“Thank you for helping me. No one ever really stays to help.” That quiet sentence from a little boy I was tutoring at Fonde Recreation Center stuck with me more than any award or recognition ever could. He had been frustrated with a reading assignment and was ready to give up. I sat with him for an hour, encouraging him through each word. When he finally smiled and looked me in the eye, I realized service isn’t just about showing up—it’s about staying, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. My journey began in a place where staying wasn’t always an option. I grew up in an underserved Houston neighborhood where textbooks were outdated, computers were scarce, and students were often expected to fail. As a Nigerian-American and daughter of immigrants, I was taught from a young age to work three times harder, not just to survive, but to uplift others along the way. My mother, a single parent and nurse, worked night shifts and still found time to pray with us before school. Her life was a quiet sermon on sacrifice. Then came Hurricane Harvey. Our home was flooded, and we lost almost everything. I remember sleeping on borrowed blankets in a family friend’s living room, hearing my mother whisper prayers in the dark. We had nothing, but somehow, she still spoke words of gratitude. That experience stripped life down to its foundation and taught me that faith is not just belief—it’s perseverance in the face of devastation. It was that spirit that pushed me to the Fonde Recreation Center. I committed over 140 volunteer hours mentoring youth who, like me, needed someone to believe in them. One girl, Kayla, reminded me so much of myself—shy, intelligent, and unsure of her voice. Week after week, we worked together on reading and confidence-building games. By the end of the semester, she stood in front of her class to read out loud. When she told me she wanted to become a doctor because “doctors help people who feel ignored,” I knew my time there mattered. It wasn’t easy. I balanced school, part-time work, family responsibilities, and volunteer service. Some nights, I came home exhausted from tutoring, only to clean, cook, and help my siblings with homework. But I leaned on prayer. I asked God to help me love others even when I felt empty. What I learned is that leadership isn’t about the spotlight—it’s about service. It’s cleaning up after others, listening when no one else will, and leading with compassion and quiet strength. Now, as the valedictorian of my graduating class and a future student at Rice University, I carry those values with me. I plan to become an OB/GYN, not only to provide care, but to be an advocate, especially for Black women, whose voices are too often silenced in healthcare. I want to bring the love, faith, and humility I’ve learned into every exam room, hospital, and underserved community I serve, including in Nigeria, where reproductive care is scarce. Mary Louise Lindsey’s legacy is one I aspire to emulate. Her life of faith-filled service echoes in the choices I make every day. I don’t just want success—I want significance. I want to be the reason someone doesn’t give up. I want to be the person who stays.

“You’re too African to be American, and too American to be African.” That phrase followed me throughout my childhood. As a Nigerian immigrant raised in Alief, a diverse but underserved community in Houston, I often felt caught between two worlds. I moved to the United States as a child, and although I was too young to understand it fully then, that transition shaped how I see the world. It taught me to be resilient, to adapt, and to fight for a place at the table. Being an immigrant pushed me to view education not just as an opportunity, but as a responsibility. My mother, also a Nigerian immigrant, raised me and my siblings on her own while working long hours as a nurse. Watching her wake up early, care for patients all day, then come home to cook and clean, showed me what true strength looks like. When she worked night shifts, I stepped in as the caretaker, managing chores, helping my younger siblings, and still pushing myself academically. These responsibilities matured me early and shaped the values I carry with me today. In 2017, when Hurricane Harvey hit, we lost our home. The floodwaters took nearly everything, and the following months were filled with uncertainty. We stayed with relatives while my mom worked tirelessly to rebuild what we had lost. That experience made me realize how quickly stability can disappear and how important it is to never take anything for granted. It also fueled my determination to pursue a better future through education, because I knew that was something no disaster could take from me. Even in school, I faced challenges. We lacked up-to-date textbooks, working computers, and often had to teach ourselves. But I didn’t let that stop me. I stayed up late watching science videos, reading articles, and studying beyond what was taught in class. I was determined to excel—not just for myself, but for everyone who believed in me. That hard work paid off. I graduated as the valedictorian of my class, and this fall, I will attend Rice University to pursue a degree in neuroscience with a minor in public health. My commitment to service has always been rooted in these experiences. I’ve volunteered over 140 hours at Fonde Recreation Center, mentoring children and creating safe, supportive spaces for learning and growth. I’ve worked with AliefVotes to encourage youth civic engagement and participated in National Honor Society, Speech and Debate, and Class of 2025 fundraisers. I made time for these efforts while balancing work, school, and family responsibilities because I believe that giving back is part of building a stronger future. My Nigerian culture has instilled in me pride, discipline, and a deep respect for education. I plan to become an OB/GYN and focus on maternal health and the disparities Black women face in the healthcare system. I want to provide compassionate care and return to Nigeria one day to help create programs that support women’s reproductive health and access to medical services. Receiving the Dr. Soronnadi Nnaji Legacy Scholarship would mean more than financial support. It would be an affirmation of everything I’ve overcome and everything I stand for. Dr. Nnaji’s story as an immigrant who rose through education and gave back to his community deeply resonates with mine. This scholarship would ease the financial burden on my family and help me pursue my STEM education with full focus and commitment. I don’t just want to succeed. I want to serve. I want to lead. And with this scholarship, I will.

