There is a quiet hum in the sense of belonging in a community. A hum that stretches across generations, stitching stories from distant lands. My roots are tended into the soil of Pakistan; my limbs reaching into the fabric of an ever-evolving world. I come from a lineage that built on the resilience of those who came before. Being a purposeful, responsible, and productive member of a community doesn’t simply mean taking part in its structure, it means acknowledging the unseen threads that connect us all, and working to weave something enduring. To be purposeful is to understand that every action carries weight. As a Muslim, my faith teaches me that the world is a test, and every day is an opportunity to serve. Purpose is not confined to grand gestures, but to the consistent acts of making someone’s day better, of living with intention, of choosing the right path even when it’s not the easiest one. In my future, I plan to embody this purpose by seeking out ways to contribute to the greater good whether that’s through my career or in my community. My purpose will be to listen first, act second, and always seek to lift those around me, as I was taught to do. Responsibility is something that I’ve carried with me; often heavier than expected, but never with regret. As a second generation immigrant, there is a constant sense of being part of something much larger than yourself. My parents, who left everything behind for a new beginning, taught me that responsibility is not a choice. To be responsible is to honor those who paved the way, to take ownership of my place in this world and the impact I have on others. As I step into my future, I will carry the responsibility of my heritage with pride. The sacrifices of those before me are not just stories, they are the foundation of my own dreams. I will be a responsible community member by being accountable for my choices, both in public and in private, and by ensuring that my actions reflect the values passed down to me as if it were the DNA in my body. To be productive is to create something of value, for its essential worth. Growing up as a Pakistani Muslim in a community where the meaning of productivity often felt tied to outward success. I’ve learned that true productivity lies in the ability to create peace. It’s not about ticking boxes on a to-do list; it’s about creating something that endures. My vision of productivity is not bound by conventional metrics; It is measured by the ways in which I make the world a little better each day. In my future, I plan to embody this by building a life that’s not just successful, but meaningful. In the end, being part of a community is about more than fitting into its structure; it’s about contributing to its soul. It’s about weaving your individual story into the larger tapestry of shared experience, where each person’s purpose, responsibility, and productivity enhances the whole. I will not simply exist in the world, I will shape it. As a Pakistani, Muslim, and an immigrant, I carry with me a legacy of resilience, faith, and an unwavering commitment to those I call my people. In my future, I will embody the qualities of purpose, responsibility, and productivity, not as isolated virtues, but as interconnected threads that bind me to the world I seek to shape.

Math has always been said to be the language of the universe. Allowing us to decipher the intricate patterns and structures that govern the natural world. But to me, It’s a place where understanding doesn’t require translation. Where logic, structure, and patterns hold their independence regardless of the country you come from or the language you speak. It didn’t require fluent English to solve for x or understand a graph. To me, math is more than numbers and formulas; it’s a bond. A quiet but strong thread that ties me to my roots and my mother. My mother immigrated from Karachi, Pakistan to the United States with my father in 2005. They believed it was the land of liberty that would give us the future our small city in Pakistan couldn't provide. Growing up, I often found myself between two worlds. My mother couldn’t always help me with the intricacies of history or English, as those were still subjects she was learning herself. But there was one thing she knew, one thing that didn’t require fluent English or cultural background to understand: numbers. Math, in its purest form, is universal. And so, without hesitation, my mother sat beside me, night after night, instructing me through each problem. I remember the way she looked at those equations: she didn’t see a language barrier or a cultural gap. I also remember the strict, harsh tone she would speak in as my assignments always ended up soaked with my own tears. She wanted, no, needed me to excel in this subject more than anything. However, her efforts did pay off in the long run. Fast forward to today, I am taking a statistics college course as a sophomore in high school along with other college courses. But my success in math wasn’t just me finding the simplicity in the formulas or numbers. It was about my mother, who taught me. Her sacrifices and her steadfast belief in the subject laid the foundation for everything I’ve accomplished.

Why don't we dance in the wet grass, barefoot and breathless, with strangers all around watching with judgment and envy as the blades of life tickle our feet. Let's dance wildly until we fall into each other's arms from exhaustion and laugh like children with no shame or grace. With strangers all around watching while holding in their own giggles noticing nostalgia bubbling behind their eyes. Won't you dance with me as the sun kisses our faces like lovers gently stamping such small, brown stains all across our flushed cheeks. As we trip on our own feet from pure excitement losing balance and falling on our smiles. I looked back up at you and noticed the crimson scratches on your knees, "You're bleeding." "I love you." Strangers watch all around with worried expressions on such polite faces. I strengthen out your shirt before you can strengthen mine. Let's dance with such an audience watching. I can't tell their expressions, I don't know if they are laughing along or judging our childish behavior. All I can see is the sun dancing with the moon in a slow sensual dance as we match its pace. All I know is our love is loud and sticky like ice cream in July.

