I truly believe empowerment and innovation can stem from unimaginable grief. In my youth, trauma has provided me with the gift of resilience. At just five years old, my world shattered. My mother received devastating news: my father had been in a horrific car accident. A drunk driver—recently released from jail after two prior DUIs—had caused the crash. My father was left a quadriplegic with a traumatic brain injury. The questions consumed me: Why was this person allowed to continue harming families? Where was the accountability for such recklessness? At such a young age, I felt as though the world had betrayed us, and I carried that growing sense of injustice with me for years. Then, when I was just 11, tragedy struck again. My baby sister swallowed a button battery that fell from the TV remote. It felt like another nightmare—another terrifying hospital trip. But this time, there was hope. My sister would recover. She was lucky. Most children who swallow these tiny batteries face a much darker fate. I couldn’t stop thinking about how close we came to losing her and how often this small, dangerous object went unnoticed. In that moment, something inside me shifted. I realized I could no longer sit back and wait for others to help. I refused to be a victim of circumstance, and I refused to remain angry. I poured myself into learning about button batteries—how these tiny objects burn through tissue in less than an hour, posing a silent but deadly threat. Even worse, they target the most vulnerable: children, pets, and the elderly. During my sister’s recovery, I was inspired by the doctors who saved her life—people whose compassion and expertise left an indelible mark on me. One doctor even bought me dinner and said he had been praying for my family. His kindness, in the midst of such fear, was a gift I’ll never forget. That moment solidified my vow: one day, I would become a doctor, offering the same healing touch and humanity to families in pain, just as we had received. This scholarship will help me achieve my goal of working in healthcare. I am determined to dedicate my medical career to honoring the memories of my father and the children who lost their battle with button battery injuries. I look forward to giving back in a way that truly matters. In high school, I’ve immersed myself in healthcare fields. I’ve volunteered as a practicum paramedic technician and currently work as a pharmacy technician. Past experiences, as challenging as they were, have become the fuel that propels me forward. My mission is clear: to be driven by empathy, to advocate for those who can’t speak for themselves, and to never stop fighting for the safety and well-being of others. My father’s death and my sister’s near-fatal accident fractured my family, but they also shaped me into someone who will never stop advocating for change. I won’t allow their legacies to fade in the silence of grief. I will keep fighting, keep pushing forward. Every day brings new opportunities to plant seeds of growth and resilience, knowing that these experiences empower me to lift up others along the way. I will continue to be driven by willpower, enthusiasm, and a moral responsibility to advocate for those without a voice

The love of our family isn’t created by blood—it’s defined by the commitment, sacrifice, and love we choose to give. My family is a testament to this truth. I have only a few deeply treasured memories of my father, who was critically injured by a drunk driver when I was five. Those memories are precious, yet they’re tinged with a sense of loss that has shaped who I am today. For years, my mom did everything in her power to ensure I had everything I needed to thrive. She was my cheerleader, my defender, my nurse, my counselor, my teacher, and my confidant. I often suppressed the negative emotions that came with being forced to mature in the absence of my father. Being man of the house eventually became second nature. So when my mom met my stepdad, I was confused. My mom and I had built a life together and it felt like we were enough. A whirlwind of emotions took over; jealousy, isolation, and sadness—sometimes all in one day. But looking back, I knew he was a perfect match for my mom. And while there’s no question my stepdad was exactly what my mom needed, I never expected that I would need him more. A few months after meeting my stepdad, his father was diagnosed with brain cancer. When he passed away six months later, my stepdad, a man who seemed so strong, broke down in tears. I never knew it was okay to cry until that moment. A few years later, my biological father, who had lived as a quadriplegic with a traumatic brain injury, passed away from stomach cancer. The day the hospital turned off his life support, it was my stepdad who stood beside me, holding me as I let the tears of grief wash over me. In that moment, I felt the weight of his love in a way I’d never known before. Growing up, my stepdad was strict, and there were many times I resented him for it. I often wished for parents who weren’t so involved, who didn’t constantly check my grades or track my location. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate the depth of my stepdad’s guidance and the wisdom in his leadership. My mom and stepdad had my little sister when I was 10. It would have been easy for my stepdad to get distracted by his new responsibilities, but he never wavered in his commitment to me. He wasn’t just my mom’s husband—he became a father figure to me in ways I never anticipated. When exchanging vows with my mother on their wedding day, my stepdad turned to me afterward and made vows to me, too. He promised to love and protect me, just as he promised my mother. My stepdad didn’t take on the role because genetics forged a bond; he chose to love me. For that, I am forever grateful. It could be argued that being a stepparent is more challenging than being a biological parent. Nonbiological children rarely arrive brand new. Nonbiological children have a story with emotional voids and spaces that existed long before. Throughout high school, I’ve worked two jobs while maintaining a 3.7 GPA, all while immersing myself in the healthcare field as a practicum paramedic technician and pharmacy technician. I’ve committed myself to a future that honors the memory of my biological father and the lessons I've learned from my devoted family.