I was nine years old the first time I saw my mother cry. She had just come home from an overnight shift at the hospital, her nursing scrubs still wrinkled, her shoes soaked from the pouring rain. She thought I was asleep, but I had woken up thirsty and quietly wandered into the kitchen. There she was, sitting at the table, head in her hands, tears falling into a chipped mug of tea. When she noticed me, she wiped her face quickly and forced a smile. “I’m okay,” she whispered. “Just tired.” That moment has stayed with me ever since. I didn’t have the words for it back then, but something in me recognized the quiet strength it takes to care for others while having no one to care for you. My mother, a single parent and a nurse, carried the weight of the world while still offering the softest parts of herself to her patients and children. Watching her inspired my desire to follow in her footsteps. I knew from a young age that I wanted to be the kind of nurse who offers comfort, dignity, and care—not just as a profession, but as a calling. I grew up in an underserved neighborhood in southwest Houston, a culturally rich but often overlooked part of the city. As a Nigerian-American and the daughter of immigrants, I was raised on perseverance and the unshakable belief that education is the key to a better life. My mother often reminded me that as a Black woman, I would have to work three times as hard to get half the recognition. So I did. In school, resources were limited. There weren’t always enough textbooks, and working computers were scarce. I taught myself lessons late at night using borrowed library books and free educational videos. After Hurricane Harvey devastated our home, we lost most of our belongings. I remember sitting on a borrowed mattress doing my homework by flashlight, determined not to let our circumstances dictate my future. At the same time, I was helping raise my younger siblings—making dinner, checking homework, and cleaning the house while my mom worked overnight shifts. Balancing it all was difficult, but those experiences shaped me into someone who is responsible, compassionate, and deeply resilient. Even while navigating personal challenges, I made it a priority to serve others. In high school, I became involved in multiple service-based organizations. Through the National Honor Society, I tutored underclassmen and assisted in organizing blood drives and community clean-up projects. As a member of Christians in Action, I helped collect food and clothing donations for families in need. On the Class of 2025 Committee, I worked alongside my peers to plan events that brought our school community together. I also dedicated over 100 volunteer hours mentoring children at Fonde Recreation Center and served with AliefVotes to promote civic engagement among young voters in my community. These moments reinforced what my mother had always taught me—that service is not about having everything, but about giving what you can with love. Now, as the valedictorian of my graduating class, I see the road to nursing school as the next chapter in my journey. But as prepared as I am academically and emotionally, I still face financial challenges. The cost of tuition, books, clinical uniforms, lab fees, and transportation looms large. I’ve worked part-time jobs to help cover expenses, but it’s difficult to juggle work, school, and family obligations. Receiving the Margaret A. Briller Memorial Scholarship would not only lift a heavy burden off my shoulders, but it would also be an affirmation that my story and my dreams matter. More than anything, this scholarship represents legacy. Margaret A. Briller lived a life of purpose and impact, and I hope to carry that spirit forward in my own nursing career. I plan to specialize in OB/GYN nursing because I want to make sure women—especially Black women—receive the care, respect, and attention they deserve. I’ve seen firsthand how often their concerns are dismissed in medical spaces. I want to be the nurse who listens closely, explains thoroughly, and advocates fiercely. My long-term goal is to return to underserved communities, both here in Houston and eventually in Nigeria, to lead health education initiatives focused on women’s reproductive health, pregnancy care, and preventative screenings. I want to create safe spaces where women feel seen and empowered. I also want to mentor the next generation of young girls who, like me, are navigating hard realities but still daring to dream big. I know that becoming a nurse is not just about mastering clinical skills. It’s about showing up with empathy, leading with integrity, and caring for others even when life feels heavy. Every struggle I’ve faced—from growing up in a low-income household to losing our home in a hurricane to helping raise my siblings while balancing school—has prepared me to be that kind of nurse. One who is grounded, compassionate, and resilient. If chosen for this scholarship, I will carry Margaret A. Briller’s legacy with honor and gratitude. I will walk into every patient’s room with the same compassion my mother showed her patients, the same strength I saw in her tear-stained face that rainy morning. Thank you for investing in my future. With your support, I will become a nurse who not only heals but inspires.

The first time I gave a speech, I was a shy 10-year-old whose voice trembled in a crowded room. Years later, I stood before my graduating class as valedictorian. My voice was steady—not because life got easier, but because I had learned to rise, to fight, and to speak not just with words, but with purpose. Becoming valedictorian is my greatest achievement to date, but it means far more than being at the top of my class. It represents years of overcoming struggle, sacrifice, and silence. I was raised in an underserved community in Houston, where schools didn’t have enough textbooks or functioning computers. Learning often meant improvising. I taught myself material by reading library books, watching educational videos, and seeking out any resources I could find. I refused to let a lack of resources be the reason I fell behind. I knew early on that I didn’t want to be a product of my environment—I wanted to break the cycle. My mother immigrated to the U.S. from Nigeria with nothing but determination and a dream for her children. She worked three jobs to support me and my two siblings. As a Nigerian-American girl, I was taught that I’d have to work three times as hard to be seen, heard, and respected. That lesson became very real when Hurricane Harvey struck, and we lost our home. For months, we lived in our car, leaning on the women’s shelter for food and clean clothes. I picked up a job to help my mother pay bills, took care of my younger siblings, and still showed up at school every day with my head held high. Even through all of that, I remained committed to my education. I stayed active in National Honor Society, Christians in Action, varsity choir, and student leadership. I gave everything I had to my academics because I believed—no matter how unstable life became—education was the key to something greater. That journey taught me resilience, but it also instilled in me a sense of purpose. I discovered that my success isn’t just mine—it’s tied to every girl who has ever felt invisible or underestimated. It’s for my mother, who gave everything without complaint. It’s for my younger self, who dreamed of more even when we had nothing. That’s why I plan to major in cognitive science with a minor in public health—because I’m fascinated by how the brain and environment shape behavior, health, and opportunity. But more specifically, I want to become an OB/GYN. That dream was born from watching the way Black women—women like my mother—are often dismissed or ignored in medical settings. I want to be a doctor who listens, who advocates, and who shows up for women who’ve been told their pain isn’t real. I’ve seen how health disparities harm families. I’ve seen how trauma, poverty, and poor access to reproductive care destroy futures. I want to be the kind of physician who not only delivers babies, but delivers hope. My goal is to serve underserved communities with empathy and excellence, especially Black women, whose maternal health outcomes remain dangerously overlooked. The WCEJ Thornton Foundation Low-Income Scholarship would significantly alleviate a major financial burden, allowing me to focus fully on this journey. It would be more than just a check—it would be recognition of everything I’ve fought through, and a vote of belief in everything I plan to become. I didn’t grow up with much. But I grew up with grit, with love, and with a vision that stretched far beyond my circumstances. I am not a product of my environment—I am a product of perseverance. And I’m just getting started.

