The night Hurricane Harvey flooded our home is a memory I can still feel in my bones. The water kept rising, inch by inch, swallowing the floor and making everything around us feel unstable. My little sister was crying, hugging her backpack like it was the only solid thing left. I lifted her onto a chair, wrapped my arms around her, and hummed our favorite songs just to quiet her fear. Even though my heart was pounding with worry, something inside me switched into protection mode. I did not think about it. I just acted. That moment, finding calm in chaos for someone else, was the first time I realized how natural caregiving felt to me. I did not know it then, but that instinct would later guide me toward nursing. Growing up in a Nigerian household only strengthened that instinct. Responsibility started early for me. I was the one translating medical bills for my parents, helping them understand confusing insurance papers, and asking the questions they did not always feel confident asking during appointments. I still remember sitting at our kitchen table with a pile of paperwork and my mom looking exhausted after a long shift. When she admitted she did not know why her medication suddenly cost more, I took a deep breath and started making phone calls. Watching her relax simply because I was helping her made me realize that care is not just medical. It is emotional, practical, and deeply human. I also grew up witnessing the flaws in our healthcare system, especially for families like mine. I watched relatives get dismissed when they described their symptoms. I heard stories of Black women whose pain was ignored or minimized. And I learned early on that the maternal mortality rate for Black women is far higher than it should be. These were not just statistics on a chart. They represented real people in my life. That reality pushed me toward nursing with purpose. I wanted to be someone who listens, who advocates, and who treats every patient with dignity, especially those who often feel overlooked. What draws me most to nursing is how personal and human the work is. Nurses are the ones who sit beside patients when they are scared, explain things slowly when others rush through, and bring warmth into rooms filled with uncertainty. They are the ones people remember long after they leave the hospital. I want to be that kind of presence, steady, compassionate, and trustworthy. At Rice University, I have realized the way I naturally care for others shows up everywhere. I am the friend who checks in when someone goes quiet, the person who helps classmates study when they are overwhelmed, and the one who mentors younger students who feel lost adjusting to campus. Caring for people does not feel like extra work to me. It feels like who I am. In the future, I hope to specialize in women’s health and maternal care. I want to work directly with underserved communities, offering education about reproductive health, prenatal care, chronic illness prevention, and what it means to advocate for yourself in medical spaces. Long term, I hope to create a community clinic that provides affordable and culturally informed care for Black women and low income families. To me, nursing is the story I have been living since childhood, the instinct to comfort, the desire to understand, and the commitment to making life easier for others. It is the path that allows me to turn compassion into impact and help people feel safe, seen, and cared for when they need it most.

When I was little, music was the one thing that could quiet the world around me. During Hurricane Harvey, when water crept into our home and we balanced belongings on chairs, my siblings and I hummed songs to distract ourselves from the fear. In a house full of responsibility, late night shifts, and the challenges that came with being the daughter of hardworking Nigerian immigrants, music was a constant, something that made even the hardest days feel possible. More than entertainment, it felt like community, identity, and healing all at once. This early connection shapes how I view the music landscape today, especially as someone who hopes to make meaningful change in it. Today’s music industry is a powerful place, full of creativity but also full of pressure. Every day, new artists try to break through algorithms, trends, and expectations that shift overnight. The industry can be unforgiving, especially for young Black artists who often face being misunderstood, undervalued, or molded into something they never wanted to be. Still, I believe we are living in a moment where authenticity is fighting its way back to the center. Artists want to tell stories, not just chase streams. Audiences want real experiences, not manufactured personas. And that shift inspires me because I see my future in the work happening behind the scenes to support these voices. I have always been the person who helps others shine. In high school, I was the one editing my friends’ promposals, making flyers for school events, or hyping up someone before they auditioned for choir. I loved being behind the scenes, watching someone gain confidence because I believed in them first. The same thing happened at Rice. Whether I’m helping plan events as part of the Black Student Association or mentoring younger students, I feel the most myself when I’m guiding people and helping them feel seen. That is exactly why I want to work in artist management and development, because artists need someone in their corner who genuinely cares. Growing up in an immigrant household taught me how to be that person. I translated medical bills for my parents, negotiated phone plans, helped budget when money was tight, and took care of my younger siblings so my parents could rest after long shifts. These responsibilities helped me develop patience, leadership, emotional intelligence, and a deep understanding of people, skills that translate directly into the music business. Artists don’t just need managers. They need advocates. They need people who can listen without judgment, handle chaos with calm, and fight for their visions when they cannot fight for themselves. I have been doing that my entire life. In the future, I want to build programs for young creatives in underserved communities, especially Black girls, who have talent but no access, no connections, and no one telling them they belong in the industry. I want to teach them the business side of music, from branding to budgeting, so they aren’t taken advantage of. I also want to help create safe spaces where they can explore their art without fear of judgment or comparison. I see myself as the bridge between raw talent and real opportunity. The music industry may be intimidating, but I am not afraid of the challenge. I have been navigating challenges my whole life. Music held me together during some of my hardest moments. Now I want to dedicate my career to helping others turn their voices into something powerful, lasting, and heard.

Some people speak with words, and others speak with presence. Growing up, I always paid attention to the quiet ones, the kids who communicated through their eyes, their movements, or their laughter. So when I read about Rebecca, I did not just learn about her life. I felt like I already knew her. Her joy, her love for family gatherings, her excitement during “Happy Birthday,” reminded me of the children I have worked with and of the warmth that fills my own family celebrations. Her spirit felt familiar, almost like meeting someone whose light you recognize before you even hear their voice. If I had the privilege of working with a child like Rebecca, I would begin by entering her world with patience and curiosity. Children who are non verbal or communicate differently often express themselves in ways only careful observers can understand. At Fonde Recreation Center, I worked with kids who hummed when nervous, tapped rhythms when excited, or lit up at the smallest sensory detail. I learned quickly that if I listened not only with my ears but with my full attention, they would tell me everything I needed to know. For Rebecca, I would study her joy first. If she loved roller coasters, I would incorporate movement based sensory activities into our routine. If drumming made her laugh, rhythm would become part of our communication. If “Happy Birthday” made her glow, music would be a bridge between us. Teaching would not be about changing her. It would be about meeting her where she shines and helping her grow from that place. My understanding of connection comes from my own family’s journey. As the daughter of Nigerian immigrants, I watched my parents rebuild their lives one determined day at a time. After Hurricane Harvey flooded our home, I saw them fight to hold everything together while still making sure my siblings and I felt safe. These experiences taught me resilience, but they also taught me something even more important. Family is the center of everything. That is why I believe families play an essential role in the progress of a disabled child. They hold the child’s history, their routines, their comforts, and the kind of love that cannot be replicated in a classroom. With Rebecca, her family clearly shaped her happiness. I would want to build a partnership with them, one based on trust, communication, and shared goals. When families feel included, children thrive. I affirm my commitment to working in special education from pre-K through twelfth grade. My experiences at Fonde, supporting children with developmental, emotional, and behavioral differences, deepened my passion for this work. Every breakthrough showed me the impact a patient and attentive educator can make. Financially, college has been extremely challenging. My family is still paying off loans, and recently my mom and sister were in a car accident that wiped out most of our savings. Between medical bills and repairs, money has been tight. To help, I am working two jobs while taking a full course load, one to cover my own student loans and another to support my family at home. Balancing all of this is overwhelming, but I keep going because education is the path that will allow me to serve children like Rebecca. This scholarship would relieve a tremendous burden and allow me to focus more fully on becoming the educator I aspire to be. Working with children like Rebecca is more than a goal for me. It is a calling, one I intend to honor with empathy, patience, and a heart ready to meet theirs.

The first time I realized how deeply mental health affects us, I wasn’t in a therapist’s office. I was sitting at my kitchen table, watching someone I loved fold their pain into silence because seeking help felt too expensive and not meant for people like us. That moment stayed with me. It taught me that mental health care isn’t just a service. It is a lifeline that too many BIPOC families feel shut out from. I want to change that. As a Nigerian American student who turns to art when words fail me, I believe creativity can open doors that traditional therapy sometimes cannot. My contribution would be creating free and low cost art based mental health programs where young people can express what they are afraid to say out loud. Through painting, poetry, movement, or music, I want to build spaces in schools and community centers where students can explore their emotions without judgment or financial pressure. I also envision culturally aware digital tools such as guided journaling, storytelling prompts, and virtual peer circles designed specifically for youth of color who may not feel represented in mainstream mental health spaces. My goal is simple. I want support to feel reachable, relatable, and rooted in our experiences so that no young person ever feels forced to choose between their culture, their finances, and their healing.

The first time I understood that something was wrong was the day my parent’s handwriting changed. Their signature, once steady and smooth, suddenly trembled across the page like a leaf drifting in the wind. I remember holding that paper and feeling confused, not realizing that such a small detail was actually the beginning of something much bigger. ALS had already entered our lives quietly, long before we had the words to describe it. Before the diagnosis, our home moved with an easy rhythm. After it, everything became uncertain. ALS did not arrive with noise or warning. It crept in slowly, first as weakness, then stiffness, then small falls that my parent tried to laugh off. Eventually, words became slower to form and movements became harder to control. Each time something changed, I stepped into a new role without being asked. I helped my parent walk, helped them eat, helped them get dressed, and helped them through moments that felt unfair for any of us to face. School became something I carried with me wherever I could. I did homework in hospital waiting rooms, studied after long visits with specialists, and wrote essays late at night once I knew my parent was safely settled into bed. Some mornings I walked into class running on very little sleep. Still, the thought of giving up never crossed my mind. If anything, caring for my parent made my education feel even more valuable. It became a symbol of hope, a reason to keep moving forward. There is one memory that captures exactly how this journey has shaped me. One evening, my parent asked to sit outside and feel the warm air, something they used to do every night before ALS limited their movement. I guided their wheelchair down our ramp, my heart pounding because I was terrified of making a mistake. When we finally reached the bottom, they closed their eyes and breathed deeply, as though the sunlight itself was healing. Then they looked at me with gratitude and said, “Thank you for bringing me here.” In that moment, I learned that love is often built through small acts of care. Financially, ALS changed our world in ways we never expected. The cost of care rose quickly. Doctor visits, physical therapy, medications, and home adjustments stacked on top of one another. With my parent unable to work the way they once did, our family income dropped sharply. Every purchase became something we had to weigh carefully. College, something I had dreamed about for years, suddenly felt distant because of how much my family was already carrying. Even now, as a college student, I feel the weight of every educational expense. Tuition, books, transportation, food, and basic living costs are not simple for us to manage. I work hard, juggle responsibilities, and still worry about how to support my family as they navigate the realities of ALS. This scholarship would lift a burden that has followed me into every semester. It would allow me to focus on my education without feeling guilty for adding to my family’s financial strain. It would bring stability during a time when stability is something we rarely feel. Most importantly, it would help me continue building a future where I can support my family and give back to others facing similar challenges. ALS has changed my life, but it has also shaped me into someone strong, compassionate, and determined. With your support, I can continue my education with hope and purpose, carrying forward the lessons I learned while caring for the person who taught me what true strength looks like.

The sound of sizzling oil and a boiling pot used to be the soundtrack of my evenings. I would be in our small Houston kitchen, still wearing my backpack, stirring a pot of jollof rice with one hand while flipping through biology notes with the other. I didn’t realize it then, but those ordinary moments were teaching me how to endure. They showed me that resilience is often learned in the quiet spaces where you keep going even when you are tired. Growing up in a Nigerian immigrant household meant being surrounded by love, culture, and responsibility. My parents worked long hours, leaving early in the morning and returning late at night, so I often stepped into the role of caretaker at home. I helped my siblings with homework, cooked dinner, cleaned, and tried to balance everything with my own schoolwork. There were days I wished I could stay after school for clubs or sports, but I always hurried home because I knew my family needed me. Life became even heavier when Hurricane Harvey hit Houston. I remember watching the water rise in our neighborhood, feeling fear settle in my stomach as the rain intensified. The power went out, and we sat together in the dark wondering if our home would make it through the storm. When the water finally entered our house, it felt like everything familiar was being washed away. The days that followed were filled with cleanup, repairs, and uncertainty. But through it all, I witnessed neighbors helping each other, sharing food, and lifting spirits. That experience taught me that even in the middle of chaos, community and determination can keep you standing. Moving forward after the storm, I carried that lesson with me. Balancing responsibilities at home with school was difficult, but I stayed committed to my education because I believed it would open doors not just for me, but for my family and community. I did homework late at night after finishing chores. I pushed through exhaustion in the mornings. And every time I felt overwhelmed, I reminded myself of the future I wanted to build. These challenges shaped my heart for service. At Fonde Recreation Center, I mentored kids who reminded me of my younger self. Through church outreach programs, I helped families facing hardships that felt familiar. With AliefVotes, I worked to increase civic engagement in communities that are often overlooked. Those experiences taught me how powerful encouragement and support can be for someone who feels unseen. By my junior and senior year, I was juggling school, home responsibilities, volunteering, and working at the mayor’s office. It was a lot, but pushing through helped me grow into someone who could handle pressure and still show up for others. Graduating high school as valedictorian became a symbol of everything I had overcome. Now I’m a freshman at Rice University studying cognitive science on the pre-med track. My dream is to become an OB/GYN who advocates for women, especially Black women, whose voices are too often ignored in healthcare. The adversities I’ve faced have shaped me into someone who refuses to give up. And as I continue my education, I carry the lessons from my kitchen and from Hurricane Harvey: keep going, keep believing, and keep building a future that makes everything worth it.