I was only five years old when my mother received the devastating call that my father had been in a horrific car accident. A drunk driver caused the crash, leaving my father a quadriplegic with a traumatic brain injury. I spent what seemed like endless days in hospitals and rehabilitation centers, watching doctors and therapists work. For years, I adjusted to my new “normal.” The physician’s skill and dedication were a constant inspiration. Thanks to the care he received, my father made remarkable progress through physical rehabilitation. Though he would never walk again, he did regain his independence and learned to operate an electric wheelchair. Most importantly, we were able to continue sharing priceless moments together. At the age of 10, my sister swallowed a button battery. This time the surgeons emerged with good news. My sister would recovery with only minor issues. She was lucky. More than half the children who swallow these batteries do not survive. Once again, I found myself in awe of the doctors. Their ability to act quickly and skillfully left a lasting impression on me. I was moved by their expertise and their ability to save a child’s life. What great act of service could a person offer? I began volunteering through TIRR, Cancer Research of America, and Mental Health America. I also worked to raise awareness of button batteries and raise money for the National Safety Council. Unfortunately the challenges didn’t end there. A little over a year ago, my father received a cancer diagnosis. Returning to the hospital felt like a shock all over again. I often felt lost, confused, and helpless. And if I’m being honest, there are times I still do. After everything we had already overcome, how could this happen? But that’s the thing about cancer. Cancer doesn’t care what you’ve been through or who you are. I think of my childhood friend who lost her leg to bone cancer, my grandfather who passed away from glioblastoma, and my aunt who is currently fighting lung cancer. Cancer spares no one. Yet, in the midst of it all, I found comfort in watching the doctors—so calm, so poised. They offered a bit of control and hope in a world filled with tears and heartbreak. They were inspiring not just because of their medical expertise, but because of their deep empathy and compassion for human life. One doctor bought me dinner and said he was praying for my dad. I made a vow to become the kind of doctor who could offer that same human touch to families who were feeling as broken and lost as I once had. My father spent four months in the hospital battling stomach cancer before it ultimately took his life. I hope to dedicate my medical career to his memory. Last year, I worked as a practicum paramedic technician in a hospital setting, and this year I’ve been gaining experience as a practicum pharmacy technician. I look forward to exploring cancer research and pediatric care in the future. Every day brings new opportunities, and I’m excited to see where my healthcare journey leads me. I truly believe the challenges I’ve faced have shaped me for greatness. I am still learning and remain deeply grateful for every opportunity to plant seeds of growth and resilience, knowing that these experiences empower me to lift up others along the way.