"Strength isn’t something you're born with—sometimes, it’s something life demands from you." I learned that lesson early. After Hurricane Harvey swept through Houston, my family lost everything. Our home, our belongings—gone in an instant. For a while, my mom, my siblings, and I lived out of our car. I remember lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling of that cramped vehicle, wondering how we’d bounce back. But my mother never let us feel hopeless. A Nigerian immigrant and a single parent, she worked long hours and picked up extra shifts just to make sure we had enough to eat and a chance to rebuild. Watching her put our lives back together from nothing taught me what strength, sacrifice, and true resilience look like. Growing up in a single-mother household meant stepping up early. While other kids stayed after school for clubs and sports, I rushed home to clean, cook dinner, and help my younger siblings with homework. Once everyone was asleep, I finally had time to focus on my schoolwork. It wasn’t easy balancing it all, especially once I began working a job in high school to help my mom with the bills. There were times I felt overwhelmed, exhausted, and tempted to give up. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Because every time I looked at my mom, I was reminded of what it means to keep going, no matter what. Despite the hardships, I never let my situation define me. I let it fuel me. I’m proud to say that I am the valedictorian of my graduating class. I achieved this through sacrifice, time management, and a deep determination to rise above the odds stacked against me. My achievements aren’t just a reflection of my academics—they are a reflection of the late nights, the missed events, the work shifts, and the prayers I whispered on tough days. They are a reflection of a girl who refused to quit. What I’ve endured has also shaped my purpose. I plan to major in cognitive science with a minor in neuroscience and public health, then go on to medical school to become an OB/GYN. I want to specialize in women’s health, particularly for Black women and underserved populations who are too often overlooked or dismissed in medical settings. I’ve seen it happen to people I love. I want to be the kind of doctor who listens without judgment, treats patients with compassion, and works to change the systems that have failed so many for far too long. Beyond medicine, I’ve already made it my mission to serve others. I’ve completed over 140 hours of volunteer work mentoring children at Fonde Recreation Center. I’ve promoted youth civic engagement through AliefVotes, participated in community outreach at my church, and helped organize school events and fundraisers. These experiences are not just extracurriculars—they’re the roots of the leader, healer, and advocate I’m becoming. Being raised by a single mother after losing everything in a natural disaster could have crushed me. But instead, it lit a fire inside me. I am a product of my mother’s strength, my own determination, and the unwavering belief that my circumstances don’t define my future—I do. This scholarship wouldn’t just help me afford college. It would be an investment in someone who knows how to work hard, overcome adversity, and pour back into her community. I don’t take opportunities like this for granted. I plan to carry this momentum forward—for my family, for my future patients, and for every girl who was told her background was a barrier instead of a building block.

“Your name is too hard to pronounce.” I heard that often as a child. I used to shrink a little each time someone said it—sometimes in confusion, other times in mockery. I remember being in third grade, clutching my lunch tray in a crowded cafeteria when someone asked, “Why do you talk like that?” I didn’t have the words at the time, but what they saw as different, I now see as power. My name carries history. My accent carried identity. And the way I saw the world—through the lens of my Nigerian roots and my American experience—was a gift, not a flaw. That early experience of living between two cultures sparked my passion for understanding people, stories, and traditions. I want to major in anthropology and minor in African and African American studies because I believe that knowing who we are—and where we come from—is one of the most powerful forms of liberation. Anthropology will allow me to study how people live, learn, and connect across cultures. African and African American studies will ground me in the history and resilience of my people, helping me tell the stories that too often go unheard. Growing up in Houston as the daughter of Nigerian immigrants, I learned the value of education through sacrifice. My parents worked long hours to build a better future for us. At home, I helped care for my siblings and kept the household running. While I couldn’t always stay after school for clubs, I used my limited time to excel in what I could—choir, National Honor Society, Class of 2025 Committee, and mentoring youth at the Fonde Recreation Center. These weren’t just extracurriculars to fill a resume; they were acts of purpose and love. In varsity choir, I found more than music—I found pride. I remember the joy in my parents’ eyes when I sang a Nigerian folk song on stage. For the first time, I felt seen in both parts of my identity. That performance reminded me how the arts can connect generations, preserve culture, and bring people together. It’s why I believe cultural literacy is not just about knowledge—it’s about empowerment, empathy, and healing. With my degree, I plan to serve communities like the one I grew up in. I aspire to work in education, museums, or nonprofits, creating culturally inclusive programs that uplift the voices of African and African American communities. I envision leading workshops that help young girls find strength in their heritage, designing school curricula that reflect diverse histories, and one day returning to Nigeria to support women’s education and health. I am deeply committed to being a bridge between cultures, between generations, and between the past and the future. My journey has not been easy, but it has made me resilient. I’ve learned how to work hard, lead with purpose, and turn obstacles into motivation. This scholarship would not just ease a financial burden—it would invest in a young Black woman determined to change lives through education, culture, and service. Because I don’t just want to succeed—I want to make sure that when I rise, I bring my community with me.