I realized the world had changed on an ordinary afternoon in the grocery store. My mother picked up a carton of eggs, turned it over, and quietly set it back on the shelf. The price had doubled. She did not speak, but her silence said everything. It was the kind of silence I had seen only a few times in my life. It was a silence filled with worry, calculation, and the impossible task of stretching what was already stretched thin. I did not know it then, but that moment was the beginning of my understanding of how Russia’s war in Ukraine had reached into our home, even though we lived thousands of miles away. As the daughter of Nigerian immigrants, I grew up knowing what struggle looked like. My parents fought for stability with every breath they had. They survived Hurricane Harvey, worked unpredictable hours, and built a life for us brick by brick. They taught me that determination is a kind of love, one that shows up even when exhaustion takes over. But the global ripple effects of the war brought a new type of hardship into our lives. It did not roar in like a hurricane. It crept in slowly. First through rising gas prices, then through grocery bills, then through the tightening worry on my parents faces as the cost of simply existing continued to climb. The summer before I left for college made the impact unmistakable. While other students picked out décor for their dorm rooms, I was at the dining table every night surrounded by scholarship essays, financial aid papers, and my mother’s attempts to look hopeful. She tried to shield me from the stress, but I heard the late night talks between my parents and saw the sacrifices in the small things. Foods we used to buy disappeared from our kitchen. Trips became limited. Even driving across Houston required planning because gas had become a luxury. The war in Ukraine had disrupted supply chains and shaken economies everywhere, and families like mine felt it immediately. There was one night I remember clearly. I was typing another scholarship essay, and my mother sat across from me rubbing her temples. She looked at me and said, “We will get through this.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes were tired. In that moment I understood that I was not just pursuing education for myself. I was pursuing it to lift the weight that the world had placed on my family. I knew I had to rise to the challenge not only academically, but mentally and emotionally. Instead of discouraging me, these hardships pushed me forward. They strengthened my resilience and deepened my purpose. Studying cognitive science and public health and following the path toward medicine became more than a career interest. It became a mission. I want to serve communities who experience the instability that global conflict creates. I want to support immigrant families who quietly bear the consequences of economic shifts they did not cause. I want to care for people who carry stories of struggle behind calm faces. The war in Ukraine showed me how connected our world truly is. A conflict in one place can shake the lives of families an ocean away. But it also showed me that adversity can shape strength. Achieving my educational goals will allow me to rise above the challenges the war created for my family and empower me to help others rise beyond theirs. This scholarship would help transform hardship into possibility, and turn the resilience I have gained into impact that reaches far beyond myself.

I first learned what strength looked like from the soft sound of my mother’s footsteps late at night. When I was ten, I woke up thirsty and wandered toward the kitchen. The light was still on. My mother sat at the table in her work uniform, her shoulders sinking with exhaustion. She quickly wiped her face when she saw me, forcing a smile as she said, “Mommy’s okay. Go back to sleep.” I did not fully understand what she was carrying, but that moment stayed with me. It taught me that strength is often quiet and that love sometimes means protecting others from the weight you are holding. Growing up as the oldest child of a Nigerian single mother meant stepping into responsibility early. After school I went straight home to cook dinner, help my siblings with homework, and clean before my mother returned from another long shift. While other students stayed for clubs or practice, I was learning resilience through real life. Those evenings taught me patience, leadership, and what it means to show up for the people you love, even when you are tired yourself. There were many moments that shaped me. When school supplies were too expensive, my mother handed me dollar-store notebooks and told me that what I wrote inside mattered more than the cover. When winter came, she layered our old coats with sweaters from Goodwill and wrapped scarves tight around us so we would stay warm. She never let us see how scared she sometimes felt. She simply kept going, giving everything she had to make sure we felt safe. One of the most defining experiences came when Hurricane Harvey destroyed our home. I remember watching water crawl across the living room floor, rising faster than I could process. My mother hurried to gather our belongings while trying to sound calm for our sake, but I could hear the fear she tried to hide. That night in the shelter, surrounded by uncertainty, she stayed awake to make sure my siblings and I could stretch out on the cot. Losing nearly everything showed me how fragile security can be, but it also revealed how powerful resilience becomes when someone refuses to break. Those experiences fueled my determination to excel academically. I studied in cluttered kitchens, in borrowed spaces, and during late nights after caring for my siblings. I worked hard because I wanted my mother’s sacrifices to mean something. When I graduated high school as valedictorian, I felt like I was giving something back to her. That moment belonged to both of us. Now, as a BIPOC first-generation undergraduate at Rice University, my career aspirations are rooted in everything my mother’s life taught me. I plan to become an OB/GYN because I have seen how often Black women are dismissed or unheard in medical settings. I watched relatives leave appointments feeling ignored. I saw neighbors avoid seeking help because they did not trust the care they would receive. I want to be the doctor who listens, who advocates, and who understands the cultural and emotional layers behind a woman’s pain. My life experiences did not just influence my career goals. They shaped my purpose. They taught me compassion, resilience, and the importance of lifting others as I rise. I am working toward a future where I can honor my mother’s sacrifices by serving women who deserve to be seen, valued, and cared for with dignity.

When I was ten, I remember hearing my mother cry behind a closed door. The sound was soft, but it filled the entire apartment. I didn’t know what to say, so I sat on the other side of the wall, pretending not to hear. In my Nigerian household, emotions were something we tucked away like fragile secrets. Pain wasn’t meant to be spoken; it was meant to be survived. Even at that age, I could sense the weight in her silence. That moment planted a question in me that I have been chasing ever since: What would happen if we stopped pretending to be okay? My parents immigrated to the United States from Nigeria with little more than faith and determination. They worked multiple jobs to keep a roof over our heads. But when Hurricane Harvey hit, that roof disappeared. Floodwaters rose so quickly that we barely had time to grab anything before the damage happened. I remember sitting in a crowded shelter that night, listening to the rain beating against the ceiling, realizing that everything familiar was gone. My parents smiled through exhaustion, assuring us things would be fine. That experience changed me. I saw what emotional survival looked like, but I also saw the toll it took when people had to suppress their pain to stay strong. As I grew older, I began to notice how those same patterns existed in my community. Many of us, especially Black and immigrant families, carried silent battles behind our smiles. I became the listener, the one friends came to when they couldn’t talk to anyone else. I realized people didn’t just need advice; they needed understanding and compassion. I want to become a therapist who helps others feel safe expressing emotions they have been taught to hide. My lived experiences taught me that healing begins the moment someone finally feels seen and heard. If I could change one thing about today’s mental healthcare system, it would be to make culturally competent and affordable therapy accessible to everyone. Too many people avoid therapy because they cannot find someone who understands their background, culture, or faith. I would advocate for expanding community-based counseling centers with diverse providers who reflect the communities they serve. Representation builds trust, and trust opens the door to healing. Mental health care should not be a privilege for the few who can afford it; it should be a right for every person who needs it. Teletherapy has transformed accessibility, especially for students like me balancing classes, work, and stress. It allows people in underserved areas to connect with therapists they might never have access to otherwise. But it also comes with challenges such as unstable internet, lack of privacy, or emotional distance through a screen. To make teletherapy more inclusive, I would push for innovation that centers empathy. We need mobile apps with offline features and partnerships with organizations that teach families how to use these tools. Technology should connect us to care, not create new barriers. Ultimately, I want to be the kind of therapist who redefines what strength means for people who were taught to pray it away. I want to help young Black girls and immigrant families understand that vulnerability is not weakness; it is courage. From losing my home in Hurricane Harvey to watching my parents rebuild their lives from nothing, I learned that resilience and healing can coexist. One day, when I sit across from a client who feels unseen, I will tell them, “You don’t have to carry this alone.” Because I know firsthand that even in the storm, hope can still rise.

The first sound I remember is the steady rhythm of a heart monitor. I used to sit in the corner of that hospital room, legs dangling from a plastic chair, counting each beep like it was keeping time for our lives. The lights were harsh, the air cold, but somehow my loved one’s smile still warmed the room. Even when pain etched across their face, they found a way to laugh and make me believe everything would be okay. At the time, I didn’t understand what a chronic illness truly meant. I just knew it had the power to turn normal days into battles and quiet moments into prayers. The endless doctor visits, the smell of antiseptic, and the uncertainty hanging in the air all became part of our lives. There were nights when I wanted to cry but stayed strong because they stayed strong. Watching them fight through something they didn’t choose taught me what real courage looked like. That experience became my greatest teacher. It taught me that strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers, “Keep going,” even when your heart is breaking. It taught me patience, empathy, and most of all, the value of life itself. I began to see how fragile and precious each moment was. I learned to cherish everything, the laughter shared after hard days, the rare moments of peace, even the sound of a heartbeat that meant another day of life. As I grew older, that lesson became my foundation. I carried it with me through high school, where I balanced late-night studying with helping at home. There were times I felt tired or overwhelmed, but I reminded myself why I couldn’t give up. Every sacrifice, every hour spent studying, was for a purpose bigger than myself. When I graduated as valedictorian, it wasn’t just an academic victory. It was a promise fulfilled to the person who taught me what perseverance truly means. Now, as a freshman at Rice University studying cognitive science on the pre-med track, I carry that same drive with me. My dream is to become an OB/GYN and advocate for women, especially Black women and those in underserved communities who are too often ignored or dismissed. I want to be a voice for the unheard, a source of comfort for the fearful, and a reminder that compassion belongs in every hospital room. Medicine, to me, is not just about treating the body. It is about understanding the heart behind the illness. This scholarship would do more than support my education. It would honor the story that shaped my purpose. The hospital that once felt like a place of fear has now become a symbol of strength, a place where I discovered who I want to be. The sound of that heart monitor still echoes in my memory, not as a reminder of pain, but as the rhythm of hope that guides my life. Through that experience, I learned that even when life feels uncertain, there is always beauty to be found. Every breath, every smile, and every act of kindness is a miracle worth protecting. I want to spend my life helping others see the value in their own heartbeat and reminding them that even through pain, there is always light.

When I was little, I would wait by the front door for my uncle to come home in his military uniform. The moment I heard the heavy rhythm of his boots against the floor, I would run to greet him. He always smiled, tired yet proud, as he placed his hat on the table and knelt to hug me. I did not understand the meaning of sacrifice then, but I could feel it in his embrace. His quiet strength stayed with me long after the sound of his boots faded for the night. As I grew older, I began to recognize the lessons hidden in those moments. My uncle’s dedication, humility, and compassion were forms of leadership that spoke louder than words. He showed me that leadership is not about power but about service. It is about showing up for others even when it is hard and giving your best with integrity and love. Those values began to shape who I was becoming. In high school, I learned what resilience truly meant. My parents, Nigerian immigrants, worked long hours to provide for me and my siblings. There were days when I helped care for my younger brother, studied late into the night, and still got up early to make it to school on time. I faced exhaustion, doubt, and pressure, but I refused to give in. When I graduated as valedictorian, it was not because life had been easy. It was because I carried within me the same strength I saw in my uncle and my parents, the strength to endure. In college, I have continued to build on those lessons. At Rice University, I serve as a New Student Representative for the Black Student Association, helping plan events that bring people together and supporting new students as they adjust to college life. Leadership for me is not standing above others but walking beside them. Whether it is listening to someone who feels homesick or organizing a gathering that fosters connection, I try to lead with empathy and purpose. Selflessness has always been at the center of who I am. Volunteering at Fonde Recreation Center, I mentored children who reminded me of myself, curious, hopeful, and looking for encouragement. Seeing their smiles after accomplishing something new reminded me how powerful it is to give back. I also worked with AliefVotes, helping young people understand the importance of civic engagement. Those experiences taught me that service is not limited to uniforms or ranks. It lives in everyday acts of kindness and courage. My focus and determination have only grown stronger. I am majoring in cognitive science because I am fascinated by how the mind shapes behavior and health. My dream is to attend medical school and become an OB/GYN who advocates for Black women’s healthcare. I have seen how often Black women’s pain is dismissed or misunderstood, and I want to change that. I want to be the kind of doctor who listens deeply, treats compassionately, and heals with understanding. My work ethic comes from the people who raised me. My uncle’s years of service and my parents’ sacrifices taught me that hard work is not just about success. It is about purpose. Every late-night study session and every challenge I face is a reminder that progress is built through consistency and heart. To me, leadership means standing for something greater than yourself. It means lifting others as you climb and leaving a legacy of compassion behind you. Every day, I strive to walk with the same strength, humility, and purpose that once inspired a little girl waiting by the door.

