My interest in engineering started with the weight of a hammer in my little toddler hands. Much to my mother's worry, when I was three years old, my grandfather gave me my first real set of tools. Together we built a crooked little herb garden box that still sits in my yard today. It was the first time I understood that an idea living only in my head could become something tangible. That lesson became the foundation of everything I have done since. As I got older, logged over 1,080 hours of engineering through my high school's CTE Engineering program, and became a NOCTI certified engineer, my curiosity shifted from superficially building things to being driven by deeper questions: How can I use these ideas to improve the world around me? How can I use my curiosity to make a meaningful impact? This exploration led me to fall in love with human-centered design and ultimately to pursue biomedical engineering. My goal is to develop cost-effective, high-impact medical devices that improve mobility and independence for people with physical disabilities, and to ensure those innovations are accessible and affordable for the communities that need them most. This fall, I will be attending Rochester Institute of Technology's biomedical engineering co-op program, participating in their accelerated master's program, and minoring in American Sign Language. Through my courses and co-op opportunities, I know I will continue to further my commitment to hands-on impact, advance my technical growth, and deepen my dedication to disability justice. My hands-on experience has taken shape across many settings. Through an internship with Easterseals, I designed adaptive electronic toys for children with limited mobility, soldering, redesigning circuits, and rewiring activation buttons to external pressure-sensitive pads. That experience reshaped my understanding of engineering as a means of inclusion, not just innovation. I carried that perspective into my senior capstone at the University of Pennsylvania's Rehabilitation Robotics Lab, where I currently work with Dr. Michelle Johnson adapting ride-on cars for children with cerebral palsy. Simple innovations, like using a PVC pipe as an IV pole or repurposing existing parts to serve new functions, dramatically increased a child's independence while remaining affordable. Knowing that the products of my work will be donated directly to children at the HMS School for Children with Cerebral Palsy makes this work deeply fulfilling. It is a constant reminder that affordability and accessibility are not afterthoughts in medical device design; they are the design. Although not directly engineering, my work as a student ambassador for Simon's Heart has made me a better and more mindful engineer. Simultaneously investigating how regulatory proteins influence cardiac tissue development at the Guerraty Laboratory in Penn Medicine for over a year and visiting local Philadelphia schools to teach students about sudden cardiac arrest, demonstrate hands-only CPR, and help raise $35,000 to fund AEDs and heart screenings for underserved communities gave me a profound appreciation for the direct pipeline between discovery and impact. It showed me that foundational science, conducted in a small lab on a seemingly unassuming floor of a research building, is irrefutably saving lives. That realization strengthened my advocacy-driven focus and is something I carry with me every day. Ultimately, what drives me is the belief that technology, designed with intention and distributed with equity, can genuinely change the conditions of someone's life. From a crooked herb garden box to a rehabilitation robotics lab, every experience has pointed me toward leveraging biomedical engineering as a vehicle for promoting inclusion, expanding access to assistive technologies, and making these devices mainstream throughout the world.