"The night we slept in our car, I promised myself I would turn our pain into purpose." After Hurricane Harvey destroyed our home, my family and I were left with nothing. We slept in our car with the few belongings we had, unsure of what tomorrow would bring. I remember doing homework by flashlight, hearing my mom cry softly while praying, and wondering if we’d ever have stability again. But even then, I never stopped believing we’d make it out — and I never stopped dreaming. Now, I’m proud to say I’m graduating valedictorian of my class and will attend Rice University this fall to study cognitive science, with minors in neuroscience and public health. My experiences have shaped who I am: an optimistic, hardworking young woman with a passion for transforming the lives of others, especially those who, like me, come from communities that are often overlooked. Wellness saved me. But I didn’t learn about wellness in a doctor's office or health class. I learned it from watching my mother ration meals so we could eat, from figuring out how to manage stress while taking care of my siblings, and from volunteering at community centers, helping kids who reminded me of myself. These moments taught me that wellness isn’t just about diet or exercise—it’s about access, education, mental health, and dignity. In the next five years, I plan to create a positive environmental impact both locally and globally through wellness initiatives designed for Black and Brown communities. In Houston, I want to lead grassroots programs that address food insecurity, reproductive health education, and mental wellness. Many families don’t have the knowledge or access they need to care for themselves, not because they don’t want to, but because the system wasn’t built for them. Globally, I hope to return to Nigeria and collaborate with health workers to provide mobile maternal health care in rural areas where women face high risks during pregnancy due to limited access to medical services. I want to use my education to build bridges between science and culture—to provide care that respects and uplifts, not just treats. One of my biggest goals is to build a wellness platform for young women of color—a safe space that offers culturally relevant health information, peer support, and mentorship. I want girls to see themselves reflected in wellness. I want them to know they matter. To me, creating environmental impact means healing the emotional and physical spaces where people live, grow, and fight to survive. It means helping people not only live longer, but live better. Every obstacle I’ve faced—homelessness, financial hardship, balancing work and school, and navigating a world not built for girls like me—has shaped my mission. But those hardships did not break me. They made me brave. They made me resilient. They gave me a story I’m no longer ashamed of—but proud of, because it shows how far I’ve come. I am no longer the girl in the backseat of a car wondering how we’d survive. I am a leader, a visionary, and a future changemaker—ready to step into rooms where decisions are made, where systems are built, and where lives are shaped. I carry the voices of my community, my culture, and every girl who’s ever been told she couldn’t. And in everything I do, I’ll prove that she can.

“Some nights, I counted the seconds between footsteps outside my door, praying they wouldn’t come inside.” That was the terrifying reality I lived with for years. The abuse wasn’t always visible—no bruises, no loud fights—but the emotional weight crushed me daily. I remember one night clearly: I was sitting on the floor, clutching my phone, too scared to call anyone. The person I trusted most was standing just outside my door, angry and unpredictable. My heart pounded as I whispered a silent prayer for safety. That fear, love turned threat was my prison. At the same time, life outside my relationship was unraveling. Hurricane Harvey destroyed our Houston home, wiping away everything my family had worked for. We lost our clothes, furniture, memories—our entire world. For months, my parents, siblings, and I lived out of our car. I juggled school, multiple jobs, and helping my family rebuild. I remember washing clothes in a public restroom sink, trying to keep a sense of normalcy while exhaustion gnawed at me. My Nigerian immigrant parents often reminded me that to succeed, I had to work ten times harder than anyone else. That belief kept me going. Despite feeling broken, I refused to let my circumstances define me. I found courage by quietly reaching out for help and leaning on mentors who believed in me. Education became my lifeline—more than grades, it gave me understanding and hope. Learning about how trauma affects the brain helped me make sense of my pain. It showed me that healing was possible and sparked a passion to help others trapped in cycles of violence. I believe education is the key to reducing intimate partner violence. When people learn early about respect, communication, and healthy relationships, they’re less likely to repeat the patterns of abuse they’ve seen. Education also empowers survivors with knowledge and resources to escape toxic situations and rebuild their lives. I want to help break the silence and stigma by spreading awareness and creating support systems for survivors. Graduating as valedictorian and preparing to attend Rice University to study cognitive science with minors in neuroscience and public health, I am committed to using my education to make a difference. My goal is to become an OB/GYN who provides compassionate, trauma-informed care, especially for Black women, who often face neglect in healthcare. I want to be the doctor who listens when others don’t, who understands the hidden scars of abuse because I’ve lived it myself. Beyond medicine, I plan to develop community programs that teach about intimate partner violence and support survivors. By combining my personal experience with scientific knowledge, I hope to empower others to break free from violence and reclaim their futures. My journey wasn’t easy. I survived fear, loss, and doubt—but I came out stronger, fueled by hope and determination. I am more than a survivor—I am a fighter, a leader, and a future healer. Education transformed my life, and with this scholarship, I will continue turning my pain into purpose, helping others find light in their darkest moments. No one should live in fear. I choose to live with courage, optimism, and an unwavering belief that even in the hardest struggles, there is a path to healing and hope.