When I was younger, I used to stand in front of the mirror mixing two different foundations together, one too light and one too orange, hoping I could create a shade that finally matched my skin. No matter how carefully I blended, it never did. I would stare at my reflection and wonder why beauty products never seemed made for girls like me. It was a small moment, but one that planted a seed in me. I wanted to change that. Growing up, I was often teased for my dark skin. I remember kids calling me names and asking if I stayed in the sun too long. I laughed it off sometimes, but those words stayed with me. They made me question my worth, my beauty, and even my identity. For a while, I tried to hide from the sun, thinking lighter meant prettier. But my mother, strong, wise, and full of love, would always remind me that my skin was a reflection of strength and royalty. She would say, “Your skin tells a story that deserves to be celebrated.” Her words became my shield and eventually my motivation. Some of my fondest memories are of helping my mom mix homemade skincare remedies using shea butter, honey, and oils from our Nigerian culture. She would explain how each ingredient nourished and protected the skin. Those moments taught me that skincare was more than appearance; it was care, confidence, and culture. Watching her create beauty from what we had inspired me to do the same, but on a bigger scale. As I got older, my personal struggles with acne and hyperpigmentation pushed me to learn more about skin health. I spent nights researching ingredients, routines, and treatments that worked for melanin-rich skin. The more I learned, the more I realized how underrepresented we are in the beauty and skincare industry. Products were not made with us in mind, and professionals often were not trained to care for our skin properly. That realization became my turning point. I decided to pursue a career as a nurse esthetician, where I could merge science, healthcare, and beauty into one mission: to help people of color feel confident in their own skin. Nursing gives me the medical knowledge to understand how skin heals and reacts, while aesthetics allows me to restore confidence and redefine what beauty looks like. I want to be the person I once needed, a professional who truly understands and celebrates skin of color. Representation matters. I want every client who walks into my care to know they are seen, valued, and radiant just as they are. Too many of us have been made to feel like our skin is a flaw instead of a feature to be cherished. My goal is to change that narrative, to make sure no young Black girl ever feels like she has to hide from the sun or mix foundations just to feel beautiful. For me, this career is not just about skincare. It is about healing, empowerment, and rewriting the story of beauty for people who have been left out for far too long. I have turned the pain of my past into purpose, and every step I take brings me closer to helping others see the light within their own skin. Because now, when I look in the mirror, I no longer see what is missing. I see a mission.

When I was little, I used to wait by the window for my mom’s car to pull into the driveway, her headlights cutting through the dark. She would walk in after a long day of work, tired but smiling, and whisper, “We’re going to be okay.” Even as a child, I didn’t know what that meant in full, but I believed her. Her voice carried a quiet strength that made me feel safe, even when the world around us felt uncertain. Growing up with a single mother meant living in a home built on sacrifice, faith, and unconditional love. My mom raised three kids on her own, working long hours to keep food on the table and lights on in our home. I remember seeing her at the kitchen table late at night, surrounded by bills and papers, whispering prayers under her breath. I didn’t realize it then, but those moments were lessons in perseverance. She showed me that success doesn’t come from comfort; it comes from resilience. Because of her sacrifices, I was able to focus on my education and push beyond my circumstances. When she couldn’t make it to school events because of work, she still found ways to celebrate my achievements, whether it was leaving encouraging notes in my lunch or staying up to quiz me before a big test. Every late night she worked and every meal she skipped to save money became fuel for my determination to make her proud. That determination carried me through high school, where I graduated as valedictorian of my class. Walking across that stage wasn’t just my accomplishment; it was ours. Every sleepless night and every prayer she whispered was woven into that moment. Now, as a freshman at Rice University, I carry her lessons with me every day. I am studying cognitive science with plans to minor in neuroscience and public health, and my goal is to become a doctor who advocates for women’s health, especially for Black women who are often overlooked in medicine. My curiosity about the brain and human behavior started when I was young, watching people react differently to the same situations. I have always wanted to understand what drives those differences and how the mind connects to healing. That curiosity, paired with the empathy my mother instilled in me, drives my passion for medicine. Her sacrifices taught me that education is not just a privilege; it is a purpose. She never had the opportunity to go to college, but she made sure I did. Her strength became my foundation, her faith became my motivation, and her love became my reason to keep striving even when things get difficult. When I stay up late studying, I think of her working late shifts to give me this chance. When I walk through the campus at Rice, I remember that every step I take is built on the path she created through perseverance and sacrifice. Growing up with a single mother didn’t just shape who I am; it shaped why I am. Her story reminds me that success isn’t about where you start but how hard you are willing to fight for where you want to go. Every achievement I have earned, from high school valedictorian to becoming a college student at Rice, is a reflection of her love and strength. Whenever I face challenges, I still hear her voice in my head, steady and certain, saying, “We’re going to be okay.” And because of her, I know we always will be.

When I was younger, I thought money was simple. You worked hard, earned a paycheck, and everything else fell into place. But as I got older, I realized that isn’t how it works for everyone, especially for families like mine. I watched people I love work long hours and still live paycheck to paycheck. I saw the stress in their faces when unexpected bills appeared or when they had to choose between what they needed and what they wanted. That’s when I realized the real problem isn’t effort or ambition, it’s access to knowledge. Schools teach us algebra and history, but not how to save, budget, or recover from financial hardship. That’s why if I could create a class for all K-12 students, it would be called “Financial Wellness and Life Skills.” The goal of this class would be to make financial education accessible to everyone, especially students from low-income backgrounds. It would teach practical lessons that so many adults are forced to learn the hard way. For younger students, it would start with simple ideas like saving, sharing, and setting goals. In middle school, students would learn the basics of budgeting, credit, and needs versus wants. By high school, the lessons would become more advanced, covering taxes, student loans, investing, and how to avoid common financial traps. More importantly, the class would focus on the emotional side of money, how financial insecurity affects mental health, families, and future opportunities. It would teach students that financial stability isn’t about greed, it’s about freedom, peace, and security. I learned this lesson firsthand. When Hurricane Harvey hit Houston, my family lost everything. For weeks, we lived in our car before finding a shelter. My parents, who immigrated from Nigeria to give us a better life, had always worked hard, but after the flood, even their hardest work wasn’t enough. We didn’t just lose our belongings, we lost our sense of safety. I remember overhearing my parents at night, trying to figure out how to pay for repairs or food while still keeping our spirits up. Even as a child, I could see that their fear wasn’t just about money, it was about uncertainty. That experience taught me that financial literacy can mean the difference between hopelessness and recovery. Low-income families like mine often face barriers that go beyond numbers on a page. Without access to financial education, generations can stay trapped in the same cycle of struggle. A class like “Financial Wellness and Life Skills” could break that cycle. It would give students the tools to plan ahead, make informed choices, and understand that their circumstances don’t define their future. It could empower young people to not only improve their own lives but to help their families and communities as well. As a student at Rice University majoring in Cognitive Science on the pre-med track, I have learned how knowledge can change behavior. Understanding how people think and make decisions has shown me that education, especially financial education, can transform lives. My goal is to use my education to give back to communities like the one I grew up in. Whether through public health programs or community initiatives, I want to help people gain both financial and emotional stability. If every student learned how to manage money and approach it with confidence, the impact would be extraordinary. “Financial Wellness and Life Skills” would not just teach about money, it would teach resilience, independence, and hope. For low-income families, that knowledge could mean the start of generational change, turning hardship into opportunity and struggle into strength.

I have always been fascinated by how something as small as a heartbeat or a single cell can hold the power to change a life. Science feels like a language that explains the world around me, how things break, how they heal, and how we grow through both. For me, science is not just about memorizing information; it is about discovery, curiosity, and hope. It is the belief that knowledge can rebuild what life has broken and that the hardest experiences can inspire something meaningful. That belief took root when my life was turned upside down during Hurricane Harvey. I still remember the sound of rain pounding on our roof, the smell of damp wood, and the quiet panic in my parents’ voices as the water began to rise. My family lost everything that night. For weeks, we slept in our car, unsure of what would come next. My parents, who immigrated from Nigeria to build a better life for us, tried to stay strong, but I could see the exhaustion in their faces. I helped call shelters, translate information, and comfort my younger siblings when fear felt overwhelming. Later, when we finally found safety, I volunteered at the shelter to help other families who had lost their homes too. That was when I learned that leadership is not about control or authority. It is about compassion and showing up for others even when you are struggling yourself. That experience changed the way I see the world. I realized that education and knowledge are more than just tools for personal success. They are lifelines that can help communities recover and grow. I became more curious about how people heal physically, mentally, and emotionally, and that curiosity naturally drew me to science. I wanted to understand how the human body works, how it responds to trauma, and how the mind can influence recovery. Science gave me a way to turn my questions into purpose. As I got older, I began to connect my love for science with service. During my internship at the Houston Health Department, I worked on community outreach programs that helped families access public health resources. I saw how a single piece of information or an encouraging conversation could change someone’s life. At Fonde Recreation Center, I completed over 140 volunteer hours mentoring children from underserved families. Many of them reminded me of myself, full of potential but unsure of where to start. I taught them that learning is a form of strength and that education can open doors even when the world tries to close them. Around the same time, I joined AliefVotes to help young people get involved in civic engagement and realize the power of their voices. Those experiences taught me that science, education, and community are all connected by the same principle: care. Now, as a student at Rice University majoring in Cognitive Science on the pre-med track, I am exploring how the brain and body respond to stress, trauma, and healing. My goal is to become an OB/GYN who advocates for women’s health, particularly for Black women who are too often ignored or dismissed in medical settings. I want to create programs that make reproductive healthcare accessible, compassionate, and culturally aware, both in Houston and in Nigeria, where my family’s story began. Science has taught me how to persevere, adapt, and keep learning through every challenge. My journey began in loss, but it led me to purpose. I want to dedicate my life to using science to heal, to educate, and to empower others to rise beyond their circumstances, just as I did.

The sound of rain has always fascinated me. It can be gentle or powerful, peaceful or destructive. I used to love watching it fall against the window, never realizing how something so familiar could one day change my life completely. The night the rain no longer sounded comforting was the night it became a warning, a reminder of how quickly stability can disappear and how strength can emerge from chaos. When Hurricane Harvey hit Houston, everything I knew was swept away. Water flooded our home, forcing my family to evacuate with nothing but the essentials we could carry. My parents, Nigerian immigrants, tried to stay strong, but I could see the fear in their eyes. For weeks, our car was our home. I remember holding my younger siblings close, calling shelters, and helping my parents navigate complicated aid systems. Even though I was scared, I felt a responsibility to keep my family together. That experience taught me that leadership is about courage, empathy, and stepping up when others cannot. At the shelter, I volunteered to help distribute food, clothing, and hygiene products to other displaced families. I listened to their stories, people who had lost not just their homes but also their sense of security and belonging. I realized that many of these families, especially those from underserved or immigrant communities, faced more than just the loss of property. They faced systemic barriers such as lack of healthcare, limited access to reliable information, and language challenges that made recovery even harder. That realization planted a seed in me. I wanted to be someone who could bridge that gap, someone who could bring both compassion and solutions to people in need. Since then, I have tried to serve my community in ways that reflect that mission. At the Houston Health Department, I worked on community outreach programs that helped connect residents to medical resources and preventive care. Seeing how public health combined science with service showed me that STEM is not just about data and research; it is about people. At Fonde Recreation Center, I mentored children from low-income families, helping them with homework and offering emotional support. Many of them shared stories that mirrored my own, families struggling with health, finances, and uncertainty. Around the same time, I joined AliefVotes, helping young people register to vote and understand how local policies affect their lives. These experiences showed me that small actions, whether comforting a child, sharing information, or empowering a peer, can ripple outward to create lasting change. Now, as a student at Rice University majoring in Cognitive Science on the pre-med track, I am learning how the brain and body respond to stress, trauma, and healing. My studies have shown me that science alone is not enough; it must be paired with empathy and cultural understanding. My goal is to become an OB/GYN who advocates for women, especially Black women, who are too often dismissed or ignored in healthcare settings. I want to create community programs that offer accessible reproductive care and education to women in Houston and one day in Nigeria, where my family’s story began. Education has given me the tools to turn pain into purpose. The storm that once took away everything I knew also revealed who I was meant to become. It taught me that leadership starts in the moments you least expect and that compassion can heal what hardship breaks. I want to use my knowledge, empathy, and drive to make healthcare more inclusive and humane, ensuring that no family ever feels unseen when they need care the most.

