of my body. Living with a chronic condition taught me what it feels like to face persistent discomfort, uncertainty, and limitations, and how important it is to advocate for oneself and seek guidance when needed. This awareness became even more vivid when I began volunteering at Riverside Free Clinic. Many people rely on clinics like this because they have nowhere else to turn. They face long work hours, limited resources, and obstacles that make even basic care difficult to access. Witnessing their experiences showed me how deeply healthcare disparities affect lives and reinforced how important it is to approach medicine with empathy, attentiveness, and commitment. The clinic offered a view of healthcare beyond symptoms and treatments—it revealed the human side of medicine, the ways illness intersects with daily life, and the responsibility healthcare professionals have to guide and support patients through challenges they cannot face alone. These experiences strengthened my desire to work in pediatric oncology. I want to dedicate myself to a field where I can combine my fascination for medicine and my understanding of vulnerability. Chronic conditions, limited access to care, and the stories I witnessed at the clinic all showed me the difference compassionate guidance and skilled care can make. My goal is to bring that perspective to children and families facing serious illness, to ensure they feel supported and understood, and to contribute to a system that provides not just treatment but care that is attentive and meaningful. Managing GERD and volunteering in a clinical setting have shaped the way I approach challenges. I have learned patience, persistence, and the value of careful observation. I have learned to listen, to advocate, and to respond thoughtfully to situations that affect well-being. These lessons guide my commitment to a future working in pediatric oncology. To be a beacon of hope for children who are in pain yet to young to comprehend what their diagnosis is, to those that may feel like they are alone, or those whose families feel helpless that their child is in pain. My experiences remind me that medicine is not only about treating disease, but about seeing the person behind the diagnosis, understanding their needs, and helping them navigate moments of uncertainty with care and compassion. Even conditions that seem minor, like GERD, have the power to teach important lessons about perseverance, empathy, and awareness. My experiences managing a chronic condition and observing the challenges patients face have inspired me to pursue a career where I can make a meaningful impact. I want to dedicate my life to helping children and their families navigate illness with hope and understanding, to provide guidance when they have nowhere else to turn, and to ensure that care is both accessible and compassionate.

Faith, to me, has always felt like holding onto a thread in the dark. You cannot see where it leads, but you trust that if you keep moving forward, it will not break. Living by the phrase: “If you're hanging by a threat, let it be the hem of His garment.” I learned this during the hardest season of my life, when I was losing the people who had shaped my sense of love, purpose, and belonging, all while trying to stay standing academically and emotionally. The greatest challenge I have faced was watching my grandmother slowly disappear while still physically present. She was the person who believed in me first. She was gentle, affectionate, and deeply faithful. When I was young, she would tell me she wanted me to become a doctor for children because children are sweet and innocent. At the time, it felt like a sweet comment, motivating me through the path I loved- medicine. Years later, it became a driving force for me. After the sudden deaths of her husband and son, grief settled into her life and never fully left. Over time, it began to take shape in illness. She developed diabetes and later a tumor doctors initially dismissed as harmless. By 2023, the tumor had grown significantly, and her mind began to fracture. She mixed memories, repeated stories, and drifted between reality and confusion. Alzheimer’s and dementia took hold, and at times her behavior reflected symptoms of schizophrenia. Her illness was like waves pushing against me, but my love for her was the anchor that never moved. Every day after school, no matter how exhausted I was or how many classes I had, I went to my aunts house. I helped feed her, bathe her, and simply sit with her when she was unaware. When she was admitted to the ER or ICU, I supported my aunt and took care of my younger cousins. At night, I opened my textbooks with shaking hands, mentally drained, and unsure how I would keep up. This is where faith became more than belief. It became survival. I prayed in quiet moments, not asking for miracles, but asking for strength. Faith reminded me that love is not measured by ease, but by consistency. Like a lighthouse in a storm, it did not calm the waves, but it gave me something to fix my eyes on so I would not lose direction. My grandmother passed away last May, on the first day of my summer break. I had been excited to visit her more without finals and deadlines. Even though she was not fully present in her final years, there were moments when her love still reached me. When I told her I loved her, she would imitate me and blow me a kiss back. Those moments made all the hard days feel a little lighter. At the same time, the mothers at the convent where I served for years were sent back to Egypt. The convent had been my place of prayer, stability, and guidance. Losing them felt like losing the ground beneath my feet. Yet faith taught me that separation does not erase connection, and that love continues even when presence does not. Through grief, exhaustion, and uncertainty, I stayed committed to my education. My faith gave me strength and reminded me that perseverance is an act of devotion. I carry my grandmother’s words with me as I pursue a future in medicine, not just to succeed, but to serve. This scholarship honors faith lived through action, and that is the legacy I strive to continue.