"You always have to work ten times harder. Don’t forget that.” Those words from my Nigerian parents have echoed in my mind for as long as I can remember. It wasn’t just a reminder—it was a way of life. My parents came to this country with hope, determination, and the dream that their children would have more than they did. I carry their dreams with me every single day. When Hurricane Harvey hit Houston, our entire world turned upside down. We lost everything—our home, our clothes, even family photos we could never replace. For a while, we lived out of our car, trying to find normalcy in the middle of chaos. But even then, I chose to look at the bright side. We still had each other. We still had hope. And we still had the belief that things would get better if we just kept moving forward. From that moment on, I made a promise to myself: I would not let our struggles define me—I would let them shape me. I started working to help my parents pay bills while balancing school, cooking dinner, and taking care of the house. There were nights I studied with one eye open after a long shift and mornings when exhaustion nearly took over. But I kept going. Because I knew that education was my way out—and my way forward. Today, I’m proud to say that I’m graduating as the valedictorian of my high school. This fall, I’ll be attending Rice University, where I plan to major in cognitive science with minors in public health and neuroscience. My dream is to become an OB/GYN—not just to deliver babies, but to be a voice and advocate for Black women who are too often silenced or ignored in healthcare. I’ve watched it happen—my own mother’s pain dismissed like it was nothing. I want to be the doctor who listens, the one who cares, the one who changes the narrative. Even with limited time, I’ve always found ways to serve others. I’ve completed over 140 volunteer hours at Fonde Recreation Center, mentoring children from underserved communities. I’ve worked with AliefVotes to inspire civic engagement among youth and helped organize outreach efforts through my church and school. No matter how difficult life gets, I stay optimistic—not because life is easy, but because I believe in what’s possible. Like Mr. Mark Green, I’ve faced adversity and risen through it with determination and purpose. His story mirrors so much of my own—sacrifice, resilience, service, and an unshakable belief in the power of education. This scholarship would not only support me financially, but it would also honor my journey, my values, and my commitment to giving back. I don’t just want to succeed—I want to be a light for others who are walking through darkness. I want to show the little girl living in a car after a hurricane that her story isn’t over—it’s just beginning. I want to be proof that you can grow through what tries to break you, and that even in the hardest moments, there is hope, there is purpose, and there is power in never giving up. This scholarship would mean more than financial support—it would be a symbol that everything I’ve worked for, everything my parents sacrificed for, is finally being seen. With your support, I’ll step into the next chapter of my life not just as a student at Rice University, but as a future doctor, a changemaker, and a voice for those who’ve been overlooked for far too long. I am ready to rise—and to bring others with me.

“The streets were my classroom, and survival was the curriculum.” Those words capture the reality I’ve known since childhood growing up in Houston’s inner city. Life here didn’t come with guarantees—it came with challenges that tested my strength and shaped my character in ways no textbook ever could. I remember one afternoon when I was 13, walking home from school and passing a group of kids my age gathered on the corner. One of them was my friend Malik. Just months before, Malik was a straight-A student, full of dreams like me. But I watched, helpless, as the lure of easy money pulled him into a dangerous world of drugs and violence. That day, I realized how fragile our futures can be in neighborhoods like mine. Too many of my peers were slipping through cracks society ignored, their potential fading in the shadows of poverty and crime. That stark reality pushed me to fight harder. At home, my parents worked long shifts—my mom cleaning offices overnight and my dad clocking hours as a taxi driver. I became responsible for cooking dinner, helping my siblings with homework, and keeping the house in order. Once, after a long day at school, I sat in the kitchen chopping vegetables when my little sister burst into tears because she couldn’t understand her math homework. Even exhausted, I dropped everything and sat with her until she smiled again. Moments like that taught me what it means to sacrifice—not out of obligation, but out of love. While my friends spent their afternoons playing or joining clubs, I often stayed behind, juggling family responsibilities and schoolwork. But I refused to let that stop me from growing. I found my voice in the Speech & Debate team, where standing in front of a room to share my ideas helped me overcome the silence I sometimes felt at home. I remember the thrill of my first debate win—it was more than a trophy; it was proof that my background didn’t define my future. Being the daughter of Nigerian immigrants came with its own challenges. I was often teased for my accent or the food I brought for lunch. One day in middle school, a classmate mocked my name until I finally told her, “This name carries my family’s history. It’s not just a label—it’s who I am.” Standing up that day wasn’t easy, but it gave me the courage to embrace my identity fully. Seeing how Black women, especially in communities like mine, are often ignored in healthcare drives my passion to become an OB/GYN. My aunt lost her first pregnancy because doctors dismissed her concerns, telling her she was “overreacting.” That pain—so personal and so common—ignited a fire in me to be a doctor who listens, who advocates, and who heals with empathy. Volunteering at Fonde Recreation Center, I worked with kids who reminded me so much of Malik and the others I’d seen struggle. I became a mentor, helping them find positive paths when the streets seemed to offer easier routes. It wasn’t just about tutoring or sports—it was about showing them someone cared that their lives mattered beyond their circumstances. Growing up in the inner city was not easy, but it taught me to fight, to lead, and to care deeply. Every challenge I faced was a lesson in resilience, every sacrifice a testament to love, and every setback a call to rise higher. This scholarship represents more than financial support—it’s a chance to turn my story into one of hope and change, for myself and for every young person fighting to rewrite their future. I am ready to carry this responsibility with passion and purpose.

“You’re like my big sister.” That’s what one of the girls at Fonde Recreation Center said to me after a self-esteem activity I led. She was only seven or eight, with big eyes and a shy smile, and in that moment, I realized something powerful—I wasn’t just a volunteer. I was someone’s role model, someone’s safe space, someone’s proof that they mattered. Growing up in an underserved neighborhood in Houston, I understood what it felt like to go without. My parents, Nigerian immigrants, worked long hours to provide for our family. We didn’t have a lot of money, and that meant missing out on things other kids took for granted—school trips, after-school programs, or even new supplies at the start of the year. I spent much of my time at home helping raise my siblings, cooking, and cleaning while my parents worked. Even though I couldn’t always stay after school or join every club, I told myself that one day, when I had the chance, I’d give back to others like me. That opportunity came when I started volunteering at the Fonde Recreation Center. Over more than 140 hours, I worked closely with kids from similar backgrounds—kids who just needed someone to believe in them. While the center provided basic activities, I wanted to offer more than that. I created self-initiated programs like “confidence circles,” where we shared positive things about ourselves, and “goal boards,” where kids could write and track their goals, no matter how small. Some wanted to improve their reading, others wanted to be more outgoing. We celebrated every step together. The most meaningful part of my experience was the connection I built with the kids. As a young Black woman, I knew how much it meant for them, especially the girls, to see someone who looked like them in a leadership role. I heard things like, “You remind me of my sister,” or “I want to be like you.” Those moments reminded me of my younger self, wishing for someone who could relate to me. I tried to be that person for them: someone who listens, encourages, and shows up. It wasn’t easy. Balancing school, church, family responsibilities, and volunteer work was exhausting at times. But I kept going, because I knew that for many of these kids, I was the only consistent person who showed up for them. And I know what that means—because I needed someone like that too. These experiences have shaped my dream of becoming an OB/GYN and studying cognitive science and public health. I want to advocate for underserved women, especially Black women, whose reproductive health needs are often dismissed or ignored. My goal is to not only treat patients but also educate and empower communities, both in Houston and back in Nigeria, where many women lack access to care. At Fonde, I learned that change doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. Sometimes it starts with small conversations, kind words, or simply being present. This scholarship wouldn’t just help me go to college—it would help me continue this mission: to serve, uplift, and fight for those who are too often unheard. Because every child deserves a role model. Every woman deserves to be seen. And every overlooked voice deserves a chance to rise.

