My mind immediately goes to my career, the job I will have, and the people I will see day to day as an Ob/GYN. However, I think it goes even deeper than the babies I will have to privilege to assist in coming into this world, or the women I get to walk alongside as they come to me with questions and inquiries about their bodies. Making a positive impact will dwell within the conversations between a teen mother and me, the scared single mom who hadn't planned for this life, and the new mothers who are overjoyed and a little terrified about the new life in their womb. It is these women I think about as I walk the difficult path to becoming a doctor. These are the women and their stories my heart jumps for, this is the excitement fueling me on my journey. Furthermore, I hope to use my platform as an M.D. to broaden perspectives on women's health and the importance of proper education of the female body. I believe these neglected factors in schools and everyday society contribute to increased teen pregnancies, higher rates of STDs, and a general lack of self-esteem for women who find themselves uncomfortable in their bodies. In this context, women's health must be viewed from a holistic standpoint, and only then will we be able to produce the strong and confident women society praises. While my career is the avenue through which I plan to concentrate my positive impact, I recognize my positive impact begins now. It begins when I walk into a classroom, into an organization meeting, and even into a dining hall. Every moment of every day I hold the opportunity to impact someone by doing a small act of kindness. Knowing firsthand what a spontaneous compliment or text from a friend does for my mental health and well-being inclines me to do the same for others. I want to pass along the joyful feeling I experience knowing someone took time out of their day to check in or send me a kind word. Encouragement has to power to have a radical change in the lives of both men and women. I have dreams and aspirations, high and lofty goals, but my achievements would be for naught if I looked back one day and realized that for all of my striving, I rarely spent time genuinely caring for the people around me.

Looking back over my childhood, being raised by a single mom humbled me in many ways yet gave me many opportunities to be grateful. Our not-so-uncommon situation provided the environment for a tight-knit relationship I do not see in the lives of my two-parent home peers. We discuss just about everything. Our personal lives are known in almost their entirety to one another and this has drawn us together. The openness in our relationship has brought us close and works to our advantage, whether good or bad, whenever we have upset one another. For example, I know every one of her many triggers and if I am ever upset I know the exact button to push to put her on edge. However, if I am feeling remorseful about my actions I know all I have to do is apologize and spend some good quality time (her love language) with her in order to restore myself to her good graces. I have yet to discover any negatives in the way I envision my future, well, I can think of one that really is not too bad but could be a little strange: dating. My mother is only 21 years older than me and so there is a real possibility we might enter the dating scene together. I could very well bring a boyfriend home from college to introduce him to her while she brings home a man to introduce to me - the sheer horror. Nevertheless, the positives truly outshine the singular negative. My mom relentlessly encourages me to try my best and push myself. When I told her I wanted to go Stanford she did not attempt to dissuade me by explaining the cost and the academic rigor it held, instead, she told me if it was meant to be God would provide a way. I would call her a “cool mom”. This term is not to be mistaken or confused with the idea of her giving me free roam and allowing me to traipse up and down these streets. Oh no. She is a Black momma tried and true, no mistake about it; my behind attest to that. She is, however, level-headed and gentle, honest, and compassionate even when I want her to be the exact opposite. Her love is boundless and I know she has made more sacrifices than I’ll ever know to provide for me the life I live. Experiencing my mother’s love plays one of the biggest roles in my career path. I want to become an Obstetrician-Gynecologist because I want to assist women in bringing into this world someone they can pour their love onto in a way they cannot anyone else. The love a mother can give to her child is unparalleled to anything and can be closest compared to the way Jesus loves us. In order to achieve my dream, I hope to attend Stanford University and then apply to a graduate program. After attaining some experience, I desperately desire to open my own private practice to provide a place of acceptance and comfort to women from all different backgrounds and situations. I want to curate a place of understanding and not judgment, because I have witnessed first-hand the looks a single-mom can receive. This, I never understood, if you are a single mom it is usually because your significant other left - you stayed. Where is the shame in that? Winning this scholarship would contribute to raising the funds needed if I am to attend Stanford come Fall of 2022. It is my dream to receive my acceptance letter and have the funds to go and leave debt-free. Winning this scholarship would be a stepping stone to accomplishing something I pray will outlive me - love and not shame for everyone.