Church has always been a part of my life. I remember waking up on Sunday mornings, putting on my best clothes, and walking with my parents and siblings. Sunday school felt small at first—short Bible readings, stories, and animations—but it planted seeds that grew with me. As I got older, I realized faith was not just something I did on Sundays. It became a part of everything I do, a guide for my choices, my struggles, and the way I treat people. I try to live by the saying, “Let your love for God change the world; don’t let the world change your love for God.” It reminds me to stay true to myself even when it feels easier to follow everyone else. One verse that always touches me is Songs of Solomon 4:7: “You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.” It is not about pride or thinking I am perfect. It is about knowing I am seen and loved exactly as I am. High school has been like climbing a mountain. Some days the work, late nights, and new responsibilities made me feel unsteady. I realized I was not making enough time for my faith and it left me feeling unsettled. I started using my morning drives to listen to sermons and memorize psalms. Those moments became like small steps on the path, giving me something steady to hold onto. Memorizing a psalm is like carrying a little lantern through the fog. It helps me pause, breathe, and remember that I am never alone. Serving at my church has taught me patience and the importance of presence. Teaching children requires me to be calm and encouraging even when I feel overstimulated or unsure. At first, the classroom was quiet and I worried I would fail the kids I was supposed to guide. Over time, I learned to put my heart into it and trust that God would guide me. I realized that the path is not always about being perfect but about showing up and giving each moment your care. Faith also helps me with the things I cannot understand. Why do bad things happen to good people? What can I do when it feels like there is nothing to do? I think of it like an equation: infinity, which is God, plus X, which is me—X amount of good deeds, X amount of sins, X amount of true repentance—equals infinity. It is not about being perfect. It is about knowing that everything I do, everything I am, is held in God’s endless love. I carry this faith into my education. It guides how I face challenges, how I treat others, and how I stay committed. Trusting God, leaning on Him, and putting my heart into every step gives me strength. I hope to learn, grow, and make a difference not just for myself but for the people around me.

I think of life like a vast, uncharted hospital wing. Each door hides a story, each hallway a challenge, and sometimes the rooms are labeled in languages you don’t understand. Growing up, I watched my parents move through that wing, facing forms, appointments, and instructions they could barely read. They came to this country to give me and my siblings a better childhood, a chance at education, and a more comfortable life. They sacrificed so much so that my siblings and I could have opportunities they never had. Watching them work hard and face these challenges has motivated me to become someone they can be proud of. I want to honor their sacrifices by building a life focused on helping others, especially children, in ways that combine care, understanding, and expertise. Since I was a kid, I knew I wanted to be a kids’ doctor, a pediatrician, but that desire was strengthened when I sent letters to children at St. Jude as a Christmas assignment in middle school and heard back from the parents. That experience made me realize how much of a difference care and attention can make for children and their families, and it sparked my interest in pediatric oncology. As I pursued that interest, I looked for opportunities to learn and grow. I started taking college-level science classes at a local community college, completing General Chemistry and Biology series to build a strong foundation. At school, I joined the Biomedical Sciences program, where I could see how classroom learning connects to real patient care. In junior year, I challenged myself by competing in HOSA Phlebotomy, learning the precision and care required to draw blood safely, and placed third in California. I also enrolled in a Medical Assistant certification class and began volunteering at Riverside Community Hospital, where I witnessed how doctors and nurses support patients and families in real moments of need. Each experience has shown me that medicine is not just knowledge: it is patience, understanding, and compassion—and it has strengthened my determination to become a pediatric oncologist. This scholarship would help me by easing the financial burden on my parents. My sister and I are twins, which doubles the expenses, and this support would allow me to focus more on learning, volunteering, and preparing for medical school. It would give me the space to continue gaining experience and developing the skills I need to become a pediatric oncologist who listens intently, comforts children, supports parents, and approaches every patient with the gentleness and attention they deserve. I plan to pay it forward by being a doctor who does not forget the human side of medicine. I want to help families feel seen and supported, guide children through frightening treatments, and provide reassurance in moments of uncertainty. The sacrifices my parents made gave me the chance to pursue this path. This scholarship would bring me closer to making the same kind of impact for others that my parents made for me.

I grew up watching my parents try to navigate a world that was not built for them. They came to this country knowing very little English, and that made everyday tasks feel intimidating, especially in medical settings. Doctor’s appointments often felt overwhelming. I remember sitting beside them in clinics, helping translate forms or listening carefully so I could explain what the doctor said afterward. Even as a child, I could sense their fear of misunderstanding something important. Those moments showed me how easily families can feel powerless in the healthcare system when language and knowledge become barriers. That sense of vulnerability deepened when my grandmother became ill. She had Alzheimer’s and was bedridden for two years. During that time, I watched someone I loved slowly change. Conversations became shorter, memories faded, and the person who once told me stories from the Bible began to slip away. When I was 16, she passed away. Losing her was not sudden, but that did not make it easier. Grief arrived slowly and stayed. Watching her decline taught me how long and exhausting illness can be, not only for the patient but for everyone who loves them. It showed me how important patience, dignity, and presence are when healing is no longer possible. My interest in medicine began long before I understood what it truly involved. As a child, I loved watching Doc McStuffins. I thought she was so cool. She hugged her toys, listened to them, and helped them feel better. To me, doctors were superheroes. They could make something scary feel safe just by showing care. That idea stayed with me as I grew older, even as my understanding of medicine became more realistic. I did not stop believing that healing could be gentle as well as strong. As I grew more aware of real illness, that belief became more grounded. Learning about children facing cancer, especially through letters from St. Jude, left a deep impression on me. Reading their words showed me how honest and brave children can be in the face of fear. Writing letters to children battling serious illness taught me that even small acts of kindness can matter. A few words of encouragement can remind someone that they are not alone. Those experiences reinforced my belief that medicine is not only about treatment, but about connection. These experiences are what drew me to pediatric oncology. I am drawn to this field because it requires both scientific skill and emotional strength. Children facing cancer endure long treatments and uncertainty, and their families carry constant worry. I want to be a doctor who understands that weight. I want to take time to explain things clearly, listen without rushing, and advocate for families who feel overwhelmed or unheard. I know what it feels like to sit in a medical space filled with confusion and fear, and I want to help make those moments more bearable. I plan to make a positive impact by turning my experiences into purpose. My parents’ struggles taught me resilience and advocacy. Watching my grandmother live with Alzheimer’s taught me patience and compassion. Through pediatric oncology, I hope to provide care that is both knowledgeable and deeply human. I want to support children and families not just through medicine, but through presence, honesty, and empathy, especially during moments when they need it most.