One moment that stands out to me when I helped someone in need happened while volunteering at Fonde Recreation Center. I worked with younger kids from underserved communities, many of whom came from backgrounds similar to mine—low-income households where parents often worked multiple jobs just to make ends meet. A lot of the kids had responsibilities beyond their years, and you could see the weight of that in how they interacted with the world. One child in particular, a quiet little girl named Amira, left a lasting impression on me. Amira had recently lost a close family member and had been withdrawn ever since. The other kids would play basketball, color, or laugh loudly at jokes, but she stayed in the corner with her head down, arms crossed, not speaking unless spoken to. One of the staff members told me they’d tried to get her to open up but hadn’t had much success. Something about her reminded me of how I felt during difficult moments in my childhood—when emotions felt too big to express and it felt easier to stay silent than explain what was wrong. I made it a point to sit next to Amira during snack time every day, just to talk to her. At first, our conversations were one-sided. I’d ask questions like, “What’s your favorite cartoon?” or “Do you like music?” and she’d either shrug or whisper one-word answers. But I kept showing up. Even when she didn’t talk, I’d just sit with her and let her know I was there. I brought her small things to spark conversation—coloring pages of characters she liked, stickers, even a book she once mentioned in passing. After about a week, she started to talk more. She told me her favorite color was yellow because it reminded her of the sun, and that her grandma used to call her “Little Sunshine.” That’s when I understood why she was struggling so much—her grandmother had played a major role in raising her, just like my parents and older siblings did for me. I shared a bit about my own life too, like how I often had to care for my younger cousins when my parents worked late, and how sometimes I felt overwhelmed. That honesty seemed to comfort her. Little by little, Amira began to participate more. One day, she asked to help me set up for snack time, and then she started joining the group during games. The staff noticed the change too. She wasn’t just opening up—she was becoming a leader in her way, showing other quiet kids that it was okay to take their time. Helping Amira wasn’t a big heroic act. It was consistent, quiet care—something I learned through my responsibilities at home. Growing up, I had to cook, clean, and take care of others while managing school, which left little time for extracurriculars. But it also taught me empathy, patience, and how to listen. I realized that sometimes the best way to help someone is just by showing up, day after day, and reminding them that they’re not invisible. That experience strengthened my commitment to serve people in need, especially Black children and families who often don’t get the support they deserve. Whether it's through volunteering, mentoring, or eventually working as an OB/GYN, I want to continue being someone others can rely on. Amira reminded me that even small actions can have a lasting impact, and that sometimes, all a person needs is someone who cares.

“Wait, this is vegan?!” I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard that. Whether it’s a creamy mac and cheese made with cashews or a rich chocolate cake with no dairy or eggs, I love surprising people with how good vegan food can be. For me, veganism isn’t just a trend or a diet—it’s a lifestyle I’ve embraced for a long time, and it’s deeply connected to who I am and what I stand for. I first chose to become vegan after learning about the impact our food choices have—not just on our bodies, but on animals, the environment, and our communities. At first, I made the switch for health reasons. I grew up in an underserved neighborhood where access to healthy food was limited, and I saw firsthand how poor nutrition contributed to diseases like diabetes and heart problems in my community. I wanted something better for myself and for those I care about. As I learned more, I began to understand the ethical side of veganism. I couldn’t ignore the cruelty animals face in the food industry, and I didn’t want to keep supporting systems that went against my values of compassion and justice. I also learned that animal agriculture is one of the biggest contributors to climate change. Becoming vegan became my way of saying “I care” about animals, the planet, and my people. As a Nigerian-American and a proud Black woman, veganism is also a way for me to reclaim health in a culture that’s often left out of wellness spaces. I’ve heard the stereotype that “veganism isn’t for us,” and I’m here to prove that wrong. I cook my favorite Nigerian dishes like jollof rice and egusi soup, but in a way that’s fully plant-based. I love showing others that we don’t have to give up our culture to be healthy—we can honor it while also making better choices. In the future, I plan to study cognitive science and neuroscience in college and eventually become an OB/GYN. My dream is to use my education and medical training to help underserved communities—especially Black women—access better healthcare and nutrition. I want to start programs that combine plant-based education with reproductive health resources, both here in Houston and back home in Nigeria. I imagine leading workshops in community centers, where I show families how to make affordable, delicious vegan meals while also educating them about their bodies and health. Veganism is important to me because it brings together so many parts of my identity—my culture, my values, my dreams. It has taught me how powerful our everyday choices are, and how something as simple as what’s on our plate can be a form of activism, healing, and hope. I plan to keep using my voice, my story, and my education to make the vegan movement more inclusive, more accessible, and more empowering for everyone.