I am from a line of matriarchs that have fought hard to achieve their goals. They tell me stories of the trials and tribulations they had to experience on their uphill climb toward success and happiness. Their achievements did not come easy but with sacrifice. It is the strength, determination, and resilience I see in these strong women of color that encourage me to pursue my success and happiness. For months leading up to Christmas I told just about everyone in my family I wanted one. And when I was about eight or so my aunt purchased for me my first sewing machine. It was a pixie sewing machine: small, compact, and pink. I was overjoyed. I had no idea how to sew and even less knowledge about how the machine worked; so it should have come as no surprise when I attempted to use it for the first time and just knew the machine was broken because I was unable to use it. After complaining to my patient mother she suggested I phone my grandma and ask for help. I did, she came over later that day and taught me how to create a bobbin, sew a stitch, sew a button, and hem a pair of my grandfather's pants. That day, unbeknownst to my grandma, a spark was ignited. I got my hands on as much fabric as my mother would allow and sewed anything I could together. Then, I would just about burst with pride at the mention of my name and sewing in the same sentence whenever my mother told anybody of my new found hobby. But like anything new, overtime, the novelty wore off. Fast-forward four years, a recent friend of mine invites me to a sewing class. I go, and it feels like that sunny afternoon with grandma all over again - everything is new and exciting. I'm inspired and cannot wait to try the harder projects. So, I go back and sign up for classes every Friday because practice makes perfect, or at least pretty darn close. My grandma would later buy me a Brother sewing machine because she saw how much I enjoyed it. For me sewing fires off every sensor in my brain that makes up me: the achiever wants to see how fast I can complete a project, the competitor wants to see how fast I can finish before the person next to me, and the people-pleaser wants to see how big of a smile she can earn from her teacher after finishing a project. One day, my sewing instructor tells us we are to begin a new project: a t-shirt quilt. Immediately I know I want to make mine for my dad and so after collecting his t-shirts I start on my new project. I had set a deadline and was determined to complete the quilt before it, so determined I even scheduled a night class. I remember when I finally finished and gave it to my dad I had such a feeling of accomplishment and pure joy from seeing the smile on his face. The satisfaction and delight I felt birthed an idea. What if I started my own t-shirt quilt business? And so the idea was born: Kaylah Quilts. I had a Facebook blast sent out, business cards made, and a website created (though a tad short of aesthetic seeing as I was twelve). I spent hours one night finishing up three quilts because I had a deadline to meet - and I was determined to complete them before it. Almost three years later and I still love it. It is the joy and happiness I see a mother has when she gets to cozy up in her recently-graduated senior's old shirts that drive me to make more. It is the gratefulness I see in a daughter's eyes when she gets to warm herself with the same shirt's her mom used to wear before she passed that make it worthwhile. ~ Makaylah Williams CEO & Founder of Kaylah Quilts

When I was 10 years old my mom told me my dad was in jail. He was released shortly after and we never spoke of it. When I was in the eighth grade my mother explained to me how my father again was in jail - and again no one told me anything. However, this time he didn’t come home for eight more months. During those eight months we corresponded through letters and the rare phone call lasting all of 15 minutes. I loved opening the mailbox and receiving one of his letters. I cherished the moments when I found a letter with my name on it addressed from the county jail somewhere in the state. I recounted all the events and attempted to keep the details brief yet detailed as I wrote about all that happened since my last letter. Yet in none of the letters written during those eight months did we discuss why he was in jail. When he came home we did not discuss why he was in jail. He spoke about his parole officer as if it were as common as the weather, naturally he never expounded upon the reason as to why he even had a parole officer. Today, three years later, he still does not discuss why he spent 246 long days in jail. Once, he divulged a story about a man diagnosed with Schizophrenia he met while “on the inside” who was convicted because he knew his friend was out to kill him so he shot him. That was not the story I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear his story. My father and I’s relationship has changed since that day in October when he returned home. A couple factors play into the shift. First, I grew up. I no longer was the blind child that agreed with my Daddy’s opinions solely because he was my father. I began to develop my own mind and with that came my own thoughts and ideas about life and the world. Second (this trickled off of me growing up and developing my own mind), I began to question a lot of details in my life. As a child, I naively looked at the big picture at a surface level and took it for face value. Honestly, it really did take my father going to jail and lying by omission in order for me to began examining everything in my life and searching through it with a fine-toothed comb. Not in an unhealthy way, but in a I-need-answers-and-no-one-is-going-to-give-them-to-me-so-I-have-to-get-them-myself kind of way. After days of thought, which inevitably turned into years of unanswered questions I harbor to this day, I realized that although a lot didn’t add up there were clear lines between things that did add up and it was those that scarred me more. It seemed like the questions I had I likely already knew the answer to but I wanted strongly to deny it. So I didn’t ask them. I kept my thoughts to myself. I kept my feelings to myself. I cried in the shower and sometimes to sleep and often woke in the middle of the night to pray earnestly because that seemed to be all I could do. I, however, determined to not let my father’s secrets inhibit my life and my growth. I took my frustration and fueled it into my school work. In the end, I took my mess of emotions and studied and enveloped myself in the good parts of my life. When I confided in my mother she told me I had to learn how to allow things to roll of my back, this principle lives unmoved in my mind. Over the years, my relationship with my dad has improved but I have learned to establish firm boundaries - and not feel guilty about them. I thank God and my mother for showing me that my emotions are valid but also explaining that my death-grip on anger toward my dad was not loving and would only make my life more miserable. I chose to take these culmination of events and channel them into compassion for those who experience life without a father. I realize my situation pales in comparison to close friends of mine who’s father died. Reflecting, I conclude I am blessed; my life overflows with blessings and my purpose is to share life and love with those around me.