Every summer, millions of viewers tune in to Love Island for one reason: chaos with a side of chemistry. The show has this unmatched ability to take the simplest concept of love and turn it into a social experiment filled with laughter, heartbreak, and unforgettable moments. But the real magic of Love Island comes from the challenges that are perfectly designed tests exposing who is genuine, who is sneaky, and who is just there for the villa Wi-Fi. As a longtime fan, I wanted to design a challenge that takes everything we love, including flirtation, tension, and raw honesty, and pushes it to the next level. That is how The Heart Switch was born. Imagine this. The morning starts with a message that instantly sends the villa into chaos. “Islanders, it’s time to follow your heart, but will it lead you astray? #HeartSwitch #StayOrStray.” The Islanders rush to the fire pit, where each receives a glimmering heart-shaped locket. Inside the locket is a secret card that says either “True” or “Twist.” Only the producers know who got what. Those with “True” must remain loyal to their current partner no matter what. Those with “Twist” are secretly instructed to flirt, charm, and create sparks with someone else while trying not to get caught. It is not just a game of love; it is a test of emotional intelligence and self-control. Throughout the day, the Islanders are paired into new duos for playful yet revealing mini-challenges. In one round, they might have to write a love poem for their new partner, while another has them compete in a body language dance challenge, blindfolded of course. Each activity is designed to blur the line between truth and temptation. The villa becomes a guessing game of stolen glances, suspicious smiles, and whispered confessions. Viewers at home will be eating popcorn, trying to guess who is “True” and who is “Twist,” while Islanders start questioning everything they thought they knew. As the sun sets, everyone gathers around the fire pit for the grand reveal. The host calls each duo forward to make their guesses about whether their partner had “True” or “Twist.” Tension fills the air. Some Islanders are confident, while others look terrified. Then, in one dramatic countdown, all the lockets open at once. Gasps, cheers, and a few jaw-drops follow as the truth comes out. The ones who guessed correctly earn a luxurious sunset dinner or a spa night. Those who guessed wrong have to perform a funny dare, like serenading their partner or giving a romantic speech to someone they misread. What makes The Heart Switch truly special is its emotional depth. It is not just about who flirts or who stays loyal; it is about how people respond when faced with doubt. It explores the psychology of attraction, trust, and temptation, all in classic Love Island fashion. Viewers will see new sides of their favorite contestants and get those unforgettable moments that live on social media for weeks. In the end, The Heart Switch represents what Love Island does best by reminding us that love is thrilling, unpredictable, and sometimes a little messy. It is a challenge built for drama, but underneath it all, it is about human connection and the risk of opening your heart when you know it might get switched.

When the rain started pounding against the windows, I thought it was just another storm. But within hours, the sky turned dark, the streets disappeared under water, and the only thing left standing between us and the flood was our car. Hurricane Harvey didn’t just wash away our home; it swept away everything familiar. That night, sitting in the back seat beside my siblings with nothing but a few clothes and a blanket, I learned that leadership isn’t about having control. It’s about having courage when control is no longer an option. Back then, I wasn’t thinking about what it meant to lead. I just knew my family needed me. My parents, who immigrated from Nigeria to build a better life, suddenly had to face language barriers and complicated aid systems they didn’t understand. I called shelters, translated information, and searched for food drives. I tried to keep my siblings calm even though I was scared too. Those moments taught me what true leadership is: being steady when everything else is uncertain. When we finally moved into a shelter, I started volunteering there. I helped distribute supplies, comforted children who were afraid, and listened to families who had lost everything. That experience changed how I viewed the world. I realized that leadership isn’t always loud or seen; sometimes it’s about small acts of compassion that remind people they’re not alone. From that moment, I knew I wanted to dedicate my life to helping others rebuild after hardship. As I got older, that purpose became clearer. When I interned at the Houston Health Department, I saw how science could protect communities. I worked on projects that connected residents to health resources and emergency services, and I learned how data and communication can save lives. Many of the families we served reminded me of my own during Harvey: unsure, anxious, and hopeful. That experience showed me that STEM isn’t just about formulas or theories; it’s about people. It’s about finding solutions that make their lives safer and more secure. Outside of academics, I’ve tried to lead through service and mentorship. At Fonde Recreation Center, I completed over 140 volunteer hours mentoring kids from underserved communities. Many of them reminded me of myself: curious and full of potential but uncertain of where to start. I spent time helping them with homework, playing games, and teaching them to believe in themselves. I wanted them to know that they are capable of creating their own futures, no matter what challenges they face. Around the same time, I joined AliefVotes, an organization that promotes civic engagement among young people. Encouraging my peers to use their voices taught me that leadership isn’t just about taking initiative; it’s about inspiring others to do the same. Now, as a student at Rice University majoring in Cognitive Science on the pre-med track, I’m studying how the mind responds to stress and trauma. I’ve always been fascinated by the way people cope during emergencies, how fear and resilience coexist, and how recovery starts long before the danger ends. My coursework allows me to connect science and humanity, and it’s deepened my desire to use STEM to support people in crisis. In the future, I want to build programs that strengthen disaster preparedness and access to healthcare in underserved communities. I’ve seen how disasters often hit low-income and Black communities the hardest, and I want to change that. My goal is to design a mobile health network that connects families to emergency updates, mental health resources, and medical care during crises. I also want to create educational programs that teach families how to prepare for emergencies before they happen, so no one has to feel as lost as my family once did. My leadership is grounded in empathy because I know what it’s like to lose everything and still have to keep moving. I understand what it feels like to live with uncertainty, to comfort others when you’re scared yourself, and to rebuild piece by piece. Those experiences shaped how I lead with compassion, determination, and the belief that every person deserves safety and care, no matter their background or circumstance. Representation also drives me. Growing up, I rarely saw Black women leading in STEM or emergency management. That absence motivated me to become part of the change. I want to be a visible example for other young Black girls who dream of making an impact in science and crisis response. Representation is more than presence; it’s power. It opens doors for others and shows them they belong. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that leadership doesn’t start when you’re ready. It starts when life demands it. It starts in the middle of the storm, when you have to choose courage over fear and hope over doubt. Every challenge I’ve faced has shaped me into someone stronger and more determined to help others find stability in moments of chaos. The rain that once symbolized loss now reminds me of growth. It reminds me that storms can destroy, but they can also reveal who we’re meant to become. My journey from that flooded street in Houston to the classrooms of Rice University is proof that resilience can turn pain into purpose. Through science, compassion, and service, I plan to lead others toward hope, safety, and strength, no matter how heavy the rain falls.

The first time I heard Sabrina Carpenter’s voice, I was sitting on my bed with my laptop open, exhausted from another long week of balancing school, work, and family responsibilities. I clicked on her song “Because I Liked a Boy,” expecting a catchy pop track, but what I found instead was honesty. The lyrics were raw, vulnerable, and brave. In that moment, I saw a piece of myself in her. She was not afraid to turn pain into power, and that was exactly what I needed to hear. My love for Sabrina started long before her music filled my playlists. As a kid, I watched her play Maya Hart on Girl Meets World, a character full of fire and humor but also heart. Maya was bold and fearless, the opposite of how I often felt growing up. I admired her confidence and her ability to laugh even when life was not perfect. But it was not until I got older that I realized Sabrina was not just playing a character; she was building a foundation for the strong, authentic woman she would become. When I think about Sabrina’s evolution from Disney star to pop sensation and now Hollywood actress, I see a reflection of what it means to grow through life’s challenges. Her transition was not overnight; it took hard work, patience, and a willingness to stay true to herself despite public expectations. That journey mirrors my own path in many ways. After Hurricane Harvey destroyed our home, my family spent months living out of our car. Those were the hardest months of my life. I remember nights when I would sit awake, praying quietly and humming to calm myself. Music became my escape, and Sabrina’s songs reminded me that pain does not last forever. It can be transformed into strength. Her lyrics from “Feather” and “Opposite” helped me understand you can lose everything and still find yourself again. Sabrina’s ability to face judgment and still sing her truth encouraged me to do the same. Her career showed me that your voice matters most when the world tries to silence it. I also admire how Sabrina balances confidence with humility. Her song “Nonsense” reminds me that confidence can mean embracing joy and humor in the middle of chaos. That lesson has followed me through college as I juggle academic stress and leadership roles. When I am overwhelmed, I remember Sabrina’s carefree laughter on stage and how she turns pressure into presence. She does not just perform; she connects, and that is what I try to do when I mentor younger students or volunteer in my community. Sabrina has shown me that success is not about perfection; it is about persistence and authenticity. Watching her perform “Please, Please, Please” recently, I felt proud of how far she has come, not because she is flawless, but because she is real. She sings about heartbreak, empowerment, and everything in between, showing that growth is messy but beautiful. I am a fan of Sabrina Carpenter because she represents everything I aspire to be: confident, kind, and unapologetically herself. Her music carried me through hardship, taught me to embrace my individuality, and gave me the courage to dream bigger than my circumstances. She reminds me that your story does not have to be perfect to be powerful. Sabrina’s art has taught me to stand tall in who I am, even when the world does not understand. Like her, I have learned that the most beautiful thing you can do is show up as yourself, again and again, and let your light shine anyway.

The lights dimmed, the orchestra swelled, and as the first green glow filled the stage, I felt my heart race. Watching Wicked for the first time was more than just seeing a Broadway show; it was seeing a story that felt like my own. When Elphaba appeared, standing alone in her difference yet refusing to apologize for it, I saw a reflection of myself. Her story of courage, friendship, and staying true to who she was spoke directly to my soul. Growing up, I often felt like I did not fit in. As a young Black girl, I sometimes felt invisible or out of place in spaces where people did not understand me. I tried to blend in, to fit the mold others expected, but deep down I knew I was meant to stand out. Watching Elphaba face judgment for being different reminded me of those moments. When she sang, “I’m through with playing by the rules of someone else’s game,” I felt like she was singing to me. It was a reminder that you do not have to shrink yourself to be accepted. You can rise by being exactly who God made you to be. The song “Defying Gravity” became my personal anthem. I remember listening to it late one night after Hurricane Harvey destroyed our home. My family was living out of our car, unsure of what would happen next. I had lost so much, but hearing Elphaba’s words, “It’s time to try defying gravity,” reignited something in me. Her strength reminded me that even when life feels impossible, faith and perseverance can lift you above any storm. Like Elphaba, I chose to rise, not by magic, but by resilience. What I love most about Wicked is how it redefines what it means to be good. It challenges how people judge others without understanding them. Elphaba was never wicked; she was brave enough to stand for what was right, even when she stood alone. That lesson shaped how I see the world. It taught me to approach others with empathy and to speak up when something feels unjust. Like Glinda and Elphaba’s complicated friendship, it also reminded me that growth sometimes means challenging the people you love to see the truth. Beyond the story, Wicked’s music continues to inspire me. “For Good” always makes me emotional because it reminds me of the people who have changed my life, my parents, my mentors, and my community. My mother, who once dreamed of becoming a nurse but put that dream on hold to raise her children, showed me what sacrifice looks like. My father, who worked three jobs to keep us afloat, taught me strength. Like Elphaba and Glinda, they shaped me for good, and their love and guidance continue to guide me every day. I am a fan of Wicked because it taught me to see beauty in my differences, to use my voice with courage, and to lead with heart. It showed me that being misunderstood does not make you less; it makes you powerful. Elphaba’s story is not just about defying gravity. It is about defying expectations, standing tall in your truth, and choosing love over fear. Every time I hear the first notes of Wicked, I am reminded of who I am and who I am becoming, someone unafraid to rise even when the world does not understand. Because like Elphaba, I have learned that sometimes the most extraordinary magic comes from simply being yourself.