At Fonde Recreation Center, I found more than just a place to volunteer—I found a second home. Every week, I walked into a room full of energetic kids who needed more than just help with homework—they needed someone to believe in them. Whether I was helping with reading or encouraging them to dream big, I saw how much impact one person can have. It reminded me of my younger self growing up in an underserved community, and it made my service personal. My commitment to service extends beyond Fonde. I’ve helped organize events and fundraisers through the National Honor Society and Class of 2025 Committee. With AliefVotes, I promoted civic engagement, encouraging young people to use their voices. At Second Baptist Church, I participated in outreach efforts that provided food and support to families. Through all of these experiences, I’ve learned that real change starts with compassion and consistency. They’ve shaped me into someone who listens, leads, and uplifts others. In the future, I plan to become an OB/GYN and use my platform to advocate for women in underserved communities, both here and in Nigeria. Community service isn’t just something I do—it’s the foundation of who I am.

As a child, I often lay awake at night listening to the rain tapping against the roof, wondering if it would flood again. It wasn’t the storm itself that kept me up—it was the uncertainty of what the next day would bring. Growing up in a family of Nigerian immigrants, I learned early on that life is unpredictable, but one thing I could control was my determination to push through adversity and build a future where I could make a difference. My academic and professional goals are shaped by the challenges I’ve faced. I aspire to become both an OB/GYN and a lawyer, using both fields to address healthcare disparities, especially in reproductive health. Growing up as a Black woman in an underserved community, I’ve seen how people like me struggle to access quality healthcare. My goal is to provide medical care while also advocating for policy changes that ensure everyone, especially women of color, has the resources they need. Growing up, my family and I faced many hardships. There were times when we didn’t have enough food, the water in our home would stop working, or we had to make do with limited resources. Our house flooded during Hurricane Harvey, and we lost many of our belongings. During this time, we sought shelter in temporary housing, and I often brought home food from food drives to help my family. These challenges taught me resilience, hard work, and perseverance. My parents worked tirelessly, and their dedication inspired me to strive for a better future. Despite the obstacles, I became determined to succeed. I worked hard in school, balancing my academics with extracurricular activities like varsity choir, National Honor Society, and Speech & Debate. Through these experiences, I learned time management, teamwork, and leadership. I also volunteered at the Fonde Recreation Center, mentoring kids, and worked with AliefVotes to promote civic engagement. These experiences showed me how much I could give back to others and helped me realize the importance of serving those in need. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve given back is through my church, Second Baptist Church, where I participated in community outreach. Seeing the lack of healthcare and resources in my community inspired me to pursue a career where I could make a lasting impact. I want to become both a doctor and a lawyer to provide care and work toward the systemic changes needed to improve healthcare access for all. My family’s resilience has shaped my vision for the future. It’s motivated me to be a voice for those who are often overlooked and to advocate for policy changes in healthcare. Through my work in medicine and law, I hope to create a future where women, especially women of color, can access the care and legal support they deserve. In conclusion, my experiences growing up have fueled my desire to make a difference in the world. I plan to use my education to give back to my community, advocate for marginalized groups, and create positive change in healthcare. The lessons I’ve learned from my parents’ resilience have shaped my path, and I am committed to following in their footsteps to make a lasting impact.

The sound of rain on the roof used to keep me up at night, but it wasn’t the rain itself that worried me—it was the fear of flooding again. I remember lying awake, wondering if the next downpour would bring another disaster like the one we faced during Hurricane Harvey. Growing up in a family of Nigerian immigrants, I learned early on that life can be unpredictable. But one thing I could control was my determination to overcome any obstacle and create a better future for myself and my family. Growing up in an underprivileged area, I often lacked necessities. There were times when we didn’t have enough food, and the water in our home would stop working. I shared a bed with my two siblings in a small room, and roaches would often crawl across the floor. When I was around ten, our house flooded during Hurricane Harvey, and we lost many of our belongings. We sought refuge in shelters, and I brought home food from food drives just to make sure we had something to eat. These challenges, while difficult, taught me resilience and gave me the drive to work hard for a better future. My parents are the hardest-working people I know. Despite the struggles we faced, they never gave up. My father worked multiple jobs, and my mother continued to work even when her health began to decline. They taught me that no matter the obstacles, hard work and perseverance always pay off. Seeing them push through made me determined to excel academically and contribute to my community. I joined the varsity choir, participated in the National Honor Society, and worked with the Class of 2025 Committee, Christians in Action, and Speech & Debate. These experiences taught me how to balance my time, collaborate with others, and lead by example. As a Black woman, I’ve also seen how people like me are often overlooked, especially in healthcare. Growing up, I witnessed firsthand how Black women are sometimes treated unfairly or ignored by medical professionals. This sparked my passion to pursue a career as an OB/GYN, and later, I realized that law could also be a powerful tool to advocate for change in healthcare. I want to be part of a movement that gives marginalized communities, especially women, better access to reproductive healthcare and legal support. I know that healthcare access is a significant issue for many underserved communities, and it’s something I’m passionate about solving. Whether in Houston or Nigeria, I want to use my education to make sure women have the care and support they need. With my background and the experiences I’ve had, I understand how important it is to ensure that people, especially women of color, are not overlooked when it comes to their health. Ultimately, my goal is to use my education to make a real difference in the world. I want to give back to my community, advocate for those who are often ignored, and create a future where everyone has access to the resources they need to live healthy, fulfilling lives. Through my work in medicine and law, I hope to continue the legacy of resilience my parents taught me and create a positive change in the world around me.