I have always been drawn to questions that don’t have easy answers. I stare at ordinary things—a breath, a heartbeat, a cell under a microscope—and wonder how they work, why they work, and how understanding them could make life better for someone. For me, curiosity isn’t just a habit; it’s the way I connect with the world and with people. Every new discovery feels like a step closer to being able to help someone in a real, tangible way. My parents came to this country knowing very little English. Watching them navigate hospitals, appointments, and medical instructions taught me something I could never learn from books: understanding is not always enough if you cannot act on it. I realized that I wanted to be someone who could act, who could use knowledge to help people feel seen, understood, and cared for, even when life feels complicated or overwhelming. That awareness shaped the way I think about my future and the kind of work I want to dedicate myself to. I am fascinated by how science can be applied to solve real problems. Learning about the human body, disease, and treatment is exciting, but what drives me most is imagining how that knowledge can change someone’s experience. I am drawn to medicine because it is where curiosity meets action. It is where you can take what you understand and turn it into comfort, healing, and hope for another person. That combination of thinking and doing is what makes the work meaningful to me. I want to make a positive impact by focusing on care that goes beyond procedures and treatments. I want to understand the fears, the questions, and the small victories that happen every day in a hospital room. I want to be the person who notices when a child needs encouragement, when a parent needs reassurance, or when a simple explanation can make an overwhelming situation understandable. My goal is to take knowledge, compassion, and persistence and put them into action in a way that is personal and immediate. To me, science is more than experiments and results; it is a lens for seeing possibility. Every skill I develop, every bit of understanding I gain, is a tool to make someone’s life better. I am motivated not by awards or recognition but by the idea that what I learn can translate directly into care and support. My vision of impact is measured in small, human ways: the comfort of a child, the relief of a parent, the moment someone realizes that they are not alone in facing a challenge. Ultimately, my goal is to apply this curiosity, dedication, and commitment to the field of pediatric oncology. I want to care for children facing serious illnesses, using both knowledge and empathy to make their experience less frightening and more supported. Pediatric oncology challenges me to combine problem-solving with compassion, and every skill I continue to develop brings me closer to being the kind of doctor who can guide children and their families through uncertainty while helping them find hope and healing. I plan to dedicate my career to bridging knowledge and care. I want to turn curiosity into solutions, questions into answers, and understanding into action. The world changes when someone can use what they know to help another person, and I want to be that person. That is the kind of difference I hope to make, one interaction at a time, one life at a time.

One issue I have noticed in my community is how confusing and intimidating healthcare can be for families who do not speak strong English or who are unfamiliar with the medical system. This is not something I learned from a textbook or a program. It is something I grew up watching in my own home. My parents are immigrants, and when I was younger, medical appointments were often stressful for our family. The language barrier made it hard to fully understand diagnoses, instructions, or next steps. Even filling out forms or asking questions felt overwhelming. I remember sitting in waiting rooms and realizing how much trust families are expected to place in a system they do not always understand. Seeing this made me aware that healthcare is not just about treatment. It is about communication, reassurance, and making people feel safe enough to speak up. That awareness motivated me to step into healthcare spaces early. Volunteering at Riverside Community Hospital allowed me to see the same uncertainty I had seen in my parents, this time on many different faces. Families looked lost, anxious, or hesitant to ask for help. My role was small, but I made it a point to be patient, calm, and present. Giving directions, answering simple questions, or explaining what I could made a difference in how comfortable people felt. I realized that even brief interactions can shape someone’s experience with healthcare. Serving at my church also shaped how I approach this issue. Teaching children requires clarity, patience, and trust. While the kids I serve are supported and doing well, the experience taught me how important it is to communicate in ways that meet people where they are. Those lessons follow me into every healthcare environment I enter. So far, I have taken steps by gaining medical assisting training, earning certifications, and continuing to volunteer consistently. I am still learning, but each experience strengthens my ability to support others. In the future, I want to expand my efforts by working directly with patients and families, especially those who feel unheard or overwhelmed. As a future pediatric oncologist, I hope to be the kind of physician my parents needed, someone who explains, listens, and makes families feel confident instead of lost.