The aroma of fried chicken and collard greens filled the church fellowship hall as gospel music played softly in the background. I was twelve years old, nervously handing out plates at a community dinner, when an elderly woman reached out to take hers. Her hands trembled, but her smile was steady. “Thank you, baby,” she said softly. “You remind me that God still sends angels to help.” I did not feel like an angel, just a shy girl helping out at church, but her words planted something in me. That was the day I realized that service was more than kindness; it was faith put into action. Faith has always been my foundation, but hardship taught me what faith truly means. When Hurricane Harvey flooded our home, my family lost almost everything. For months we lived out of our car, relying on faith to keep us going. My parents, Nigerian immigrants, had always told me that God’s grace shines brightest during our darkest moments. My father worked three jobs to keep us afloat, and my mother put her nursing dream on hold to raise my siblings and me. Watching their strength and sacrifice taught me that faith is not just about prayer; it is about perseverance. Their example showed me that living with purpose means serving others, even when life feels uncertain. During that time, our church became our refuge. They provided meals, clothing, and emotional support when we felt like we had nothing left. I remember one Sunday after the storm when the sanctuary still smelled of rain. The pews were half empty, but when the choir sang “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” I felt tears roll down my face. That was when I understood that faith is not found in perfect circumstances; it is found in broken ones. That realization strengthened my desire to serve others just as my church had served us. As I grew older, I became more involved in church outreach programs. I helped organize food drives, packed supplies for struggling families, and volunteered at holiday events. At Second Baptist Church, I joined community efforts to support underserved families. One of my favorite memories was handing a backpack to a little girl who grinned from ear to ear and said, “Now I can go to school ready.” Her joy reminded me that service does not have to be grand to make an impact; it just has to be done with love. Through my church’s youth ministry, I began mentoring younger children, helping them build confidence and faith. One quiet girl rarely spoke during Bible study, but I made an effort to include her in everything we did. Over time she began to open up, and by the end of the year she volunteered to lead a closing prayer. That moment showed me that leadership through faith is not about standing in front of others; it is about walking beside them. My faith also inspired me to serve beyond the church walls. I volunteered with AliefVotes to encourage civic engagement and served at Fonde Recreation Center mentoring children from underserved communities. These experiences taught me that serving others is a lifestyle, not an event. Whether through faith, mentorship, or advocacy, I strive to reflect God’s love in every space I enter. Through every hardship and blessing, my faith has been my anchor. It carried me through loss, struggle, and uncertainty, reminding me that service is my purpose. My church taught me how to pray and live those prayers through action. Wherever life takes me, I will continue to serve others with compassion, humility, and unwavering faith.

The first time I stepped back onto the basketball court after losing my parent, I could barely hold the ball. My hands trembled, my chest felt heavy, and the echo of the ball bouncing against the floor brought back a flood of memories. My parent used to sit in the bleachers, cheering for me even when I missed every shot. Now that seat was empty. For a long time, I could not look at it without feeling the ache of everything I had lost. But as I began to play again, I realized basketball was not just a game anymore. It was my way to keep their spirit alive. Losing a parent changes you in ways you never expect. It is not just the absence of their voice or their laughter; it is the quiet moments when you want to tell them good news or ask for advice, but they are not there to answer. After my parent passed away, I struggled to stay focused in school, and grief made it hard to find motivation. I would sit staring at my homework, wondering how I was supposed to keep going without them. But I knew they would not want me to give up. They had always taught me that strength is not about never falling; it is about getting back up every time you do. So that is what I did. The basketball court became my refuge. I started staying after school to shoot hoops alone. At first, it was a way to escape the pain, but slowly it became a way to heal. Each bounce of the ball matched the rhythm of my heartbeat, and each swish of the net reminded me that progress was still possible. My teammates began inviting me to scrimmage again, and their encouragement helped me rediscover joy in the game. They did not just help me become a better player. They helped me feel whole again. One moment that stands out was during a close game when we were down by two points. My legs were shaking, and my heart was pounding, but I could almost hear my parent’s voice in my head saying, “You have got this.” I took the shot, and it went in. That moment was not just a win for the team. It was proof that love and strength can grow from pain. Basketball taught me lessons that go far beyond sports. It taught me leadership, patience, and resilience. It reminded me that even when life feels unfair, you still have the power to choose how you respond. I learned to channel grief into motivation and to appreciate the value of teamwork and perseverance. Now I want to pay it forward. I plan to mentor younger athletes who are dealing with loss, reminding them that their story does not end with tragedy. Sports gave me a reason to stand tall again, and I want to give others that same strength. Losing my parent was the hardest thing I have ever faced, but it also shaped me into someone stronger, more compassionate, and determined to live with purpose. Every time I step onto the court, I play with their memory in my heart and that keeps me rising.

The sound of rain used to calm me until the night Hurricane Harvey swallowed our home. I remember sitting in the backseat of our car, clutching a damp blanket, watching the water rise as my parents tried to stay calm for my siblings and me. The storm left us with almost nothing, just hope and one another. For months, we lived out of that car, unsure of what the next day would bring. Amid the chaos, I saw something extraordinary: nurses walking through crowded shelters, handing out medicine, offering words of comfort, and restoring dignity to people who had lost everything. That image of selfless care changed me forever. It showed me what it truly means to heal, not just bodies but hearts. My passion for nursing began there but grew from the strength and sacrifice I saw at home. My mother always dreamed of becoming a nurse. She wanted to dedicate her life to caring for others but put that dream on hold to raise three children. While she cared for us, my father worked three jobs to keep our family afloat. Their lives revolved around giving us opportunities they never had. Watching my mother’s quiet patience and my father’s relentless work ethic taught me that success comes from service and perseverance. Even though my mother was not working in a hospital, she embodied the heart of a nurse, gentle, attentive, and unwavering in her care. Her dream became the seed of mine. Growing up, we often struggled to afford healthcare. There were times when my parents delayed doctor visits or skipped prescriptions because the cost was too high. I remember the worry in their eyes when one of us got sick and we were not sure what we could afford. That experience shaped me more than anything else. It made me understand how many families live with the fear of not being able to get help when they need it most. I want to be the kind of nurse who helps change that reality. I want to care for people who feel unseen or forgotten because I know what that feels like. Through community service, I found purpose in helping others. At Fonde Recreation Center, I mentored kids who reminded me of myself, curious, full of potential, and just needing someone to believe in them. Working with AliefVotes taught me how to advocate for people whose voices are not always heard. Those experiences deepened my understanding of what nursing really means: showing up for others even when it is difficult. It is about compassion in action. My love for science strengthened my sense of purpose. Studying biology and psychology revealed how deeply the mind and body are connected and how emotional support can be as healing as medicine. Nursing combines everything I value: knowledge, empathy, and advocacy. As a young Black woman, I have seen how women of color often face disparities in treatment and are dismissed in moments when they deserve care the most. I want to change that by being a nurse who listens, supports, and empowers women through some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives. Every hardship my family faced, losing our home, struggling with healthcare, and watching my parents work until exhaustion, shaped my resilience and my compassion. Nursing is how I honor my parents’ sacrifices and carry forward my mother’s dream. It is how I turn pain into purpose and empathy into action. I want to bring hope where it has been lost, healing where it is needed most, and compassion to every person who crosses my path.

The night the storm came, I pressed my hand against the window and watched the rain blur everything I knew into gray. At first, I thought it would pass, just another Houston thunderstorm. But within hours, the water crept into our home, soaking the walls, the furniture, and the life my parents had spent years building. By morning, we had lost everything. Hurricane Harvey did not just take our house; it took the sense of safety we once had. I still remember sitting in our car with my family, the windows fogged from our breath, trying to sleep while the rain poured outside. My parents whispered prayers they hoped we could not hear, their voices trembling but steady with faith. In that moment, surrounded by uncertainty, I made a promise to myself that this would not be where our story ended. The weeks that followed were filled with exhaustion and hope. We showered in shelters, accepted food from donation drives, and shared one blanket between us when the nights grew cold. Even then, my parents reminded me that our situation was temporary and that education would be the key to rebuilding. When we finally found a small apartment, I started working after school to help my parents with bills and groceries. Some nights I came home too tired to study, but I stayed up anyway because I knew what I was fighting for. Growing up in a Nigerian immigrant household, resilience was woven into my story long before the hurricane. My parents came to America with little more than faith and the belief that hard work could build a better future. The storm tested that belief, but it also revealed how deeply it lived in us. Watching them rebuild from nothing showed me that strength is not measured by what you have but by how you keep moving forward when everything is gone. That mindset carried me through high school. I balanced classes, work, and family responsibilities, sometimes studying by flashlight after everyone else had fallen asleep. Every test I passed and every project I completed felt like a step toward reclaiming what we had lost. I graduated as valedictorian, not because life was easy, but because I refused to let hardship stop me from succeeding. Now, as a student at Rice University studying cognitive science, I am turning those lessons into purpose. My dream is to become an OB/GYN and advocate for women’s health, especially for Black women whose pain is too often dismissed. Growing up, I saw women in my community struggle to receive proper reproductive care. Their experiences became my motivation to combine science, compassion, and advocacy to make healthcare more understanding and equitable. My experiences have shaped me into someone who believes in using adversity as a platform for change. From volunteering over one hundred forty hours mentoring children at the Fonde Recreation Center to working at the Houston mayor’s office and helping with AliefVotes civic engagement, I have seen firsthand how service transforms lives. Every opportunity to give back reminds me of the people who helped my family when we had nothing and inspires me to do the same for others. What gives me an advantage is not perfection but perseverance. I know what it means to lose everything and still keep believing. I have worked when I was tired, studied when I was uncertain, and held on to faith when hope felt small. My journey has been built on resilience, faith, and an unbreakable drive to make an impact. Receiving this scholarship would not only ease the financial challenges of college but would also represent how far my family and I have come. From sleeping in a car to walking across a college campus, I have learned that no storm lasts forever. I am proof that when you hold on to hope and purpose, even the hardest moments can lead to something extraordinary.

The first time I stood in formation under the blazing sun, sweat running down my back, I wondered if I had made a mistake. My body ached, my thoughts raced, and the weight of my gear felt heavier than anything I had carried before. But somewhere in the exhaustion, something changed. I began to understand that service was not just about endurance or strength. It was about becoming someone who could remain steady for others when life became difficult. The military taught me lessons that no classroom ever could. It showed me that leadership begins with listening and that courage often looks like compassion. I will never forget the night a fellow soldier lost someone close to him. We sat in silence under the dim light of our barracks, and after a long pause, he said quietly, “Sometimes all we have is each other.” That moment stayed with me because it reminded me that true service lives in the small, unspoken acts of care we offer one another. Those moments built in me a sense of purpose that no uniform could define. When my time in the military ended, I thought the hardest part was behind me. I was wrong. The transition to civilian life was one of the greatest challenges I had ever faced. The silence after years of structure and constant movement felt strange. The world seemed to move faster, but I felt like I was standing still. I missed the sense of belonging that came from working toward something bigger than myself. It took time, reflection, and a few setbacks before I realized that service did not have to end. It could evolve. Returning to school became my way of redefining that service. Education gave me a new mission built on healing, growth, and impact. I am now pursuing a degree in psychology because I want to help others, especially veterans and people in underserved communities, find the strength to rebuild their lives. I want to be the person who reminds them that they are not broken, that their stories still matter, and that it is never too late to start again. I volunteer with programs that support veterans transitioning back into civilian life, and each time I sit down with someone who feels lost, I see a reflection of who I once was. Watching their confidence return reminds me why I chose this path. My education is not just for me. It is for every person who has ever felt like their best days were behind them. The military gave me discipline, courage, and heart. Education is giving me direction, hope, and purpose. Together they have taught me that service is not defined by a uniform. It is defined by the people we lift, the lives we touch, and the belief that growth is always possible, no matter where we begin again.

When a flower doesn’t bloom, you don’t blame the flower; you fix the soil, give it light, and nurture it until it grows. The same should be true for children. Yet far too often, society punishes the child instead of healing the wound. Early childhood trauma doesn’t just fade with time; it leaves lasting marks on how children think, love, and see themselves in the world. Growing up in Houston, I saw how pain could shape people’s lives before they even had a chance to understand it. In my neighborhood, I watched kids who carried invisible burdens, feelings of anger, fear, and sadness they couldn’t put into words. One boy I grew up with was constantly in trouble at school. Teachers saw a “problem child,” but I saw a kid trying to protect himself from the chaos he couldn’t control. One day, when I asked why he didn’t like going home, he said quietly, “It’s easier to stay outside.” That moment broke my heart. It showed me how many children are forced to grow up before they’re ready, learning survival instead of safety. Those experiences opened my eyes to how early trauma can alter a child’s path. Abuse, neglect, or instability can rewire the brain, making it harder for children to manage emotions or form healthy connections. But I’ve also learned that with care and consistency, those same children can heal. That belief is what drives my passion for understanding the human mind and my goal of becoming a medical professional who focuses on trauma-informed care. As an undergraduate student studying cognitive science and psychology, I want to dedicate my career to creating spaces where children feel seen, supported, and believed. I plan to work at the intersection of mental health and medicine, helping families, especially in underserved communities, access early interventions and emotional support. Too many children, particularly children of color, grow up without advocates who understand how deeply trauma shapes development. I want to change that by combining science, empathy, and advocacy to rebuild trust where it has been broken. Volunteering at Fonde Recreation Center strengthened that calling. I mentored kids who reminded me of the children I grew up with, bright and curious but carrying the weight of their environments. I remember one little girl who never spoke during group activities. Instead of forcing her to join, I gave her small art projects to do beside me. Week by week, her drawings became brighter, and one day she whispered, “I like being here.” That single sentence reminded me that healing often starts with feeling safe. Early trauma may shape a child’s beginning, but it doesn’t have to define their future. Through my education and future career, I want to help rewrite those stories, turning pain into resilience and silence into strength. Every child deserves the chance to bloom, and I plan to spend my life helping them do just that.