Even at a young age, I could feel the quiet, aching weight my immigrant parents carried for me; for our family. I learned early in life not to stare too long at toys whose price tags shined brightly, and not to linger too long on wants I knew we couldn’t afford. Instead, I watched my parents give everything they had, not just in dollars but in sacrifices. They had sold away all their wants and desires so that they could afford mine. They put their dreams aside so I could chase mine. I wanted to make their lives easier than anything. I tried to be the perfect daughter, to make their struggles feel worth it. My ambition wasn’t just to succeed, but to somehow repay them for all they gave up no matter how impossible that felt. And through that mission, I discovered my own path. Their quiet strength taught me a loud lesson: love often speaks in the language of selflessness. That is the message I want to carry forward—to remind the world that real impact comes from caring deeply and giving generously. I want to positively impact the world by spreading the message of putting the people you love before you; the same way my parents had done for me all those years ago. That's why I chose the path I am on right now. I am a sophomore in high school taking college courses at Tyler Junior College simultaneously. This way I am able to graduate high school with an associate's degree majoring in science, giving me a head start. Not for my love of education and biology, but because I want my message to be clear to the world. Dentistry is more than a career choice for me—it’s a way to carry on my parents’ legacy of selflessness. I’ve always loved science and been fascinated by healthcare, but it’s the human side of dentistry that pulls me in. It’s the chance to make someone feel seen, cared for, and confident in their smile, the feelings my parents never got to feel. It’s the opportunity to help people in the ways my parents were never able to be helped due to cost and circumstance. Through my education, I plan to immerse myself in both the clinical skills and community-based practices that allow dentists to reach those most in need. I want to be involved in public health initiatives, offer services in underserved communities, and one day open a practice that welcomes every kind of patient with dignity and warmth. I want my future to reflect the values my parents live by every day, even when they have nothing for themselves. If I can bring those morals into the world through my work—if I can ease even a little of someone else’s burden the way my parents eased mine—then I will know I’ve done something worthwhile.

My parents were among the millions of immigrants scammed with a tempting dream—that desirable promise of a better life, wrapped so perfectly in red, white, and blue: The American Dream. They came here with nothing but a hundred dollars and a burning hope. Not for themselves though, but for their four children, who they believed deserved more than what our small village in Pakistan could offer. However, when they arrived, America did not greet them with open arms—especially not after the tragedy that reshaped this country’s heart: 9/11. People looked at my parents and didn’t see humans, the same as them,—they saw threats. They stood out like sore thumbs in a room full of blonde hair and blue eyes. My parents practiced their English but still, they were met with mocking laughs and stares that screamed: you don’t belong here. Is my family not American enough for you? Is our struggle not valid? Are we not human? This is why I fight for a higher education—not just for myself but to reclaim that dignity that was never handed to my family. I want to prove that our existence here is not a mistake. I want to show that we belong and that we are more than the assumptions made about our skin, our faith, and our names. This scholarship means that my selfless father, who’s been juggling four jobs for years now just to keep us afloat, can finally breathe. That he won’t have to watch the sun rise and fall while he's still on his feet, carrying the weight of survival for our entire family. It would mean that my mother, who has held our home together with nothing but hard work and grace, might finally get to rest without guilt. With this scholarship, my family won’t have to wonder whether I’ll make it to college. I won’t have to wonder either. I’ll be able to sit in a classroom and learn without the guilt of knowing what my education is costing my parents their mental health and physical health. I’ll be able to focus—not on survival, but on growth. This isn’t just a chance to learn—it’s a chance to rewrite our story. To show that every sacrifice, every sleepless night, and every ounce of struggle my parents endured for my siblings and me, was not in vain. This is my shot to carry their dreams forward—to make good on the promise this country made, and never kept. To finally prove that we are enough.

A child born in a burning home will think the entire world is on fire — because the world they know, the world their mother knows, is already consumed by flames. And for my mother, that fire never went out. It had always been said that mothers love their children more than anything; that maternal instinct every woman seemed to be born with. A child was essentially a piece of them out of their own body. But that was the same reason my mother was so exhausted, withered, drained. So tired from taking care of her three children and workaholic husband. But this is what a wife should do; should feel. This is what a woman should feel. The weight of being a mother was something my mother inherited from her own mother, and from the women before them. They were taught that a woman's worth is bound to her role as a wife and mother, and she gave everything to that expectation. But then, my mother and father moved across the globe: America. In America, my siblings and I grew up in a world where competition for our parents’ approval was the norm. Doing my best in school while trying to be a perfect daughter was what my entire life was centered around. However, the older I got, the more I realized how much harder it was to get praise from my mother than my father. Not because she didn’t feel anything, but because she had forgotten how to. She had given so much of herself to us, to my father, to the demands of her life, that her "dil"—her heart, her reason to live—had slipped away. She was tired in ways that words couldn’t define—drained of her like an empty well that no one had bothered to fill. There’s a kind of quiet suffering in every mother’s eyes. It doesn’t scream for attention. It doesn’t claw its way to the surface. It just... sits. And for years, I didn’t know how to see it, or how to name it. I just knew it was always there. I thought I could fix her with kind words, with promises of “everything will be okay,” but she didn’t need empty assurances. She needed help. Real help. She needed someone to carry the smallest fraction of the weight she carried. She needed someone to wake up before the sun, before the world demanded her every breath, and take care of the little things—things I thought were just part of life. But she couldn’t do it all alone, and neither should she have to. So I started cleaning around the house more often and my siblings and I took care of each other. Soon, we started doing more and more so our mother could fulfill the dreams she had when she was a little girl. We stepped up to fulfill our mother's wishes and soon my father joined us. Now, my mother successfully obtained an associates degree in science and will be a certified lab technician when she graduates in May. But most importantly, she is so much happier. I learned that love isn’t always in the hugs you give, or the soft words you whisper. It’s in the quiet acts—the acts women are expected of. It’s not enough to just tell someone you love them; you have to show it, every day, in the way you help them when they can’t do it on their own. I needed to help her extinguish the weight of the world that had burned through her, so she could once again feel the warmth of life.