I had dreamed of becoming a pediatric oncologist long before my grandmother became ill, but she was the person who made that dream feel real. Growing up, we watched movies together, played games, or she told me stories from the Bible. She had a way of noticing small things about me like the way I hesitated before trying something new. She often told me, “Become a kids doctor. They're sweet just like you.” I never forgot her words and they stayed with me through everything. Her illness changed the rhythm of our days, but it also clarified what I already wanted to do. Her decline was slow and persistent. I helped with everyday tasks, sitting beside her, holding her hand, and offering quiet reassurance. Sometimes she would try to speak and forget her words halfway through or look at me with fear and confusion in her eyes. I remember feeling helpless and frustrated, wishing I could take away her pain. There were nights when I left her room and sat quietly, replaying the day, wondering if my presence had been enough. I realized that love is not always about fixing a problem but about staying, being steady, and showing care even when the outcome is uncertain. Experiencing her illness taught me lessons I could never learn from books or lectures. I learned the weight of fear and uncertainty, the exhaustion of caring deeply while outcomes are beyond your control, and the importance of patience when progress comes slowly or not at all. I learned that compassion sometimes means listening, sometimes means staying silent, and always means being fully present. I also learned that grief can exist alongside gratitude. I am grateful for her small smiles, the way she squeezed my hand on difficult days. These moments shaped my understanding of how care, attention, and empathy matter in ways that medicine alone cannot measure. My grandmother showed me why this dream matters more than ever. She taught me that a career in pediatric oncology is as much about humanity as it is about science. I want to be a pediatric oncologist who comforts children and families when fear is overwhelming, who offers patience and steadiness even when outcomes are uncertain, and who carries the same kindness and encouragement she gave me. Losing my grandmother did not create my dream, but it clarified it. Her life and illness continue to guide how I live, how I care for others, and how I work toward the career I have long committed to. I carry with me the lessons she taught in our afternoons together before her illness and in the ways she needed me during her hardest days. Those moments remind me that presence, empathy, and patience are the most important tools I can offer as a future pediatric oncologist.

Loss has been a presence in my life for as long as I can remember, even before I was old enough to understand what it meant. When I was only a year and a half old, my father lost his younger brother in a sudden driving accident. Less than forty days later, his father, my grandfather, passed away due to complications from uncontrolled blood sugar. I never met either of them, yet their absence shaped my childhood in ways I would only come to understand later. In my culture, death is honored with intentional restraint. For forty days after a loss, families wear black, avoid television, and remove certain sweets from the home as a sign of respect. Those practices extended my parents’ mourning, and as a result, my earliest memories are quieter than most. I remember walking into kindergarten and being astonished to see a television playing cartoons. When my teacher asked what my favorite cartoon was, I had no answer. I did not yet understand why our home had been so still, only that something serious had passed through it. As I grew older, I began to recognize that stillness as grief. Despite their pain, my parents remained steady, leaning on one another and grounding our family in faith and Christian values. A little over two years ago, loss became personal in a way I could fully feel. My grandmother, the wife and mother of those earlier losses, passed away after years of illness. She suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, schizophrenia, a brain tumor, and long-standing diabetes. Before her illnesses took hold, she was my best friend. She alternated weeks between my home and my aunt’s, and when she stayed with us, we spent our time watching movies, playing games, telling bible stories, or simply sitting together in comfortable silence. There was a peace in her presence that felt effortless and safe. As I grew older, I watched that version of her slowly fade. She would wake up believing she had argued with my mother or aunt, recounting events that never happened. She asked about relatives who had passed years earlier, unaware that time had moved forward without them. As time passed she became bedridden, lost significant weight, and sometimes couldn’t recognized me. Still, after school, no matter how late my community college courses ran, I asked my mom to take me to see her and helped care for her however I could. Even when my grandmother seemed disconnected from the world, one phrase remained constant: “Thank you, God, for everything.” Hearing that, even in her weakest moments, revealed a faith deeper than memory itself. It strengthened my own. As summer approached, I was eager to spend more time helping my aunt care for her. On the first morning of summer break, my brother told me she had passed away. I was too stunned to cry. Although she had not been fully present in recent years, she was still there; someone I could walk in to see. Losing that broke me in a way I still struggle to put into words. Throughout my childhood, my grandmother often told me to become a doctor for children because, as she said, children are innocent and sweet. I already had an interest in medicine, but her passing transformed that interest into purpose. I now feel driven to pursue medicine for the patients who are suffering, for families navigating uncertainty, for my parents who came to America and endured loss to build a future, and most of all for my grandmother, whose faith, prayers, and encouragement continue to guide me.

