I chose to pursue STEM because I have always been curious about the patterns behind the world around me. When I discovered data science, it felt like a field that matched the way I think. I enjoy working with numbers, but what excites me most is what those numbers can reveal about people, behavior, and the decisions we make. To me, data is not just a collection of values. It is a way to understand problems, ask better questions, and communicate information that can lead to real change. My relationship with technology also feels personal. Growing up in a low-income household, my family shared one computer that sat in the back corner of our bedroom. I did not grow up surrounded by the newest devices or with unlimited access to technology, so I learned early not to take it for granted. That computer became a gateway to school, information, creativity, and opportunity. Looking back, it is meaningful to me that something that once felt limited has become such an important part of the field I am now pursuing. Studying Statistics and Data Science feels like a continuation of that journey. At the same time, I have never seen myself as someone who fits neatly into one academic box. Alongside my major, I am pursuing studies in Media and Entertainment Industries and Science Communication because I care just as much about communication, culture, and creativity as I do about technical problem-solving. I want to understand not only what the data says, but why it matters, who it affects, and how to communicate it in a way that people can actually connect with. Science communication especially reflects the kind of work I hope to do because I am interested in translating technical or scientific information into something clear, relevant, and useful to broader audiences. Being multidisciplinary is important to me because I do not believe STEM should exist in isolation. Data influences decisions in media, healthcare, sustainability, business, public policy, and nearly every other part of society. That means the ability to interpret information is only one part of the job. We also need people who can explain it responsibly, understand its social context, and make it accessible to people outside of technical spaces. As a woman in STEM, I hope to contribute by showing that there is no single way to belong in a technical field. I want to challenge the idea that someone has to choose between being analytical and creative, or between being technical and people-oriented. My own interests span all of those areas, and I see that as a strength. I hope to bring that same perspective into my career while also encouraging other women to feel confident bringing their full interests and identities into STEM. Ultimately, my goal is not simply to work with data. I want to use it to tell meaningful stories, help organizations make better decisions, and connect technical information to the people it affects. By combining data science, media, and science communication, I hope to build a career that is both analytical and human, while helping make STEM more understandable, inclusive, and connected to the world beyond the numbers.

“Just give me two more years, Anak ko,” were the last few comprehensible words my grandfather said to me in his final week of life. He gave me no context, but I knew what he was referring to. My grandfather was the epitome of a hardworking man. He immigrated from the Philippines in the 1980s and eventually brought all of his children to Texas to start a new life. Since my mother was busy working a lot of the time, my grandfather stepped in and took care of me during my early childhood. He would wake me up at the crack of dawn, let me choose what I wanted for breakfast, drive me to school, and then wait for two hours in the pick-up line just so I didn’t have to wait to get picked up like the other kids. In June 2026, my grandfather suddenly became seriously ill. What began as a fall progressed into sepsis and organ failure. Within five days of his hospital admission, my family went from hoping he would recover to trying to understand how we could possibly prepare ourselves to lose him. My sister and I were the only family members in the hospital when he took his last breath. For a few seconds afterward, we simply stared at each other. Neither of us knew what to say. Then we began calling our family members, crying as we tried to keep our voices together long enough to tell them what had happened. In the middle of our own grief, my sister and I suddenly had to be the ones to deliver the news to everyone else. That moment is something I will never forget. Sepsis not only took his life; it changed the lives of everyone who loved him in a matter of days. I think about his words often. I’ll never know for sure what he meant, but I know that he wanted to see me finish college. Losing him made me realize that I had been taking for granted the possibility that the people who helped me get this far would always be here to see where I ended up. Now, every time I think about graduating, I think about him. I think about the man who woke up before I did, drove me to school, and crossed an ocean to build a life for his family. Finishing my degree is no longer just a personal accomplishment; it’s a way I can honor the sacrifices that made it possible. I am pursuing a degree in Statistics and Data Science because I want to use data to understand complicated problems and communicate information in ways that can actually help people. My grandfather taught me the value of hard work long before I understood what that meant, and my mother continues to show me what perseverance looks like. Their example has shaped the way I approach my education, especially during moments when continuing feels difficult. Sepsis took someone who was deeply woven into my life, but I do not want his death to be the only thing that defines this experience. I want to carry forward what he gave me: his work ethic, his love for his family, and his belief in the future he was helping me build. He asked me for two more years. I intend to give him those two years—and to make them count.