Mrs. Emmer taught me how to play the piano. She was patient yet commanded respect in her firm instructions. She never raised her voice at me and she never grew upset with me. She always did her best to hide what she called her “off times” from me when her Parkinson’s hit the hardest. Observing and conversing with Mrs. Emmer taught me to look at people on a deeper level, to analyze their character and not necessarily their charisma. When she would go through her “off times” she was far from charismatic and often could not even look me in the eye, yet she found ways to make me laugh and appreciate our conversations. She would share, what seemed like, countless stories filled with boundless wisdom over ice cream we shared that she kept stashed away by the tub in her freezer. Other times we sat in silence for half an hour as I watched her play Pyramid Solitaire - and we were just as content. The experiences she shared still resonate deeply in my mind and I find myself pondering her words more often these past few days. The long days spent laughing, listening, and eating forced me to look deeper at a person and truly examine their characteristics and personality. It was because of our relationship I am able to better discern someone’s motives. Essentially, Mrs. Emmer molded me into a skeptic of sorts but really more of a detective, never satisfied with what could be found on the surface, always searching for more. With the life lessons and experience Mrs. Emmer chose to bless me with, I can serve those with mental illness at a greater capacity because I no longer glance at them and see a disabled invalid who desperately needs my compassion, but instead a human being full of life and emotion who likely wants to have thought-provoking conversation with someone who won’t cast their eyes down at them but will look them in the eyes and treat them with respect.

I am from a line of matriarchs that have fought hard to achieve their goals. They tell me stories of the trials and tribulations they had to experience on their uphill climb toward success and happiness. Their achievements did not come easy but with sacrifice. It is the strength, determination, and resilience I see in these strong women of color that encourage me to pursue my success and happiness. For months leading up to Christmas I told just about everyone in my family I wanted one. And when I was about eight or so my aunt purchased for me my first sewing machine. It was a pixie sewing machine: small, compact, and pink. I was overjoyed. I had no idea how to sew and even less knowledge about how the machine worked; so it should have come as no surprise when I attempted to use it for the first time and just knew the machine was broken because I was unable to use it. After complaining to my patient mother she suggested I phone my grandma and ask for help. I did, she came over later that day and taught me how to create a bobbin, sew a stitch, sew a button, and hem a pair of my grandfather's pants. That day, unbeknownst to my grandma, a spark was ignited. I got my hands on as much fabric as my mother would allow and sewed anything I could together. Then, I would just about burst with pride at the mention of my name and sewing in the same sentence whenever my mother told anybody of my new found hobby. But like anything new, overtime, the novelty wore off. Fast-forward four years, a recent friend of mine invites me to a sewing class. I go, and it feels like that sunny afternoon with grandma all over again - everything is new and exciting. I'm inspired and cannot wait to try the harder projects. So, I go back and sign up for classes every Friday because practice makes perfect, or at least pretty darn close. My grandma would later buy me a Brother sewing machine because she saw how much I enjoyed it. For me sewing fires off every sensor in my brain that makes up me: the achiever wants to see how fast I can complete a project, the competitor wants to see how fast I can finish before the person next to me, and the people-pleaser wants to see how big of a smile she can earn from her teacher after finishing a project. One day, my sewing instructor tells us we are to begin a new project: a t-shirt quilt. Immediately I know I want to make mine for my dad and so after collecting his t-shirts I start on my new project. I had set a deadline and was determined to complete the quilt before it, so determined I even scheduled a night class. I remember when I finally finished and gave it to my dad I had such a feeling of accomplishment and pure joy from seeing the smile on his face. The satisfaction and delight I felt birthed an idea. What if I started my own t-shirt quilt business? And so the idea was born: Kaylah Quilts. I had a Facebook blast sent out, business cards made, and a website created (though a tad short of aesthetic seeing as I was twelve). I spent hours one night finishing up three quilts because I had a deadline to meet - and I was determined to complete them before it. Almost three years later and I still love it. It is the joy and happiness I see a mother has when she gets to cozy up in her recently-graduated senior's old shirts that drive me to make more. It is the gratefulness I see in a daughter's eyes when she gets to warm herself with the same shirt's her mom used to wear before she passed that make it worthwhile. ~ Makaylah Williams CEO & Founder of Kaylah Quilts