Leadership and science shape our future through the choices people make when knowledge meets responsibility. Science shows us what is possible, but leadership decides how that knowledge is used and who it serves. Without leadership grounded in empathy and integrity, progress can lose its meaning. Without science, leadership lacks the tools to create real change. I learned this lesson in a small classroom at my church, not through textbooks or experiments, but through trial, discomfort, and growth. Freshman year, I began teaching first- and second-grade students every Sunday. I was nervous, spoke with a shaky voice, and often left questioning whether I was actually helping. The room was quiet at first, and the kids seemed disengaged. I realized leadership was not only about sounding confident or having everything planned perfectly. It was about showing up consistently and caring enough to adjust when something was not working. I stopped focusing on how the lesson looked and focused on how it felt for the kids. I changed the environment, built routines, and created simple systems that encouraged participation. Slowly, the room came alive with artwork, laughter, and conversations. One moment that stayed with me was watching the kids remind each other to share and be thankful without being prompted. That was when I understood that leadership is measured by impact, not recognition. Science works the same way. Discoveries alone do not change lives—people do. Behind every medical breakthrough are leaders who decide how research is applied, how patients are treated, and whose voices are heard. As someone who hopes to become a pediatric oncologist, I know science will give me the ability to fight disease, but leadership will allow me to care for children and families during the hardest moments of their lives. Our future depends on leaders who understand that progress is not just about innovation, but about people. When leadership is rooted in service and science is guided by compassion, the future becomes not only more advanced, but more human.

Growing up, I thought doctors were superheroes. Every afternoon after school, I watched Doc McStuffins, captivated by the way she cared for her patients with joy, calm, and confidence. She fixed what was broken, but more importantly, she made people feel safe. Long before I understood what medical school or residency meant, I proudly told anyone who asked that I was going to be a “kid’s doctor.” At the time, it sounded simple. As I grew older, I realized how ambitious that dream truly was—and instead of scaring me away, that realization drew me closer. My “pie in the sky” dream is to become a pediatric oncologist. It feels just out of reach because of the years of training, sacrifice, and uncertainty involved, but it is inspiring because it demands the very best of who I can become. Pediatric oncology sits at the intersection of science, endurance, and humanity. It requires not only medical expertise, but emotional strength, patience, and the ability to stand with families during the most vulnerable moments of their lives. That challenge is precisely why I am committed to it. That desire began to take shape in middle school, when I started writing monthly letters to children receiving care at St. Jude. Hearing back from families made the weight of illness feel real, but it also showed me how powerful even small acts of kindness can be. Those letters were simple, but they mattered. As I learned more about the care these children were receiving, I found myself drawn not just to the compassion involved, but to the field behind it. Pediatric oncology stood out for the depth of connection between physician, patient, and family, and I realized it was the path I wanted to follow. As that clarity grew,admiration turned into intention Starting the summer after my sophomore year, I enrolled as a concurrent and dual-enrollment student at local community colleges, determined to challenge myself academically and move forward with purpose. I completed the general chemistry series, finished my general education requirements through online coursework, and am currently completing the general biology sequence. Balancing college-level science courses alongside high school commitments has been demanding, but it has taught me discipline, resilience, and how to keep going when things feel overwhelming. At my high school, I am part of the PLTW Biomedical Sciences program, which has further solidified my commitment. From Principles of Biomedical Science to Human Body Systems, Medical Interventions, and now Biomedical Innovations, I have learned to think critically, analyze real medical problems, and appreciate how research translates into patient care. Competing in HOSA deepened that experience; earning third place in California for phlebotomy during my junior year showed me that I could perform under pressure and excel in clinical environments. As a senior, I am completing my CCMA certification, gaining hands-on skills that bring medicine out of textbooks and into real patient interactions. Looking ahead, I plan to attend California Baptist University starting fall 2026, with the goal—God willing—of completing my bachelor’s degree in two years. From there, my path leads to the MCAT and, if everything aligns, medical school. This dream is big, and there are no guarantees. But that uncertainty has shaped my courage. My “pie in the sky” is not just becoming a pediatric oncologist—it is becoming someone strong enough to grow through challenge, grounded enough to serve others, and committed enough to keep reaching even when the goal feels just out of reach.

I am Coptic Orthodox and was fortunate to grow up in a family that values God and puts others before themselves. When my parents came to California in 2004, they were strangers to this land. Everything was unfamiliar, and they had to learn how to survive from the ground up. A few years later, other families from our church and community began arriving in California just as lost and unsettled as my parents once were. Without hesitation, my parents opened the doors of our two-bedroom apartment to families who needed a place to stay. They helped them find jobs, shared their car so they could get to work, and supported them until they were stable enough to move forward on their own. Once one family moved out, another would come in need of help. This became a routine cycle in our home, done purely out of love, faith, and compassion. Watching my parents live this way shaped who I am. Their humility and selflessness built the foundation of my dedication to helping others. My passion is medicine, and my drive comes directly from the values I learned in my family. Since I was a little kid, I knew I wanted to be a “kids’ doctor.” I was always drawn to children who were hurting and to the idea of being someone they could feel safe with during difficult moments. In middle school, that feeling became something deeper. I wrote letters to children at St. Jude, hoping to offer encouragement during their treatment. One day, I received a response from a parent who told me that my letter helped their family feel stronger during an incredibly hard time. Reading that changed me. It made me realize how powerful presence and compassion can be, especially for families facing serious illness. That moment pushed me to learn more about oncology, and from then on, I knew that was what I wanted to do. Children with cancer, lung disease, and rare medical conditions face realities no child should have to experience. Some may be in early stages of illness, while others are fighting diagnoses that are life-threatening. Regardless of the stage or outcome, every child feels fear, pain, and uncertainty. I want to be there for those children who may be only a few months old or the same age I once was—children who feel like their world is collapsing and that they are alone in their struggle. I believe being a doctor is not just about medications or treatment plans. It is about heart, connection, and showing up for patients when they are most vulnerable. I think of it like this: anyone can draw a stick figure, but not everyone can create something worthy of being hung in a museum. In the same way, anyone can practice medicine, but not everyone can do it with genuine compassion. Through a career in healthcare, I want to be a light for my patients; a beacon of hope through their physical treatment and a source of comfort when they need it most.