In the weight of real tools placed in the hands of a toddler, in the adrenaline rush on a jiu-jitsu mat, in the quiet satisfaction of watching a confused face suddenly light up with understanding, education has arrived in the most unexpected and unassuming of places. Long before I could articulate what learning meant or how foundational pursuing engineering would become to me, I was already being educated in its most essential lessons: that problems exist to be solved, that building something real requires both creativity and discipline, and that the most meaningful way to use education is in the work you do that helps someone else. Much to my mother's worry, my grandfather gave me my first set of tools when I was three years old. They were small, but to me, they were big enough to build the world. Together we built a crooked little herb garden box that still sits in my yard today, weather-worn and imperfect. It was the first time I saw and understood that an idea living only in my head could become something tangible. This lesson has become the foundation of everything I have done since, academic or otherwise. As I grew older, my education took shape in competition. In math, I was racing through unit packets with friends, finishing lessons five chapters ahead of my classmates, insatiably consuming all the knowledge I could. To my confusion, I noticed that math, a subject I undeniably loved even when it was challenging, caused crippling anxiety and frustration in my peers. It did not sit right with me that they were falling behind, so I slowly began trading working ahead for offering help to the people around me. This eventually grew into me becoming the official unofficial math tutor of my class, staying after class, offering alternative approaches to problems, and crafting creative analogies that helped concepts finally click. Teaching, I learned, is its own kind of education, and it helped me understand the importance of helping others, especially when you have the tools and skills to do so. With teaching, however, it takes a great deal of discipline and dedication to devote yourself to helping others with the goal of bettering society. Jiu-jitsu has taught me exactly that. Competing against people older, stronger, and more experienced than me taught me that hard work and discomfort are conditions for growth, not obstacles to it, and that I should never shy away from either. As my coach famously says, "Heat and pressure make diamonds!" A phrase that replays in my mind when I think about giving up in the face of a challenge. Jiu-jitsu taught me to embrace uncertainty, take risks without fear of failure, and rely on my community to push myself further than I believed possible, to win gold medals, compete in higher belt divisions, and achieve things I never thought I could. It was there that I found the confidence and courage to step into leadership roles and become the kind of leader who listens to the group, clears paths for my peers, and makes space so that others feel supported enough to use their voices. This was a particularly meaningful realization to have in high school, because as a mixed-race woman, there was no abundance of leaders who looked like me, especially in STEM spaces. That absence inspired me to actively seek out those experiences so I could continue building my confidence as both a leader and a Black woman in engineering. Research experiences at the University of Pennsylvania, adapting ride-on cars for children with cerebral palsy as part of a rehabilitation robotics initiative at Penn Medicine, and helping raise $35,000 to fund AEDs and heart screenings in underserved schools and communities, all within spaces led by women of color, have cemented my commitment to advocacy through affordable innovation. They have also deepened my belief in the importance of diversity of ideas and background in the design process, and inspired me to find the intersection of humanity and technology to ensure that creation is always meaningful and intentional. All of the experiences I have outlined might seem like isolated events, but it is the culmination of all of them together that has shaped how I prioritize education, how I plan to use my knowledge for good, why I am committed to promoting diversity within STEM communities, and what has driven me to pursue biomedical engineering as a vehicle for advancing equity, expanding access to assistive technologies and making these devices mainstream throughout the world.

Math has given me more friendships and meaningful connections than almost any other experience in my life. Many people see math as a dreaded subject that does nothing but drag down their GPA. For me, it has always been my favorite subject and something that I could generally “get" faster than my peers. Even so, that doesn't mean every topic came easily. Like most students, I despised fractions. But because math meant so much to me, I couldn't let myself stay stuck, so I worked at it until the pieces fell into place and I felt truly confident moving forward. That drive to understand, not just to get by, but to understand is what shaped me as a mathematician. In fifth grade, I was already tackling seventh and eighth grade material, a challenge I eagerly embraced. My friends and I would race to see who could finish our unit packets the fastest, often finishing five lessons ahead of our classmates. But math was never just a competition to me. As I moved from middle school into high school, I watched math have the opposite effect on my peers. They groaned when the teacher asked us to solve for x and rolled their eyes when trigonometry entered our lesson slides. I was genuinely puzzled. How could something I found so much solace in cause such stress and anxiety for others? That question didn't sit right with me. So I started participating more in class, offering alternative ways to approach problems, and finishing my work early so I could use my notes as an informal answer key for classmates who were struggling. As the years went on, everyone came to me for help: at lunch, in class, even in other teachers' rooms. I had become the official unofficial math tutor, and I loved every minute of it. More than the math itself, I discovered I loved teaching. Watching a strange analogy or an obscure hand gesture suddenly make something click in someone's mind was deeply rewarding. Their smiles made it all worth it. Now being in the highest level math class my school has to offer, I can confidently say that math has given me a path towards genuine connection with the people around me. As I step into a career in engineering, I plan to carry that lesson with me. Math touches people in more ways than they realize. Whether we embrace it or resist it, we are all shaped by numbers—and, yes, increasingly by more letters and Greek symbols than anyone asked for. I want to use that shared experience to find common ground with others, to open doors, and to build the same kinds of connections that math has always built for me.