Most people never think about what happens after they throw something away. Before working as a Zero Waste Quality Control Student Intern at The University of Texas at Austin, I was one of them. During waste audits, I sorted through hundreds of pounds of discarded materials and recorded contamination rates, diversion rates, and recycling trends. The numbers revealed a clear story: despite good intentions, much of the campus community did not fully understand the systems designed to reduce waste. The harder task was explaining what the data meant and why it mattered. A spreadsheet showing a 40% diversion rate could easily be ignored, but when translated into a story about wasted resources and missed opportunities, the same information became a tool for change. I learned that people respond more strongly to concepts they recognize—landfills, recycling, composting, and waste reduction—than they do to percentages on a spreadsheet. That experience showed me that statistics isn’t only analysis and numbers. Statistics tells stories. After college, I plan to build a career at the intersection of statistics, data science, and communication. I want to use data to answer important questions while also making complex information accessible to the public. Whether analyzing environmental issues, public policy, or scientific research, my goal is to translate numbers into meaningful stories that help people make informed decisions. To achieve this goal, I am pursuing a degree in Statistics and Data Science with minors in Media and Entertainment Industries and Science Communication. Statistics equips me with the technical skills needed to analyze large datasets and identify meaningful patterns, while my media and communication studies strengthen my ability to convey those findings to diverse audiences through compelling storytelling. Through internships, research opportunities, and hands-on projects, I am developing both the analytical and communication skills necessary for this interdisciplinary career. Studying across disciplines has taught me to approach problems from multiple perspectives and communicate effectively with people whose backgrounds differ from my own—skills that are essential for translating complex data into information that others can understand and use. I also hope to increase representation for young women interested in combining the arts and sciences. Too often, students are encouraged to choose between analytical and creative pursuits, despite the fact that many of society's most important challenges require both. As I progress in my career, I plan to mentor young women interested in STEM and communication fields and create opportunities for them to explore careers that blend data analysis, storytelling, and public engagement. I have already begun this work through my involvement with the Boys and Girls Club of Greater Houston, where I encourage students to think critically, ask questions, and recognize that every problem has a story worth understanding. In the future, I hope to expand these efforts by developing workshops and mentorship programs that introduce young women to data science, science communication, and other interdisciplinary careers, especially in the area where I grew up. In my hometown, many students feel pressure to prioritize financial stability over careers that align with their interests and talents. By helping them see that they do not have to choose between creativity and technical skills, I hope to inspire a new generation of women to pursue paths that combine both. While on this path, I hope to make information more accessible, improve public understanding of complex issues, and inspire future generations of women to see interdisciplinary thinking as a strength. Just as my experiences showed me that numbers tell stories, I hope to spend my career ensuring that those stories are understood by everyone.

Performing at local nursing homes with my a cappella group, Beauties and the Beat, has given me a unique opportunity to connect with members of my community in a meaningful way. We are college students who love to sing, but during one particular performance, I realized how deeply music, when shared with sincerity, can transform a space and make people feel remembered. That day, we performed a short set for a group of senior residents at a facility in Austin. I remember feeling a little nervous. I was not sure how much of an impact we would have or if they would even be engaged. But when we started singing, the room changed. Some people began clapping along and a few had tears in their eyes. After we finished, a Black woman, the only one in the room, held my hand and told me, "You reminded me I am still here." That moment stuck with me. It made me realize that presence alone, showing up and offering joy especially in places that can feel forgotten, is a form of service. What inspired me to take action in the first place was my upbringing. My mom, a single Filipino mother, raised my siblings and me with so much love and care. She taught me that service did not have to be grand to be powerful. She served others by braiding our hair every morning, showing up for our school events even after long shifts, and giving her full attention when someone needed to talk. I try to mirror that kind of intentional care in the spaces I move through. Still, I faced doubts. I wondered whether singing could really count as meaningful service, especially when many others are doing hands-on work like food drives or tutoring. I also wrestled with the feeling of being "the only one," the only girl with my hair texture in the group, and often the only Black or biracial woman in performance spaces. It took courage to take up space, especially in places not originally built with people like me in mind. But I have learned that leadership does not always mean holding a title. It can mean using your voice, literally and figuratively, to connect, comfort, and empower. Sometimes, the quietest acts leave the loudest echoes. That performance helped me understand that even joy can be radical. Being visible, being joyful, and being present as your full self is a form of leadership. It also deepened my understanding of faith. Faith, to me, means choosing hope and love in action. It's trusting that small things matter, that a song, a kind word, or a warm presence can be more than enough. When I think about what Jesus modeled, I don't just think of sermons. I think of touch, compassion, and meeting people where they are. I think of showing up for the people society forgets. That is what I try to do in my own way. Service, leadership, and faith are all about how you show up, for yourself, for others, and for the world. I have learned that even when you are not sure what impact you will make, showing up wholeheartedly is the first and most powerful step.