My story is shaped by the sacrifices of my immigrant family and the determination they passed on to me. My parents came to the United States from Egypt wanting to give us opportunities they never had. They worked long hours, shared crowded living spaces with relatives, and never complained because they believed education would be our way forward. That belief became the center of my life. When I started elementary school, I spoke only Arabic. I sat in class confused, unable to follow simple instructions, and feeling like I did not belong. But instead of letting that become permanent, my family surrounded me with support. My cousins, who were only a few years older, refused to let me struggle the way they once did. Every summer, they got a huge workbook for the next school year and sat with me every day, teaching me a few pages and skills so I would not fall behind. They remembered how hard multiplication tables were for them, and they did not want me to endure the same frustration. They printed worksheets, made homemade flashcards, and even turned the lessons into games. By the time school started, I was not only prepared, I had caught up to the level of my classmates. Those summers taught me resilience and resourcefulness. I learned that hard work can close gaps and that the people around you can be your best tools for success. That experience later shaped how I approach challenges today in STEM. Science became the place where everything clicked. I loved learning how the human body worked, how diseases happen, and how treatment saves lives. I pursued a biomedical sciences program even though it meant a thirty minute commute because I knew that was where I belonged. I worked in labs, ran PCR tests, studied diseases, and learned phlebotomy. I earned top placements at HOSA and volunteered at hospitals because I wanted to use science beyond the classroom. Every new lab I completed reminded me of those summer lessons from my cousins, slow steps turning into strong skills. Coming from an immigrant family means facing financial difficulties, language barriers, and limited resources. But it also gives strength, creativity, and a deep sense of purpose. I learned early that when you lack tools, you make them; when you do not understand something, you study it harder; when you fall behind, you work until you catch up. This scholarship would allow me to continue pursuing my education in STEM, reduce financial pressures on my family, and help me build a future in healthcare where I serve others with compassion and cultural understanding. I am determined to achieve my goals and honor every person who helped me along the way, especially those summer study sessions that changed my life.

Growing up, I learned that strength isn’t measured by what you have, but by what you build from what you don’t. My family came to the United States from Egypt with almost nothing, sharing crowded apartments, one car, unpredictable schedules, and heavy responsibilities. Still, they created stability out of chaos, and love out of struggle. My cousins and I were raised like siblings, caring for each other because our parents were working long hours to build a life from scratch. That upbringing taught me that support doesn’t have to come from money, it can come from sacrifice and heart. School didn’t come easily to me at first. I entered elementary school barely speaking English, feeling like a stranger in a world I didn’t understand. But instead of letting that barrier define me, I showed up every morning before school for tutoring, and the most meaningful part is that my mom came and learned with me, even though she didn’t know English herself. Her message stayed with me: progress doesn’t have to be fast, it just has to be steady. I learned to see struggle like a seed beneath the soil: invisible at first, but growing roots that allow it to bloom later. When I earned reading trophies years later, it wasn’t because I was naturally gifted, it was because I built from the dirt I started in. Losing my grandmother was another obstacle that could have broken me. She battled diabetes, Alzheimer’s, and dementia, and I spent late nights helping my aunt and mom to feed and care for her all while balancing AP classes and school. Even in her hardest moments, she used to blow me kisses, reminding me that love survives even when health doesn’t. That experience didn’t just shape me, it strengthened my desire to work in medicine, especially for children. To pursue that dream, I enrolled in a biomedical science program 30 minutes away, and my parents never hesitated to make the drive. I competed in HOSA, placing 3rd in California and top 25 internationally, completed college courses early, and volunteered at hospitals and clinics because I refuse to wait for my dreams to happen, I work toward them. Students from disadvantaged backgrounds deserve scholarships not because we want pity, but because we have already proven we can grow despite having less. When resources are scarce, motivation becomes fuel, and when opportunities are limited, determination becomes direction. Supporting students like me means investing in potential, resilience, and futures that will give back. This grant would allow me to continue my journey toward becoming a healthcare provider, taking the financial pressure off my family and letting me focus on my education instead of worrying about whether I can afford it. I have worked through each obstacle not with excuses, but with effort, and I am committed to using that effort to serve my community, honor my family’s sacrifices, and build the future they dreamed of the moment they stepped foot in this country.