The first time I stayed late to fix something that wasn’t technically mine to finish, I realized that persistence is not always about personal success; it is often about responsibility to others. I was working on modifying a toy for a child with limited motor control. The wiring was not cooperating, and it would have been easy to leave it for someone else. Instead, I stayed, testing connections, adjusting the switch placement, and trying again. When I finally saw the toy respond the way it was supposed to, I thought about the child who would be able to use it independently. That moment made the effort feel bigger than the task itself. I have carried that mindset into other parts of my life. During a Rube Goldberg project in my engineering class, my group struggled to move forward. We had ideas, but no direction, and our progress slowed. I chose to step in not because I had all the answers, but because I did not want us to give up on the project. I helped organize our approach, assign roles, and keep everyone focused. It took patience, and it was not always smooth, but we eventually built something that worked. That experience taught me that perseverance often looks like staying engaged when things feel uncertain. Outside of the classroom, I have learned persistence in a different way through jiu-jitsu. As a younger student training in adult classes, I was often the least experienced person in the room. There were times when I felt outmatched, but I kept showing up. Over time, I learned to trust the process, listen to my coaches, and push through discomfort. Competing reinforced that growth does not come from winning every match; it comes from continuing even when things are difficult. I have also seen the value of persistence through my involvement in EduCon. Being part of a space where students and educators share ideas pushed me to think more deeply and speak up, even when I was not completely confident. It reminded me that learning is an active process, one that requires both effort and vulnerability. What I have learned from these experiences is that perseverance is not a single moment; it is a pattern. It is choosing to stay, to try again, and to support others even when it would be easier not to. As I move forward, I want to continue building that habit. Not just working toward my own goals, but contributing in ways that make things better for the people around me.

I have learned that being a positive force in my community doesn’t always look big or visible. Sometimes, it looks like choosing how I respond in a moment that could easily go another way. As a Caribbean American young woman, I have grown up navigating questions and assumptions about who I am. I have been asked “What are you?” more times than I can count. Sometimes it felt harmless, but other times it felt like I was being reduced to something that could fit neatly into a box. For a long time, those moments made me feel frustrated. Now, they make me pause. Instead of reacting, I try to understand. I’ve learned that many people are shaped by what they’ve been exposed to and sometimes, what they haven’t. That realization has changed how I show up in my community. I choose to respond with curiosity, patience, and a willingness to explain, even when it would be easier to stay quiet. That mindset has guided my work. When I began modifying toys for children with disabilities, I initially focused on the technical side, rewiring circuits and adjusting designs. But one moment shifted everything for me. Watching a child interact with a toy that had been adapted so they could use it independently made me realize that small changes can create real joy. It wasn’t just about making something work; it was about making someone feel included. That experience challenged the idea of what is considered “normal.” It made me question why accessibility is often treated as an afterthought, and how many people are unintentionally left out because of it. It pushed me to think more deeply about how social norms shape not just how we see each other, but how we design the world around us. Through my work as a Simon’s Heart ambassador, I have also seen how awareness can shift perspectives. Talking to people about heart health and research showed me how access to information, and even the way we talk about health, is shaped by community and experience. I do not see myself as a positive force because I have all the answers. I see myself as one because I’m willing to reflect, to listen, and to act with intention. Choosing the moral high ground, for me, means choosing empathy when it’s not required, choosing understanding when it’s not easy, and choosing growth even when it’s uncomfortable. As I move forward, I want to continue creating spaces through engineering and beyond where people feel seen, considered, and included. Not by changing who they are, but by changing the way we think about what is possible.