In a world powered by data and driven by media, I’ve chosen to study Statistics and Data Science because I want to be at the intersection of both. I’m passionate about how numbers can tell stories, shape industries, and help people feel seen. From streaming platforms to box office analytics, data is the engine behind the entertainment we consume, and I want to be part of the team that drives it forward. At the University of Texas at Austin, I’m majoring in Statistics and Data Science and pursuing a minor in Entertainment and Media Industries. This combination reflects both sides of who I am: a problem-solver who loves logic and a creative who’s fascinated by pop culture. I believe data can help record labels discover new talent, enable studios to back more inclusive stories, and empower artists to better connect with their audiences. I want to use my skills to help creatives and companies make smarter, more intentional decisions that reflect the diversity of the world watching. In the short term, I’m building a strong foundation in analytics, media strategy, and industry knowledge through my coursework and internships. In the long term, I want to work as a data analyst or scientist at a record label, streaming platform, or movie studio. My dream is to use data to help shape a more inclusive and forward-thinking entertainment industry. One where culture is driven not just by profit, but by purpose. As a biracial Black and Asian woman, I’m underrepresented in both STEM and media. Not only on screen, but behind the scenes where decisions are made. I often find myself as one of the only Black women in math-heavy or coding-focused spaces. At times, that reality is isolating. But more often, it reminds me of the importance of being there. My presence matters, not just for me, but for the young women who will come after me. I carry that with me into every classroom and every opportunity. Representation isn’t only about who we see in the spotlight. It’s about who controls the narrative. It’s about who is in the data, who interprets it, and who decides how it’s used. I want to be one of those decision-makers. Not just to diversify the numbers, but to shift the way we tell stories and who gets to be heard. This scholarship would support me in continuing that journey with clarity and confidence. As a first-generation college student raised by a single Filipino mother, I’ve learned how to stretch every resource and opportunity. But the financial burden of tuition, books, and living expenses is real, especially in a city like Austin. This scholarship would ease that burden and allow me to focus fully on my education, leadership roles, and creative projects. More importantly, it would affirm that there is space for someone like me in this field, and that the path I’m carving matters. Technology shapes the stories we tell. By stepping boldly into both STEM and entertainment, I hope to tell better ones. Stories that reflect all of us, not just some of us.