At a young age I discovered my passion for the human anatomy and the way it functions. My mother always joked that while other eight year old played with barbies I was busy finding only simulations and videos on knee surgeries and c-sections. The human body is comprised of so many moving parts that work for individual purposes, yet they all find a way to work in harmony to keep us alive and healthy. It is for this reason I want to go pre-med and study Human Biology. Later, I hope to become an Ob/Gyn and open up my own private practice. The vision for my practice is centered around my love for people and assisting them in any way possible. My own business would offer me the means and location to bring joy and comfort to any woman entering. I want them to feel invited, warm, and cared for throughout their visit. My love for people and passion for the human body drive me toward a field of study such as human biology.

Currently, I am working on creating a website for my quilting business. I took a year of Computer Science and the tools and problem-solving abilities I acquired in the class help me now as I attempt to create a functioning and attention-grabbing website. This grant would further my business as it would provide the opportunity for me to purchase different platforms and tools to curate a more pleasing-to-the-eye website. Subsequently drawing in more business and therefore increasing revenue. Additionally, there are items I need in my inventory that deplete quite a bit from my net income so acquiring a grant of this size would also contribute to those purchases as well.

I am from a line of matriarchs that have fought hard to achieve their goals. They tell me stories of the trials and tribulations they had to experience on their uphill climb toward success and happiness. Their achievements did not come easy but with sacrifice. It is the strength, determination, and resilience I see in these strong women of color that encourage me to pursue my success and happiness. For months leading up to Christmas I told just about everyone in my family I wanted one. And when I was about eight or so my aunt purchased for me my first sewing machine. It was a pixie sewing machine: small, compact, and pink. I was overjoyed. I had no idea how to sew and even less knowledge about how the machine worked; so it should have come as no surprise when I attempted to use it for the first time and just knew the machine was broken because I was unable to use it. After complaining to my patient mother she suggested I phone my grandma and ask for help. I did, she came over later that day and taught me how to create a bobbin, sew a stitch, sew a button, and hem a pair of my grandfather's pants. That day, unbeknownst to my grandma, a spark was ignited. I got my hands on as much fabric as my mother would allow and sewed anything I could together. Then, I would just about burst with pride at the mention of my name and sewing in the same sentence whenever my mother told anybody of my new found hobby. But like anything new, overtime, the novelty wore off. Fast-forward four years, a recent friend of mine invites me to a sewing class. I go, and it feels like that sunny afternoon with grandma all over again - everything is new and exciting. I'm inspired and cannot wait to try the harder projects. So, I go back and sign up for classes every Friday because practice makes perfect, or at least pretty darn close. My grandma would later buy me a Brother sewing machine because she saw how much I enjoyed it. For me sewing fires off every sensor in my brain that makes up me: the achiever wants to see how fast I can complete a project, the competitor wants to see how fast I can finish before the person next to me, and the people-pleaser wants to see how big of a smile she can earn from her teacher after finishing a project. One day, my sewing instructor tells us we are to begin a new project: a t-shirt quilt. Immediately I know I want to make mine for my dad and so after collecting his t-shirts I start on my new project. I had set a deadline and was determined to complete the quilt before it, so determined I even scheduled a night class. I remember when I finally finished and gave it to my dad I had such a feeling of accomplishment and pure joy from seeing the smile on his face. The satisfaction and delight I felt birthed an idea. What if I started my own t-shirt quilt business? And so the idea was born: Kaylah Quilts. I had a Facebook blast sent out, business cards made, and a website created (though a tad short of aesthetic seeing as I was twelve). I spent hours one night finishing up three quilts because I had a deadline to meet - and I was determined to complete them before it. Almost three years later and I still love it. It is the joy and happiness I see a mother has when she gets to cozy up in her recently-graduated senior's old shirts that drive me to make more. It is the gratefulness I see in a daughter's eyes when she gets to warm herself with the same shirt's her mom used to wear before she passed that make it worthwhile. ~ Makaylah Williams CEO & Founder of Kaylah Quilts