My understanding of leadership began to shift the first time I realized that something I built could directly improve someone else’s experience. As part of my engineering work, I began modifying toys for children with disabilities. At first, I focused on the technical side, rewiring circuits, adjusting switches, and simplifying controls. But over time, I began to understand the deeper purpose behind the work. These toys, once difficult or impossible to use, became accessible. A simple button could replace a complex motion, allowing a child to engage, play, and experience a sense of independence. That realization changed how I saw engineering. It wasn’t just about building something that works; it was about building something that works for someone. As I grew more comfortable, I found myself helping others learn how to do it as well. During a workshop at the Comcast Center, I guided others through adapting toys for accessibility. I had to slow down, explain each step clearly, and create space for questions. It reminded me of my experiences in ultimate frisbee and jujitsu, where leadership often looks like encouragement, patience, and trust in others. Whether I’m helping a teammate stay focused during a tough game or supporting someone learning a new skill, I’ve learned that leadership is less about being in charge and more about helping others feel capable. This mindset has shaped how I approach both engineering and my community. I think more intentionally about the people using what I create, their movements, their challenges, and how small design choices can make a big difference. Problem-solving, to me, is no longer about finding an answer, but about finding the right one for the person in front of me. Looking ahead, I hope to continue this work through biomedical engineering, especially in prosthetics and rehabilitation robotics. I want to design technologies that are not only innovative, but also accessible and thoughtful in how they meet people’s needs. I also hope to support others in STEM, particularly students who may not always see themselves represented in these spaces. As a Caribbean American woman in engineering, I understand how important it is to feel seen and supported. Through these experiences, I’ve come to understand leadership as a responsibility—to listen, to learn, and to create with intention. Whether in a lab, on a field, or in a workshop, I hope to keep building in ways that empower others and create lasting impact.

My interest in engineering didn’t start in a classroom, it started with a hammer. When I was three, my grandfather gave me my first set of real tools. They weren’t plastic or for show, they were small, but heavy enough to feel important. With them, I built a crooked little herb garden box that still sits in my yard today. It’s not perfect, and it doesn’t hold many herbs anymore, but it represents something bigger: the first time I realized I could take an idea in my head and turn it into something real. As I got older, that curiosity didn’t go away, it just grew. I started to care less about just building things and more about why things work and how they could be improved, especially when it came to people. That’s what led me to engineering in high school. One of my most meaningful experiences was working on a Rube Goldberg machine in my mechanical engineering class. My group was responsible for the final segment, but we quickly ran into problems, too many ideas, not enough agreement, and real limitations with the tools we had. At first, it felt frustrating. But instead of stepping back, I stepped forward. I helped organize our ideas, assigned roles based on each person’s strengths, and worked to make sure all our parts actually connected. It wasn’t just about finishing the project anymore; it was about making something work together. That was the first time I saw myself as a leader in engineering. At the same time, I started realizing that I didn’t just want to build machines, I wanted to build things that help people. That’s what drew me to biomedical engineering. I took that curiosity outside of school by applying to the Summer Mentorship Program at the University of Pennsylvania. That one application turned into a year-long internship in the Guerraty Laboratory at the Perelman School of Medicine. Being in a real lab changed how I saw engineering—it wasn’t just individual work, it was collaboration, patience, and constant learning. From there, I joined the Army Educational Outreach Program and eventually worked with Dr. Michelle Johnson at the Rehabilitation Robotics Lab for my senior capstone. That experience meant a lot to me. Seeing how engineering could support people recovering from injury or adapting to new physical challenges made everything feel more real. It showed me that engineering isn’t just about solving problems, it’s about improving lives. Looking back, none of these moments felt huge at the time. They were just small steps to trying something new, asking a question, taking a chance. But those small steps built confidence and direction. Engineering, for me, is not just about what I can build. It’s about what I can imagine, and who I can help along the way. And it all started with a crooked box, a real set of tools, and the belief that I could create something that didn’t exist before.