The sound of sirens has always meant more to me than noise. To some, it is a sign of trouble. But to me, growing up in Houston, it has always sounded like hope. It meant that someone was on their way to help, to bring peace to chaos, to remind people that they were not alone. I still remember standing on my porch as a child, watching officers stop to help a woman whose car had broken down in the middle of the road. They stayed with her until she was safe. I did not fully understand what was happening then, but I knew one thing. One day, I wanted to be like them. As I got older, I began to see both the beauty and the challenges of the city I call home. Houston is a place full of strength, culture, and resilience, but I also saw how crime, fear, and misunderstanding could divide people. I watched how distrust between residents and police could grow, especially in communities that already felt overlooked. But I also saw the difference that one caring officer could make. A smile, a calm tone, or a simple act of listening could change how someone viewed law enforcement entirely. Those moments showed me that being a police officer is not just about enforcing laws. It is about earning trust and being present for the people you serve. Helping others has always come naturally to me. When a classmate was being bullied, I spoke up for them even when no one else did. When a neighbor’s home was broken into, I stayed with her until her family arrived because she did not want to be alone. Those moments reminded me how powerful it can be to simply show up for someone, to be their sense of safety when everything feels uncertain. I want to spend my life doing that for others on a larger scale, protecting, comforting, and guiding people through moments of fear and confusion. I know that choosing this path will not be easy. Police officers face unpredictable situations and often make split-second decisions that carry enormous weight. But I have learned that courage is not the absence of fear. It is showing up even when you are afraid because someone else needs you to. That is the kind of courage I want to embody. I want to be the kind of officer who treats everyone with fairness and humanity, no matter their background. Being from Houston has shown me how strong communities can be when people truly care for one another. I want to serve this city and others like it, not just as a protector but as a listener, mentor, and advocate for unity. My goal is to help people feel that law enforcement is something they can trust again, something that works with them rather than against them. I want to remind people that there are still officers who lead with compassion and integrity, who see the humanity in every person they encounter. I want to become a police officer because I believe in service that heals and justice that uplifts. I want to be the kind of person who brings calm to chaos, who listens before acting, and who represents hope in moments of fear. My dream is to serve my community with the same empathy, strength, and commitment that inspired me years ago from that porch in Houston. That is what being a true officer means to me, protecting not just lives but trust, dignity, and peace.

When I was a kid, I remember watching police lights flash through my neighborhood, painting the walls red and blue. Even before I understood what was happening, I could sense the tension, the silence that followed, the worry on people’s faces. It wasn’t just the fear of crime that filled the air; it was the fear of being misunderstood, of being targeted, of being judged before being heard. Growing up in Houston as the daughter of Nigerian immigrants, I saw how easily someone’s skin color or zip code could shape how they were treated. That realization became the spark that made me want to pursue a career in criminal justice to help build a system that protects people instead of pre-judging them. One of the most pressing issues in the criminal justice system today is racial and socioeconomic inequality. From policing to sentencing, people from marginalized backgrounds are often treated unfairly. Studies show that Black defendants receive longer sentences for the same crimes as their white counterparts, and that poverty can be just as damning as guilt when it comes to securing a fair defense. These inequalities strip the system of its integrity and turn what should be a pursuit of justice into a reflection of privilege. True justice cannot exist when fairness depends on the color of someone’s skin or the balance in their bank account. My desire to change that began with service. At Fonde Recreation Center, where I volunteered over 140 hours mentoring children from low-income families, I saw how inequality starts long before the courtroom. Many of the kids I worked with faced instability at home, overcrowded classrooms, or a lack of basic resources. I remember one boy, barely ten years old, who told me he didn’t think he’d make it past eighteen. Hearing that from someone so young broke my heart. I spent hours helping him with homework, planning group activities, and reminding him that his future was worth fighting for. Over time, I realized that these moments weren’t just acts of kindness; they were acts of prevention. They were justice in its earliest form, giving a child hope instead of letting despair guide their choices. That lesson carried into my work with AliefVotes, where I helped young people register to vote and learn how government decisions directly affect their communities. Many didn’t realize how voting could influence laws about policing, sentencing, and rehabilitation. Helping them see the connection between civic engagement and justice taught me that lasting reform begins with awareness and representation. When communities have a voice, they have power, the power to demand fairness and accountability. Later, while interning at the Mayor’s Office of Houston, I saw how local policies could influence everything from neighborhood safety to youth development programs. Working in that environment gave me a clearer understanding of how systemic change works from the inside out. It also showed me that progress requires collaboration between citizens, lawmakers, and those willing to challenge outdated systems. I learned that justice is a collective effort that requires empathy, courage, and persistence. Now, as a student at Rice University, I’m majoring in cognitive science and minoring in criminal justice. Understanding how human behavior, environment, and social systems interact helps me see the justice system from multiple perspectives. Crime does not happen in isolation; it often stems from untreated trauma, lack of opportunity, or mental health struggles. I hope to use this knowledge to approach reform from both a psychological and structural standpoint, advocating for rehabilitation instead of punishment and addressing the root causes of crime rather than its symptoms. My ultimate goal is to become a criminal defense attorney who fights for fairness, compassion, and reform. I want to advocate for those who are often silenced or overlooked and to work toward policies that eliminate bias and expand access to quality defense for everyone. I believe the measure of a justice system isn’t how harshly it punishes but how fairly it treats the people within it. The red and blue lights I once feared now symbolize the urgency of my purpose. Every flash reminds me that justice is not guaranteed; it’s something we must continuously protect and redefine. Through my experiences mentoring children, promoting civic engagement, and serving my community, I’ve learned that real justice begins when we see people as human first. I want to dedicate my career to building a system that doesn’t just punish wrongdoing but understands why it happens and helps people find their way back to hope.

The first time I helped my grandmother out of bed, her hands trembled as she held onto mine. She smiled softly and said, “You have healing hands.” I was only a teenager then, but those words stayed with me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but caring for her would become one of the most defining experiences of my life. Through caregiving, I discovered my strength, my purpose, and my calling to serve others. When my grandmother’s health began to decline, our entire household changed. She had always been the heart of our family, the one who cooked traditional Nigerian meals and told stories that made us laugh until we cried. Seeing her lose her independence was heartbreaking. My parents worked long hours, so I became her main caregiver. Every day after school, I would check her blood pressure, help her eat, and sit by her bedside, listening to her stories even when her voice was faint. I learned how to stay calm when she was in pain and how to be patient when she grew frustrated. I found small ways to make her comfortable, whether it was fluffing her pillow or playing her favorite gospel songs to lift her spirits. There were nights when I stayed awake long after everyone else had gone to bed, helping her through pain or holding her hand until she fell asleep. I often did my homework beside her, reading my notes by the dim light of her bedside lamp. Those moments taught me what it means to give of yourself completely. They taught me that love is not just a feeling but an action that requires selflessness, resilience, and grace. Balancing caregiving with school was challenging. There were times when exhaustion hit me so hard that I questioned whether I could keep up. But every morning, I reminded myself why I was doing it. My grandmother had spent her life caring for others, and now it was my turn to care for her. That sense of duty and love gave me the strength to push through. It also taught me how to manage my time, stay focused, and never give up, even when life felt heavy. Those lessons carried me through high school, where I graduated as valedictorian. Now, as a student at Rice University, my caregiving experience continues to shape who I am. It has taught me to lead with empathy and serve with purpose. Whether I am mentoring kids at a recreation center or serving as a New Student Representative for the Black Student Association, I bring that same spirit of care and understanding into everything I do. Caring for my grandmother also changed the way I see healthcare. Sitting beside her during doctor visits, I noticed how elderly patients, especially Black women, were sometimes spoken to but not truly heard. That realization sparked my passion for medicine and public health. I want to become a doctor who treats patients with dignity and compassion, someone who makes people like my grandmother feel seen and valued. My caregiving journey taught me that real strength lies in love and service. When I think about my future, I still hear my grandmother’s voice reminding me, “You have healing hands.” Those words guide me every day as I work toward becoming the kind of doctor who helps others find comfort, hope, and healing.

Over coffee, I’d say that I want to use cybersecurity to protect and uplift the underprivileged communities in Houston that shaped me. Growing up, I saw too many families and small business owners lose money or personal information because they didn’t know how to stay safe online. I want to change that by creating workshops that make cybersecurity simple, empowering, and accessible for everyone, especially those who are often overlooked. By sharing what I learn, I can help my community gain confidence and control in a world that’s becoming more digital every day. For me, cybersecurity is more than technology; it’s a form of protection, empowerment, and hope for people who deserve to feel safe and seen.

The sound of rain used to comfort me. But the night the hurricane came, it became a roar that I will never forget. I watched water swallow our home, rising higher with every passing minute, soaking our few belongings and destroying nearly everything we owned. The smell of damp wood and wet clothes filled the air as my family scrambled to salvage what little we could. By morning, our house was gone, and for weeks, we lived out of our car, cramped in the backseat, surrounded by soggy bags, trying to sleep while the engine’s hum kept us company. My parents, Nigerian immigrants who had sacrificed everything to give us a better life, tried to stay strong, but I could see the exhaustion in their eyes. In that moment, I learned that strength is not about what you own, it is about how you keep going when life pushes you to the edge. Growing up, we never had much. My parents constantly reminded me that to succeed, I would have to work ten times harder than others. Education became my path forward, and resilience became my foundation. Despite the challenges, I graduated valedictorian of my high school class, a reflection of both my determination and the sacrifices my family made. From a young age, I was fascinated by people, how differently they reacted to the same situations, some with calm, others with anger. That curiosity evolved into a passion for understanding the brain and human behavior, guiding me toward cognitive science and neuroscience. Over time, I realized that my interests pointed toward medicine. I dream of becoming an OB/GYN, a physician who not only provides care but also advocates for women, especially Black women, whose concerns are too often dismissed. The road to this dream has not been easy. With my parents working long hours, I carried responsibilities at home, cooking, cleaning, and caring for my siblings, while also working a job to help provide for my family. There were nights I came home exhausted, yet I pushed forward, determined to rise above circumstances. These challenges taught me resilience, empathy, and perseverance, the qualities that now define who I am. Even with these hardships, I sought ways to give back. I mentored children at Fonde Recreation Center, volunteered with AliefVotes to encourage civic engagement among youth, and participated in outreach through my church. These experiences taught me that true leadership is measured not by titles but by service and impact. They deepened my commitment to uplifting underserved communities, the same communities that shaped me. Now, as a freshman at Rice University, I am pursuing cognitive science with a minor in neuroscience and public health. The cost of tuition is a heavy burden on my family, and scholarships like this one would allow me to focus fully on my education and future while honoring my parents’ sacrifices. My story is one of resilience, determination, and service. I carry the lessons of my immigrant upbringing, the strength I found when my family lost everything, and the discipline I gained from balancing school, work, and family responsibilities. These experiences have shaped me into someone who will not only achieve her dreams but also fight to create opportunities for others. I believe in the transformative power of education, the importance of kindness, and the value of perseverance. I am committed to using my skills and knowledge to serve communities that need care, advocacy, and representation the most.