As a young girl, I often lay awake at night, listening to the rain on the roof, wondering if it would flood again. It wasn’t the rain, but the uncertainty of what tomorrow would bring that kept me up. Raised in a home with more questions than answers, I learned early that life is unpredictable, but my determination to overcome challenges was something I could control. As the daughter of Nigerian immigrants, I grew up with the expectation of hard work. My parents sacrificed everything to provide a better life for my siblings and me, instilling perseverance and dedication in me. Growing up in an underprivileged area, I often lacked necessities. There were times when we didn’t have enough food, and the water in our home would stop working. I shared a bed with my siblings in a small room with roaches. When I was around ten, our house flooded, causing us to lose many belongings. We sought refuge in shelters, and I brought home food from food drives. These experiences taught me resilience and fueled my drive to succeed, especially as I balanced academics, extracurriculars, and family responsibilities. Unlike many peers, I couldn’t fully engage in clubs because I had to work and help my family. Despite this, I joined the varsity choir, participated in the National Honor Society, and contributed to the Class of 2025 Committee, Christians in Action, and Speech & Debate. These activities taught me time management, collaboration, and leadership. Another challenge I’ve faced is the societal perception of Black women, especially in healthcare. Growing up, I saw how people who looked like me were often overlooked in healthcare. This motivated me to pursue a career as an OB/GYN and sparked an interest in law to advocate for marginalized communities. I want to improve access to reproductive healthcare and legal representation in underserved communities in Houston and Nigeria. Financial struggles have been a constant challenge. My parents have worked tirelessly, but financial stability remains elusive. My father retired over a year ago, and my mother, the primary income source, has had to reduce her hours due to arthritis. To help, I’ve worked to support my household, but the financial burden of higher education is overwhelming. Receiving this scholarship would ease the financial strain on my family and allow me to focus on my education without the worry of tuition and other expenses. It would also allow me to continue my volunteer work and advocate for underserved communities. Every challenge I’ve faced has strengthened my resolve. This scholarship will help me achieve my goal of becoming a doctor and lawyer who advocates for those often overlooked.

Pursuing a career in STEM, specifically in cognitive science and neuroscience, will allow me to make a lasting impact on society by addressing disparities in healthcare and advocating for those who are often overlooked. As a future OB/GYN with a background in cognitive science, I want to improve reproductive healthcare, particularly for Black women, who face higher maternal mortality rates and systemic neglect in medical settings. Understanding how brain function influences behavior, decision-making, and patient care will allow me to provide more holistic and empathetic treatment. Growing up in an underserved community, I witnessed firsthand how many people lack access to proper healthcare resources and education. My Nigerian parents immigrated to America to provide a better life for me and my siblings, constantly reminding me that I had to work ten times harder to succeed. Their sacrifices motivated me to pursue a career that honors their efforts and allows me to give back to my community. By studying cognitive science, I want to explore the relationship between brain function and human behavior. I will use this knowledge to address issues such as medical biases, mental health disparities, and how these factors influence maternal healthcare. One of the biggest challenges in healthcare is the lack of trust between marginalized communities and medical professionals. Many Black women do not receive the care they need because their pain is dismissed or their symptoms are not taken seriously. Through my career, I hope to bridge this gap by conducting research that informs better medical practices and policies, ensuring that all patients are treated with respect and empathy. I also want to work on initiatives that provide more reproductive health and mental health resources to underserved communities, both in the U.S. and in Nigeria. Beyond patient care, I believe representation in STEM is crucial. Black women are underrepresented in medicine, and I want to inspire the next generation to pursue careers in healthcare and science. By mentoring young women and advocating for STEM education in underserved communities, I can help create opportunities for those who may not have considered these paths before. My involvement in community service has already given me a glimpse into how much impact I can have. Through volunteering at Fonde Recreation Center, mentoring kids, fundraising for my class, working with AliefVotes to promote civic engagement, and assisting with outreach at Second Baptist Church, I have seen how small efforts can create big change. I plan to continue this work by using my knowledge in cognitive science to advocate for better healthcare policies, increase awareness about the impact of mental health on reproductive health, and ensure that underserved communities receive the support they need. Education has always been my way of pushing forward and breaking barriers. By studying cognitive science in college and eventually becoming an OB/GYN, I am not just achieving my personal goals—I am working toward a future where Black women receive the medical care they deserve, where underserved communities have better access to healthcare, and where more young Black girls feel inspired to enter the world of STEM. Science and education are powerful tools, and I intend to use them to leave a positive mark on society.

My name is Madison, which means a “gift from God.” Ever since I was born, I have strived to make people feel happy or better. At an age as young as 4, I’ve seen many bad things in my community, including fights and violent crimes. My parents fought a lot and most days consisted of them screaming at each other back and forth. Witnessing these things caused me to develop a positive outlook on life. I realized the power of my thoughts and became determined to see the good in the bad. I’m a very happy person, and I try to spread my happiness and joy as a gift to people. I grew up in Alief, which is in Southwest Houston. Every other day, somebody was getting shot or killed. I attended public schools my whole life, and would often see kids with so much built-up anger and resentment. I would have some friends who would get abused by their parents or run away from home. By the time I reached the age of 8, I came to the realization that so many people live through unfortunate circumstances. Many people never knew God or didn’t have anybody in their life to tell them things would get better. Realizing this was a big problem amongst many people, I decided to be that person for them. The best way to create change in life is to change your mindset. I knew that some experiences can scar somebody and affect their well-being. Because of this, I decided to say only positive things and compliment people. One small compliment can put a smile on somebody’s face, which is the goal. I’ll continue to say motivational quotes and words of affirmation to let people know that things will get better. I also think the word of God is powerful and essential to changing one’s life. Based on my upbringing and what I’ve learned from God and the Bible, I want to preach the gospel to others. Even if they’ve never heard of God, just telling them that He loves us and has a plan for our lives could make them feel better. I also want to impact the children in my community. I know that a lot of the trauma that people have stems from childhood. I want to continue to volunteer at Fonde Recreation Center. I attended this center from ages 8-13, and I can say that this place contributed to my well-being. Engaging in activities with kids and playing with them creates a safe space where they can be themselves and talk to me. Having someone to talk to contributes to them having emotional maturity. I know that I lacked that as a kid, so I want to be that person for others. Spreading love and joy is my end goal, and could make a tremendous impact on people and their mindset. My name means a “gift from God,” and I want to give the gift of joy to people.