I have always been intrigued by science – how breathing is actually a hidden chain of steps, how my eye is a collection of tiny parts working together, and how simple elements can combine in endless ways to create life and everything around us. I wanted to know more. I would get lost in thought, thinking of new questions and researching them to feed my hunger for knowledge. I remember when I was in 8th grade my friend would tell me about the PLTW Biomedical Sciences program at her school and the different labs and activities she did. I mentioned it to my parents and told them how I thought it was the coolest thing ever, and they said if it was something I believed would help me in the future, then I could go there for high school—which I did. It’s a 30 minute drive every morning, but my parents were willing to make it work for me. There was so much I learned, some of which included forensics, the human body system, nano-tech, gene therapy, E.L.I.S.A., P.C.R, suturing, and debating. I was also taking an Advanced Patient Care course in which we learned not only by pen and pencil but by hands-on materials and tests. My teacher saw my passion and dedication and encouraged me to try drawing blood. One day I had the courage to try, and soon after I not only got the hang of it, but also developed a passion-- looking up how to properly invert what different tub colors meant and more. Through Biomed I had the opportunity to compete in a medical skill competition called Health Occupations Students of America (HOSA). I competed my Junior year in Phlebotomy, already knowing some background and hand on-- I studied for several hours a week reading and taking notes on a 500 page book. My hard work paid off with me placing 3rd in California and top 25 internationally. I also learned about dual and concurrent enrollment classes. I took that opportunity not only to finish credits early, but also to learn more. I completed around 50 college credits. My interest is science and my dream is the medical field, so I volunteered at both Riverside Community Hospital and La Casa Wound Specialist to get patient care experience. My school also offers a Medical Assistant program where you study and take the national exam to obtain your license. I am currently in this course, and every day is amazing. From learning how to draw blood, give injections, check blood sugar and hemoglobin, to taking notes on medical terminology and medical ethics, my mind never gets bored and my passion only grows.

The first time I volunteered at Riverside Free Clinic, working alongside a nurse, I remember a patient holding my hand as she explained that she had postponed care for months because she couldn’t afford insurance. Her voice trembled as she described the pain she’d been ignoring. At that moment, I realized that healthcare is more than medicine — it’s access, understanding, and compassion. That moment changed the way I saw science. It wasn’t just a subject I loved in school; it was a bridge that could connect care to those who need it most. Healthcare has always been a global issue, but seeing it up close in my own community made it personal. Many patients come to clinics like Riverside Free Clinic because they have nowhere else to turn. They all have different stories whether it's working long hours, caring for children, or not having any resources they still cannot afford the basic care they deserve. Around the world, the same story repeats itself — children losing parents to preventable diseases, patients delaying care, and in some areas hospitals struggling with limited resources. I want to be part of changing that. In my Biomedical Sciences program, I’ve learned how the body functions, how diseases progress, and how even the smallest cells carry stories of life and healing. But what has inspired me most are the lessons I’ve learned outside the classroom. At Riverside Community Hospital, in the Emergency Department, I help nurses and check in patients and witness how care and kindness can restore a patient’s dignity. At La Casa Wound Specialist, I assist with paperwork, updating charts and my respect grows for those who do the behind-the-scenes– yet crucial work. And at my church where I serve, I’ve learned that healing isn’t always physical — sometimes it’s found in listening, comforting, and showing up. Each experience has taught me that science means little without empathy, and empathy grows strongest when it meets real people. When I lost my grandmother last year, the meaning of healthcare became even more personal. I helped care for her through her illness, from feeding her to helping her walk. Watching her strength fade reminded me that medicine isn’t just about extending life, but about improving its quality. Her memory keeps me grounded in my dream of becoming a Pediatric Oncologist. I want to give children the care and hope that every human being deserves, no matter where they come from or what they can afford. Every test tube I hold, every class I take, and every patient I meet reminds me why I chose this path. Healthcare is my way of giving back to a community that has taught me resilience, compassion, and faith. I plan to use my education not just to treat illness, but to serve others; to make science a source of healing and equality. To me, being a woman in STEM means transforming knowledge into service. It means using every lesson, every late-night study session, and every act of care to create ripples of change. The future I see is one where every patient, no matter their story, feels seen, heard, and cared for. And that’s the kind of future I’m working to build — one act of compassion at a time.