Being myself didn’t always come naturally. It’s something I had to grow into. As a biracial Black girl raised by a single Filipino mother, my identity has often felt tangled, like my hair used to be before I learned to care for it. My mom taught herself how to braid our hair with love and care, but when it came to wearing my natural curls out, I was on my own. I had to learn for myself how to wash, define, and preserve them. The process wasn’t just about hair. It was about learning to embrace the complexity of who I am. My identity felt, at times, confusing, perpetually in limbo. I wasn’t “Black enough” but also “too Black”. Through this journey, I realized that my differences didn’t fragment me; they made me whole. Complete. Choosing to show up in every space exactly as I am became an act of courage and leadership. I learned that authenticity is both confidence and permission. When I embrace my textures, others are invited to do the same. The lesson I learned while accepting my differences now guides how I serve my community. Service, to me, isn’t only about formal volunteering, though I’ve participated in several programs. It’s about how I show up, fully, to every space I enter. When I perform with my a cappella group, Beauties and the Beat, at nursing homes in Austin, I bring more than music. I bring visibility. I’m the only girl with hair like mine in the group, and I know that being present in spaces not originally designed for people like me reminds others that they belong, too. The same is true when I speak with young girls through GirlUp. I always try to share a message that I wish someone had told me while I was growing up: “There is nothing unprofessional about Black hair. You don’t need to change to be taken seriously. Being you is enough.” These moments are short and may seem small, but I always hope they carry the power to reshape how a girl sees herself, the same way embracing my curls reshaped my reflection. My identity also influences how I carry myself in class, specifically my STEM ones, where I’m often one of a handful of Black women. I raise my hand. I speak up. I stand on stage with my friends and take up space with confidence. This is part of the same journey; learning to nurture, share, and cultivate the strength I found in my hair, my identity. It’s all connected. Care, courage, and a choice to be visible and seen. In every part of my life, I carry the lesson of my hair’s journey—a symbol of self-love, resilience, and leadership. By being there for myself and my community, I can serve people not just by what I do, but by who I am. Being unapologetically me means I’m helping others to be unapologetically themselves.

My aunt goes nowhere without her husband. She breathes his air and speaks his words. His opinion is hers. Every time I see her, she is either next to or behind him, and she has been like this for the last 30 years. Gender roles in the Philippines have been deeply ingrained since colonization, and they still shape how women are expected to behave, influencing their relationships at home, in society, and beyond. My aunt, the sweetest and most joyous person I know, was conditioned from childhood to equate obedience with respect, silence with peace, and sacrifice with love. Sadly, her story is not unique; it reflects a much larger problem many Filipino women face today. Filipina girls are raised to be nurturing, polite, and quiet, while boys are encouraged to be “macho,” meaning assertive, independent, and strong. As adults, this imbalance leads women to prioritize marriage and family over education and career simply because that is what they have been taught to do. But for those who dare to pursue their dreams, advocate for others, or simply be different, these expectations can be harmful. Filipinas who step outside these norms risk being labeled dishonorable, disrespectful, or rebellious. Beyond cultural expectations, many Filipinas face economic barriers and stereotypes. In rural areas, access to higher education, reproductive health services, and financial literacy is limited and often unaffordable. This leaves countless women trapped in cycles of poverty with little choice but to accept their circumstances. Those who do receive higher education frequently migrate to pursue nursing and healthcare careers abroad. Filipina nurses, for example, comprise 4% of the nursing workforce in the United States despite Filipinos being only 1% of the U.S. population. This disproportionate representation is no coincidence—it is a legacy of American colonization when the U.S. military trained Filipinos as nurses during World War II. Nursing became one of the few “acceptable” professions promoted to Filipinas, embedding a stereotype that Filipina women belong in caregiving and healthcare roles. While many Filipina nurses are highly skilled and successful, this narrow path often overshadows other career opportunities and reinforces limited societal expectations for women. The problem is not a lack of capability; it is feeling boxed in. Where are the headlining Filipinas in leadership roles, in politics, or in cutting-edge fields like technology and engineering? Although we have trailblazers like Corazon Aquino and Leni Robredo, their achievements are often seen as exceptions rather than signs of progress. Despite laws protecting women’s rights in the workplace and at home, men still dominate leadership positions in both politics and STEM fields in the Philippines and mistreat women. Despite these challenges, Filipinas persist and empower one another. Filipina-American women are mothers, entrepreneurs, advocates, and storytellers. We raise families, support those back home, and teach younger generations to stand up and create change. As a Filipina-Nigerian student raised by strong, independent Ilocano women, I am dedicating my education in Statistics and Data Science to show other girls that they can succeed, too. I will advocate for inclusive education, use data to highlight what women can achieve, and spread awareness about how we can support each other across the Pacific. Girls need space to speak, lead, and follow their dreams regardless of what they are told they can or cannot do. Filipinas deserve to take up space. My aunt deserves to have her own thoughts, her own dreams, and her own path, and so does every woman whose light has been dimmed. We are capable of more. When one Filipina finds her voice, she lights the way for others to do the same.