Her pencil slipped out of her hand and rolled across the table. I expected her to laugh it off like the other kids usually did, but instead, she just stared at the desk in front of her. When I asked if something was wrong, she whispered, “I’m just tired. Not sleepy, just tired in my heart.” She was only eleven years old, yet the heaviness in her voice sounded like it belonged to someone who had lived through a lifetime of struggles. That moment stayed with me because it showed me that pain is not always visible, but it is always real. That encounter was one of the first times I truly understood the importance of mental health and the consequences of overlooking it. Growing up, I had already noticed how people around me expressed their struggles in different ways. Some raised their voices, while others fell completely silent. As a child, I wondered why two people could face the same problem but react so differently. What I did not know then was that I was asking questions about the mind and behavior, questions that would eventually shape my future. Being raised by Nigerian immigrant parents also shaped my perspective. My parents worked tirelessly, often sacrificing their well-being so that my siblings and I could have opportunities they never had. They reminded me often that as a Black woman, I would have to work ten times harder to succeed. Their strength inspired me, but I also saw the toll it took. The stress, exhaustion, and unspoken struggles were always there, even when hidden behind smiles. In my community, silence about mental health was common, and resilience often meant burying pain instead of addressing it. I wanted to change that. That desire led me to pursue a degree in the mental health field. My passion lies in understanding how the brain and behavior are connected, but just as importantly, in using that knowledge to uplift others. Volunteering and mentoring children showed me how powerful it can be to simply listen and let someone know they are not alone. That skill, empathy, has become just as important to me as any scientific knowledge I will gain in the classroom. My ultimate goal is to become an OB/GYN who brings mental health into women’s healthcare. Too often, women, especially Black women, are dismissed in medical settings. Their physical symptoms are questioned, and their emotional struggles are overlooked. Pregnancy and childbirth are not only physical experiences; they are deeply tied to mental health. By treating women as whole individuals, I aim to transform the way care is delivered, ensuring that every voice is heard and validated. I believe making a difference starts with presence, with listening, validating, and showing compassion. I plan to bring that mindset into every part of my career, whether that means creating safe spaces for patients, advocating for resources in underserved communities, or working to dismantle the stigma around mental health. For me, this journey is not just about pursuing a degree; it's about discovering my passions and exploring my potential. It is about honoring that eleven-year-old girl who taught me that even children can carry invisible burdens. It is about recognizing my parents’ sacrifices and ensuring that future generations do not have to silence their struggles. Most of all, it is about dedicating my life to making sure that no one feels alone in their pain.

The first time I met Mia, she was sitting alone on the cracked concrete of Fonde Recreation Center’s playground, her small hands trembling as she clutched a paintbrush. The other kids were running wild, full of laughter and energy, but she barely dared to lift her eyes. I remember how quiet she was, like she was carrying the weight of the world in her silence. I sat beside her, carefully asking about the colors she chose and the stories behind her paintings. Day by day, that quiet trembling hand grew steadier, and her shy smiles became laughter that filled the room. By summer’s end, Mia was leading a group of younger kids through an art project, her confidence glowing brighter than the Texas sun. Watching her transformation was the moment I truly understood how hope grows, not from words, but from presence, patience, and belief. Growing up in Houston, I’ve always understood how important community is. My neighborhood didn’t have everything we needed, but it was full of people who cared enough to show up, like Mrs. Johnson, our elderly neighbor who was recovering from surgery. Families from all around brought her meals, checked in on her, and even mowed her lawn. Those small acts of kindness weren’t just helpful. They created a safety net that kept us all afloat. It taught me that community means showing up for each other, even when it’s inconvenient or hard. This belief pushed me to volunteer with AliefVotes, helping young people register to vote and get involved. I remember one young man telling me, “Why bother? No one listens anyway.” Instead of arguing, I listened to him, and I shared stories of neighbors who used their voices to change local laws and improve lives. A few days later, he came back with his registration card in hand. The weight of that card in his hands was more than just paper. It was a promise of change. That moment filled me with so much hope and showed me that change starts with small actions and real conversations. During my internship at the Mayor’s Office, I saw firsthand how community leaders work. I sat in meetings where officials listened carefully to local business owners, learning about their struggles before making decisions. That experience taught me that leadership is about standing with people, lifting others, and working together to create solutions. All these experiences, Mia’s growing confidence, neighbors’ kindness, voters finding their voices, and leaders listening, have filled me with a deep hope for the future. Hope that isn’t passive or naïve, but alive and active through connection, kindness, and hard work. As I prepare to start my journey at Rice University, I carry this hope with me and a clear goal. I want to work in women’s reproductive health because I’ve seen too many Black women in my community ignored or dismissed by doctors. I want to create safe spaces where women’s voices are heard, their stories valued, and their health needs met. I know that real change starts by showing up, listening closely, and fighting fiercely for those who need it most. Being part of a community has taught me that leadership isn’t about titles or the spotlight. It’s about sowing kindness, standing up for others, and lifting people as you climb. Every smile I’ve shared, every hand I’ve held, every voice I’ve helped empower, these are the seeds of a better future. Just like Mia’s brushstrokes that summer, small acts can grow into something beautiful and powerful. I’m ready to keep planting them, one act of hope at a time.

The gym was loud with the sound of basketballs hitting the floor, kids shouting during games, and sneakers sliding across the court. But in the middle of all that noise, one boy sat alone. His name was Jalen. I noticed him during my first few weeks volunteering at Fonde Recreation Center in Houston. Most of the kids were active and eager to play, but Jalen always sat in the same spot by the wall, knees pulled in, eyes down. He rarely spoke, never smiled, and seemed like he wanted to disappear. Still, I made a choice to sit with him. I didn’t say much at first. I just offered a puzzle or a snack, talked a little, and made sure he knew I was there. It took about a week before he finally looked at me and said quietly, “I wish people knew I was here.” That one sentence stuck with me. I grew up in a low-income household with Nigerian immigrant parents who worked long hours to give our family a better life. I helped raise my younger siblings, cooked meals, cleaned, and balanced those responsibilities with school. I know what it feels like to be overlooked. I know what it’s like to be the one who’s always helping others while feeling unseen yourself. So when Jalen said those words, I understood more than he knew. I didn’t try to “fix” him. I just kept showing up. Day after day, I sat with him during activities, brought coloring books and brain games, and talked about little things. He told me he loved waffles, dinosaurs, and building things. Over time, I saw him change. He started joining games, laughing with the other kids, and helping the younger ones with puzzles. One day, he ran up to me and said, “You always come back.” That moment showed me just how much impact consistency and presence can have on a child’s life. That experience didn’t just teach me how to support someone else. It showed me who I want to be. I want to work in education because I know how powerful it is when a child feels seen, valued, and supported. I want to be the kind of teacher who builds trust and connection with students. Someone who notices the quiet ones. Someone who shows up and stays. If I could change one thing about education, it would be how we support students emotionally. So many kids walk into school carrying pain and pressure that adults often can’t see. Whether it's stress at home, anxiety, or simply feeling like they don’t matter, those emotional weights affect everything, how they learn, how they behave, and how they see themselves. We need more schools and educators who focus on emotional well-being, not just academics. I want to help create that kind of environment. My drive to become an educator doesn’t come from perfect grades or a lifelong plan. It comes from lived experience. It comes from being the one who felt invisible. It comes from understanding that sometimes the most life-changing thing you can offer someone is your time and your attention. Jalen reminded me that kids don’t need someone who has all the answers. They just need someone who listens and cares. He may not remember every puzzle we finished or every snack I gave him, but I believe he will remember how I made him feel. That is what matters most to me. I want every student I work with to walk into my classroom and feel like they belong. I want them to know they are not alone and that someone truly sees them. Because every child deserves to be known, supported, and loved. And I want to be that person for them.

BRAND NEW LOVE ISLAND CHALLENGE: “Heart Hackers: The Villa Heist” Concept: It’s Love Island meets Mission: Impossible. Islanders become “spies” trying to steal each other’s hearts—literally. Each couple starts with a glowing heart locket placed in a glass case beside their bed. The goal? Steal other couples' hearts without getting caught, while protecting your own. How It Works: Each islander is given a spy gadget pack: all silly props like sunglasses with mirrors, fake mustaches, invisible ink, banana walkie-talkies, etc. Over 24 hours, islanders go on secret missions to sneak into each other’s rooms, lounges, or even while someone’s showering—to “hack” the case and steal a heart. Once you steal someone’s heart, you hide it. If they find it, you’re exposed. If not, you get a point. But if you’re caught mid-heist, you have to complete a Cringe Confession Dare on the spot. Example: “Read your last 3 DMs out loud” or “Rap a love song to someone you’re not coupled up with.” The Heart Heist Goals: 1 point for every heart you successfully steal and hide for 2 hours. Lose a point if your heart is stolen and not recovered. Bonus point if you catch a couple kissing and interrupt them with your spy walkie-talkie. The Plot Twist: At the end, the couple with the most stolen hearts gets a “Secret Agent Date Night” with black outfits, mocktails in martini glasses, and a laser maze challenge to win time in the hideaway. But just before the end, one last twist card is given to a random islander: 🎭 “Double Agent Card” – You now must confess ONE real secret you’ve been hiding this whole time… or lose all your team’s points.

The first time I picked up a basketball, I didn’t know I was stepping into a world that would shape the way I saw myself and the way I saw the world. What I did know was that sports made me feel powerful. I wasn’t the tallest or the fastest, but when I played, I felt confident, capable, and free. As a young Black girl, I rarely saw people who looked like me in sports leadership roles. But even then, I knew I didn’t just want to play the game. I wanted to change it. My dream is to make the sports industry more inclusive, supportive, and empowering for women of color. I want to create spaces where young girls see themselves represented, heard, and uplifted, not just as athletes, but as leaders, innovators, and decision-makers. The industry often tells us there’s no room for us at the top. I want to prove that wrong. Too often, talented girls walk away from their passion for sports because they feel unseen, under-supported, or like they don’t belong. I remember helping a younger student who had been cut from her team. She wasn’t lacking talent. She was lacking confidence and mentorship. I stayed after school with her, worked through drills, and helped her believe in herself again. Months later, she made the team, and the look on her face when she told me was unforgettable. That moment taught me that impact starts with one person at a time. If I can help one girl stay in the game, I’m already doing the work. But I want to go further. I want to work in sports management and youth development, using my future education to design programs that invest in underserved communities. Many young athletes don’t have access to proper training, mentorship, or mental health resources. I know what it feels like to have potential but not the resources to match. That’s why I want to build partnerships with schools and nonprofits that provide girls with tools to succeed on the court and beyond. Mental health is just as important as physical strength. I’ve seen athletes push through emotional pain in silence because they’re taught to be tough, not vulnerable. I want to help change that mindset. By advocating for mental wellness in sports and working with professionals who understand the pressures young athletes face, I plan to help create a culture that values rest, healing, and emotional strength. An athlete shouldn't have to break down to be heard. Representation matters, not only on the field but behind the scenes. I want to be part of the shift that brings more women of color into leadership roles in sports. Whether it’s working in a front office, managing youth teams, or creating outreach programs, I want to be someone who uses her position to open doors for others. My goal is to one day mentor the next generation of girls who want to enter this field and let them know they don’t have to shrink themselves to fit in. What drives me is the belief that sports are about more than competition. They’re about community, growth, and voice. And too many voices like mine have been left out for too long. I’m stepping into this industry not just to have a seat at the table, but to make room for others who are still standing outside the door. This scholarship would allow me to continue building the future I believe in, a future where young women of color feel empowered to pursue their passion in sports, without apology or limitation. With the right support, I will be that changemaker. I will be the leader I once needed.

When I was younger, I used to read in the laundry room. It was the quietest place in our house, a small corner where I could escape the noise of the world. While the dryer rumbled and the scent of fabric softener filled the air, I’d sit on the floor with a book in my lap, imagining the kind of life I wanted to create for myself. Those moments, tucked away between baskets of clothes, are where I first fell in love with learning. One book that changed everything for me was The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. I remember reading it cover to cover and feeling shaken. A Black woman’s cells were taken without her consent and used to advance medicine, while her family lived in poverty. I saw echoes of my own community in that story; Black women being overlooked and mistreated. It didn’t just open my eyes; it gave me purpose. I knew then I wanted to become an OB/GYN, not just to deliver babies, but to advocate for women who are too often silenced in healthcare. I’m a proud Nigerian American and the youngest child of two immigrant parents who came to this country with nothing but faith and determination. Growing up, I watched my parents work tirelessly so my siblings and I could have more. That meant I had to grow up fast. I took care of the house, helped raise my nieces and nephews, and held a part-time job during school to help my family pay the bills. I didn’t complain. I understood my role. But that responsibility came with a cost. During my sophomore year, I began falling behind in school. Between work, academics, and home duties, I was exhausted. My grades slipped, and I felt like I was failing everyone around me. But that experience shaped me. I learned how to ask for help, how to balance priorities, and how to give myself grace. I came out of that period more focused and resilient, determined not to give up on myself. Even with all I was juggling, I stayed committed to serving others. I’ve volunteered over 140 hours at Fonde Recreation Center, mentoring youth and helping with community events. I worked with AliefVotes to encourage civic engagement and supported church outreach projects. I serve because I understand what it means to grow up needing support and not always having it. I want to be that support for someone else. Mentorship has been a guiding force in my life. Teachers and community leaders believed in me when I doubted myself. Their words carried me through tough days and pushed me to keep going. Now I mentor others, especially young Black girls who may not always see themselves represented in leadership or medicine. I want them to know that their voice matters, and their dreams are valid. What makes me unique isn’t just that I’m a first-generation student, a high school valedictorian, or a Nigerian daughter. It’s that I carry my story with pride and use it to fuel my purpose. I plan to study cognitive science and public health, attend medical school, and work in underserved communities in Houston and Nigeria to provide reproductive care rooted in empathy and justice. I’ve seen what can grow from quiet corners. And I’m ready to step forward, not just for myself, but for every girl still reading by the dryer, dreaming of something more.