The first time I read Twice as Hard by Jasmine Brown, I found myself pausing on almost every page. Her story of perseverance as a Black woman in medicine deeply moved me. Although I’m an Egyptian woman, her words spoke to a part of me that understood what it means to dream of entering a field where you aren’t always seen, but you still choose to stand tall. Reading about the women who came before her—those who had to prove themselves twice as hard just to earn a place in medicine—ignited something in me. It reminded me that resilience isn’t limited by background, but shared by those who dare to break barriers with grace and purpose. From a young age, I’ve always wanted to help people, but it wasn’t until middle school that I understood what that truly meant. Around Christmas, our class wrote letters to children at St. Jude. I remember decorating mine with stars and hearts, hoping it would make a child smile. I began sending letters regularly, sometimes hearing back from families who thanked me for bringing a small moment of joy into their pain. Those letters changed me—they made the faces of children battling cancer feel real, not distant. That’s when I knew I wanted to dedicate my life to helping children heal, both physically and emotionally. My grandmother’s illness later deepened that calling. I helped care for her through her final years, feeding her, holding her hand, and watching her face soften when I blew her a kiss. Even as her memory faded, she would smile and repeat — in Arabic, “God bless you,” as if to remind me that compassion is a language stronger than time. Losing her was painful, but her strength and faith live in me every day. The quote I hold closest to my heart is, “Every flower grows through dirt.” To me, it means that beauty and growth often come from struggle. My journey has not always been easy—learning how to read, knowing little English, adjusting to a place I felt I didn’t fit in, and balancing school with family responsibilities—but each challenge taught me patience and gratitude. I’ve learned that faith and perseverance can turn even the hardest soil into something capable of blooming. Another quote that guides me is, “Don’t let the world change your love for God, but let your love for God change the world.” My faith shapes the way I see medicine. I don’t just want to treat illnesses; I want to treat hearts—to comfort, to listen, and to bring hope where it feels lost. I believe medicine is not only a science but an act of service. As I continue my studies, I hope to become a Pediatric Oncologist who carries both skill and compassion into every room I walk into. My goal is to build trust with families during the most vulnerable moments of their lives and remind them that even in darkness, there can be light. I may not come from generations of doctors or scientists, but I come from generations of strength, faith, and service. I want to use my career to honor that legacy—to heal others, uplift women in STEM, and help the next girl, like Jasmine Brown once did for me, believe that she can grow through the dirt and bloom, too.

When I think about being a first-generation college student, I don’t just think about being the first to go to college—I think about the mornings when my mom sat beside me in first grade, sounding out English words she didn’t understand just to help me learn them. I think about how she would wake up early, walk me to tutoring, and remind me that even if progress is slow, it’s still progress. Those moments taught me what it really means to work hard for something you believe in. My parents came to California in 2004 with almost nothing but hope. They didn’t know the language or how to navigate a new world, but they were determined to give my siblings and I the education they never had. Growing up, I saw how they faced every obstacle with faith and patience. They couldn’t help me with my homework, but they gave me something far more valuable—strength. When I started school, I felt out of place. I barely understood English and struggled with reading, but I didn’t give up. My mom’s words stayed with me: “Putting in “A” effort is what’s important.” Eventually, I started earning reading awards, and that small victory showed me what perseverance could do. I’ve always remembered the saying, “Every flower grows through dirt.” That dirt, those early struggles, became the reason I bloomed. As I got older, I wanted to use what I’d learned to help others. In middle school, I started writing letters to children at St. Jude. It began as a school activity, but soon it became something I did from the heart. Hearing back from families reminded me that even small acts of kindness can bring light to someone’s darkest days. That experience helped me realize I want to bring hope to people through medicine. My goal is to become a Pediatric Oncologist—to care for children fighting cancer and be the kind of comfort I once tried to share through my letters. Being a first-generation student has shaped how I see success: not as a title, but as service. My parents gave me the strength to overcome challenges, and I want to use that same strength to help children and families find hope when they need it most.

The first time I held a test tube in my hand, I felt a spark of excitement I couldn’t explain. It was in my Advanced Patient Care class, and we were learning how to identify blood types. I remember staring at the small drops of liquid and thinking about how something so tiny could hold the key to saving lives. That moment made me realize that science isn’t just something you read about—it’s something you can touch, see, and use to help people. Ever since then, I have wanted to understand how the human body works. Every lesson in my Biomedical Sciences Program feels like uncovering a new secret about life. I’ve learned about the body systems, forensics, nanotechnology, gene therapy, and diagnostic tools like PCR and ELISA. What keeps me drawn to science is that every answer leads to another question. It is endless, and that’s what makes it beautiful. Through my Biomed program, I joined Health Occupations Students of America (HOSA) and competed in Phlebotomy. At first, I was nervous. The thought of drawing blood made me hesitant, but the more I learned, the more intrigued I became. I started studying every day, reading a 500-page book, taking notes, and practicing until it felt natural. What began as fear turned into fascination and confidence. That dedication helped me place 3rd in California and in the top 25 internationally. It showed me that challenges are just opportunities waiting for courage. My curiosity also pushed me to take dual and concurrent enrollment classes, completing around 60 college credits while I’m still in high school. I didn’t take these classes just to get ahead—I took them because I genuinely wanted to learn more. Each class helped me see how science connects to everything, from health to ethics to problem-solving. Outside the classroom, I volunteer at Riverside Community Hospital and La Casa Wound Specialist. Working with patients has taught me that science and compassion go hand in hand. It’s one thing to understand how the body works, but it’s another to see how care and kindness can make a difference in someone’s healing. I’m also currently in my school’s Medical Assistant program, where I’m learning real clinical skills like drawing blood, giving injections, checking blood sugar, and studying medical ethics. Every day reminds me why I want to be in the medical field—to use science to help people live better, healthier lives. Being a woman in STEM means being part of a community that turns curiosity into action. It’s about asking questions, staying determined, and breaking barriers for the next generation. I want to be one of those women who not only studies science but uses it to make a lasting impact. This scholarship would support me as I continue learning, growing, and contributing to a future where more women feel confident taking their place in STEM.