The day my grandmother collapsed in our living room, everything changed. I was twelve years old, standing frozen as my mother screamed and my younger siblings cried. We were all terrified, unsure of what to do, until a neighbor who was a nurse rushed in. She didn’t ask questions. She assessed my grandmother’s condition calmly, lifted her legs, and assured us she would be okay. I remember staring at her in awe. She wasn’t wearing a white coat or stethoscope, but in that moment, she carried a kind of quiet power that changed the room. She wasn’t just helping a patient. She was helping a family hold it together. That moment stuck with me. But like many first-generation Nigerian-American daughters, I didn’t immediately pursue what was in my heart. I entered college as a cognitive science major on the pre-med track, aiming to become an OB/GYN. I was passionate about maternal health and driven to advocate for Black women, whose voices are often ignored in healthcare spaces. It felt like a respectable and logical choice. But the deeper I went into my studies, the more I started to feel disconnected. I enjoyed the science, but I missed the human connection. I was chasing validation. My "aha" moment came quietly, late at night in a hospital room, sitting beside my grandmother again—this time as she battled complications from diabetes. I watched the nurses closely. They weren’t just administering medication. They were sitting with her, explaining procedures and making her laugh. One nurse even spoke to her in Yoruba. My grandmother’s eyes lit up, and I saw her fear soften. That moment moved me more than any lecture or textbook ever had. That was when I knew: I didn’t want to just diagnose patients. I wanted to care for them. I wanted to be a nurse. I remember the weight of the decision to switch majors. In my culture, changing course can sometimes feel like failure. But deep down, I knew I wasn’t giving up. I was finally listening to myself. Nursing offered the space for everything I loved: the rigor of medical science, the power of human connection, and the chance to advocate for those who are often silenced or overlooked. My path to nursing has not been traditional. I graduated from high school as valedictorian, all while balancing part-time jobs, mentoring younger students, and taking care of responsibilities at home. I grew up fast. I was the oldest daughter in a household with two working parents and younger siblings who needed me. I learned how to multitask, how to sacrifice, and how to keep moving even when I was exhausted. These experiences shaped who I am. They taught me empathy, patience, and how to serve others without expecting anything in return. Those same values are what I will bring into every room. I want to be the nurse who looks people in the eye and makes them feel safe, who understands how culture shapes care, and who knows how to comfort people in pain. I want to be the person who shows up when others are afraid. I want to be the voice that reassures, the hands that heal, and the heart that listens. I want to be the nurse I once needed. I have taken a long and winding road to get to this point, but every experience, every pivot, and every late-night realization has led me here. I am ready to step into this profession not just as a student, but as someone deeply called to serve. Nursing is not just my career path. It is my purpose.

A camera to capture memories and tell stories—but I put it off to help cover groceries and household bills instead.

The night Hurricane Harvey flooded our home, I held my little brother close, his fever rising as water crept higher around us. We had lost almost everything, our belongings, our stability, and for a moment, even hope. Yet in that dark, crowded shelter, I saw a nurse move quietly among families, offering care and comfort. She took my mother’s hand, asked how she was holding up, and with that simple act, gave us strength. It was then that I understood nursing is more than a profession; it’s a calling to bring hope in the darkest moments. That night became the foundation of my dream to become a nurse. I decided to pursue nursing because it perfectly blends science, compassion, and advocacy. Growing up as the daughter of Nigerian immigrants in Houston, life was full of challenges that required me to grow strong fast. My parents worked long hours to provide for us, and I often became the caregiver for my younger siblings. Whether it was cooking meals, helping with homework, or staying up at night tending to a sick sibling, I learned early that caring for others is both a responsibility and a privilege. One night, when my youngest sister woke up with chills and a high fever, I stayed by her side all night, using cold compresses and gentle whispers to soothe her. I didn’t have medical training, but I understood the power of presence and compassion—two qualities essential in nursing. Despite these responsibilities, I remained focused on my education. Balancing family duties, school, and part-time jobs was exhausting, but I refused to let my circumstances define me. Graduating as valedictorian and becoming the first in my family to attend college are testaments to my determination. My hard work is fueled by a desire to create opportunities for myself and my community, especially through nursing. Nursing inspires me because it allows me to be the advocate and caregiver I’ve always needed. I want to specialize in women’s health and public health, areas where disparities hit hardest. I’ve seen how Black women’s pain is often dismissed; my mother has experienced this firsthand. Becoming a nurse means I can listen closely, fight for equitable care, and empower patients to take charge of their health. As I prepare to study nursing at Rice University, my goal is to use my education to give back. I plan to lead community health initiatives in underserved neighborhoods like mine, mentor young women interested in healthcare, and eventually support maternal health programs in Nigeria. Nursing isn’t just a career path for me; it’s a way to honor my family’s sacrifices and to ensure that others receive the care, dignity, and respect they deserve. The struggles I’ve overcome—from the chaos of Hurricane Harvey to balancing family, work, and academics—have only deepened my passion for nursing. I know this journey will be challenging, but nursing calls me to be the steady hand, the voice of hope, and the healer for those who need it most. I found out about this scholarship through the Bold.org scholarship platform.

Before I ever knew how to spell the word nurse, I was already becoming one—not in title, but in heart. I was nine years old when I moved to America from Nigeria. I didn’t speak much English, and adjusting to life in Houston was overwhelming. I often stayed quiet, observing and learning silently. At home, when my mom came home late from work, exhausted and aching, I’d rub her feet, warm up her food, and make sure my younger siblings had finished their homework. When they got sick, I was the one bringing cold rags and whispering, “You’re going to be okay.” Even back then, I found purpose in being the one others turned to for comfort. Then came Hurricane Harvey. The floodwaters swallowed our neighborhood, and we lost nearly everything. I’ll never forget the feeling of standing in our soaked living room, watching my mother cry for the first time. We had nowhere to go. That night in the shelter, a nurse came over and gently took my mom’s blood pressure. More than the care itself, it was the way she asked, “How are you holding up?” that stuck with me. No one had asked us that. Her words, her kindness, they gave us something we hadn’t felt in days: hope. That was the moment I knew. I didn’t just want to be someone who helped. I wanted to be a nurse. To me, nursing is more than a profession. It’s a promise to serve, to heal, and to advocate. I want to specialize in women’s health and public health because I’ve seen how often women, especially Black women, are dismissed in medical spaces. My mother has experienced it firsthand: doctors brushing off her pain, nurses not listening closely. I want to be the nurse who listens, who believes her, and who makes her feel seen. As the valedictorian of my high school and the first in my family to attend college, I carry the weight of my family’s sacrifices and the dreams they poured into me. I studied late at night after making dinner, doing laundry, and helping raise my siblings, not because I had to, but because I wanted to give us a better future. Now, I’m headed to Rice University to pursue nursing, and I do so with a heart full of purpose. My goal isn’t just to work in hospitals. I want to return to neighborhoods like mine—where resources are scarce but the people are full of strength—and bring care directly to those who need it. I want to run community health workshops, educate young women about their bodies, and one day, return to Nigeria to support maternal health in underserved villages. Nursing, to me, is the perfect blend of science, empathy, and advocacy. It’s not just about treating symptoms—it’s about treating people. It’s holding the hand of someone who feels afraid. It’s speaking up when a patient’s voice isn’t being heard. It’s showing up, again and again, even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard. I’ve spent my life preparing for this path. I’ve been the caregiver, the translator, the listener. Now, I’m ready to step fully into the role I’ve been shaping my whole life. Because some of us were born to care. And I’ve been doing it all along.

They say the first step is the hardest, but for me, being the first in my family to go to college feels like climbing a mountain without a map. I’m not just walking this path for myself. I’m walking it for my family, for every sacrifice they’ve made, and for every dream they passed down to me that they didn’t get to live out themselves. One of the hardest times in my life was during Hurricane Harvey. I remember the rain falling endlessly, the water creeping into our home, and the panic in my mother’s voice as we tried to save what little we could. By the time it was over, most of our belongings were gone—clothes, childhood photos, furniture, even school supplies. We were left with nothing but each other and the will to start over. I remember sitting on the floor of a crowded shelter, wondering how I was supposed to focus on school when everything around me had been washed away. But somehow, I did. I studied through the chaos. I clung to education like it was the only stable thing I had left because, in many ways, it was. I graduated as valedictorian of my high school class. That moment was more than a celebration of academic achievement. It was a testimony to resilience, to pushing through adversity, to choosing hope over despair. This fall, I will attend Rice University, one of the top universities in the country, where I plan to study cognitive science and eventually become an OB/GYN. For me, college isn’t just about earning a degree. It’s about breaking generational barriers and rewriting my family’s narrative. My parents, both Nigerian immigrants, worked tirelessly to provide for us even when they couldn’t afford to help with college costs. They may not have known how to navigate financial aid forms or SAT prep, but they taught me perseverance, faith, and the importance of education. They taught me to work for what I wanted and to never let our circumstances define our future. Now, my success represents their sacrifice. It gives my younger siblings a roadmap. It gives my parents peace of mind knowing that everything they’ve poured into me was worth it. I want my legacy to be one of impact and empowerment. I want to become a physician who listens, especially to women like my cousin in Nigeria, who tragically died during childbirth due to a lack of access to proper medical care. I want to fight for Black women whose pain is too often ignored in hospitals and clinics. Through medicine, I hope to be part of the solution, to make healthcare more compassionate, accessible, and just. But my legacy won’t end in a hospital room. I also want to mentor other first-generation students and girls from underserved communities, showing them that it is possible to rise above the storms that try to hold us back. I want them to see that they are more than their circumstances and that their stories, like mine, have the power to inspire change. Education is more than my way forward. It is the anchor that grounded me through loss, the fuel that pushed me to keep going, and the torch I now carry for my family and future generations. This journey is personal, and I’m just getting started.

The hospital waiting room was cold, quiet, and smelled like disinfectant. I remember sitting there at twelve years old, holding my little brother’s hand while my mom lay in the back, eyes closed in pain, waiting once again to be seen. We waited for hours. When a doctor finally walked in, he barely looked at her. “It’s probably just stress,” he said. No tests. No real concern. Just another Black woman being told to tough it out. That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that science and medicine don’t treat everyone equally. And it was the first time I knew I wanted to change that. My mom, a Nigerian immigrant and single mother, is the strongest person I know. She worked long shifts in healthcare, helping others while pushing through her pain. I watched her put everyone before herself—her patients, her coworkers, and most of all, her children. Yet when she needed help, the system failed her. Her chronic migraines and fatigue were overlooked again and again. No one ever asked the right questions. No one seemed to care. I remember her walking out of those appointments deflated, as if she had to carry her pain in silence. That silence planted a seed in me. I wanted to be someone who listens and notices the signs that others ignore. Someone who sees the humanity in every patient, regardless of race, class, or background. I plan to study cognitive science and neuroscience because I want to understand how the brain and body connect, especially in communities like mine. I want to learn how trauma, chronic stress, and systemic neglect show up not only in our minds but in our bodies and how we can heal from them. The desire to pursue medicine deepened when my cousin in Nigeria passed away during childbirth. She was only 24 years old, full of life and dreams. Her death wasn’t caused by a rare condition. It happened because the hospital lacked the basic resources and staff to treat her in time. The grief that followed was unbearable. I still remember the pain in my mother’s voice when she told me. That tragedy shifted something in me. I knew I had to be part of the change. I knew I wanted to become an OB/GYN, not only to deliver babies, but to fight for women like my cousin, who are often left behind. Growing up in Houston, I didn’t always have the luxury of after-school clubs or extra tutoring. While my classmates stayed for the debate team or science fairs, I went home to cook, clean, and help care for my younger siblings. My mom worked late nights, and it was my job to keep the house running. Those responsibilities taught me discipline and resilience. Even when I was tired, I studied. I read about the brain and maternal health. Science became more than a subject - it became my hope. As I prepare to enter college, I carry those experiences with me. I carry the strength of my mother, the loss of my cousin, and the stories of people whose voices are too often ignored. Through STEM, I want to challenge the system and help rebuild it, so no woman has to be dismissed and no family has to experience the preventable loss of someone they love. This journey is personal. I want to become the kind of doctor I once wished my mother had been. One who listens. One who fights to make healthcare equitable for all. Through science, I will turn pain into purpose and compassion into action.

“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.