Volunteering was ingrained in me from a young age, shaped by the challenges my family faced. When I was five years old, my father was paralyzed by a drunk driver. To support his rehabilitation at TIRR, a specialized center, my mom raised funds for his care. This experience taught me how to recognize a problem and work toward a solution. Throughout my life, I’ve faced many obstacles, but each one has presented an opportunity to give back to the community while building my resilience. In 2017, I began volunteering with Mental Health America - Houston after our home was flooded during Hurricane Harvey. In 2018, following a near tragedy when my baby sister swallowed a button battery, I worked with the National Safety Council to raise awareness about battery safety. For the past three years, I’ve also been a full-time volunteer with our community’s youth tennis program. By the time I graduate high school in May, I will have logged over 700 hours of community service. These experiences have fueled my passion for the medical field and giving back to the community. Every day brings new discoveries, and I’m excited to see where it leads.

Squirrels are known for their intelligence and resilience. Their instincts drive them to gather food, ensuring their survival. While most of the nuts they stash away are eventually eaten, a few will sprout into trees, perpetuating their existence. These forest dwellers also have a remarkable ability to predict where your car will be in about twenty feet and they’ll run directly into that spot to give your vehicle a high five! This seemingly reckless behavior became a lens through which I understood how one fateful decision can change the course of life forever. I was just five years old when my mom received the devastating call: my father was in a horrific car accident. We rushed to the hospital, hearts heavy with dread, awaiting for surgeons to emerge with news. My father’s spinal cord was severely damaged. He was a quadriplegic with a traumatic brain injury. Family members erupted into tears, their sobs echoing through the sterile hospital halls. I was too young to understand the full gravity of what happened. “Mom, what is a drunk driver?” I asked. In an attempt to shield me from the noise, my mother draped a blanket over our heads. She looked into my eyes and, with a calm voice, reminded me of the indecisive squirrel in the road. “You know how we say squirrels have a ‘squirrel brain’?” she said. “Humans are like those squirrels. Some choose the safe path, while others leap right into danger for the thrill of it.” For years, I adjusted to my new “normal.” Watching my father battle through physical rehabilitation was inspiring. He recovered from the brain injury, and though he never walked again, he learned to navigate an electric wheelchair. More importantly, we shared priceless moments together, and I found hope in his resilience. Over a year ago, my father was diagnosed with cancer. It felt like an injustice. After everything he endured, how could this happen? But cancer is indifferent. It doesn’t care about your family or what you’ve been through. It doesn’t care about my friend in kindergarten who lost her leg to bone cancer, my grandfather who recently passed from glioblastoma, or my aunt who is currently losing her battle with lung cancer. Cancer doesn’t discriminate. Returning to the hospital was a shock. It felt like stepping into a world of confusion, sadness, and fragility. Yet, amid the sorrow, I found solace in the doctors. Their calm composure, unwavering hope, and empathy provided a light in the darkness. One doctor even took the time to buy me dinner and said he was praying for my dad. I always felt a calling to work in healthcare but it was that moment, I vowed to become the kind of doctor who offered families the same compassion and support I received. A doctor who was there, not just to treat the body, but to comfort the soul. My father spent four months in the hospital, fighting stomach cancer, before it ultimately took his life. In the year since his passing, I’ve continued to follow a path which honors his strength and resilience. Last year, I worked as a practicum paramedic technician in a hospital. This year, I am working as a practicum pharmacy technician. My intended major in Biomedical Engineering, allowing me to explore the intersection of science and medicine. As a Christian, I strive to make decisions that align with my values, knowing that each choice plants seeds for the future. One reckless decision can alter everything, but so can a single act of kindness or compassion

Squirrels are known for their intelligence and resilience. Their instincts drive them to gather food, ensuring their survival. While most of the nuts they stash away are eventually eaten, a few will sprout into trees, perpetuating their existence. These forest dwellers also have a remarkable ability to predict where your car will be in about twenty feet and they’ll run directly into that spot to give your vehicle a high five! This seemingly reckless behavior became a lens through which I understood how one fateful decision can change the course of life forever. I was just five years old when my mom received the devastating call: my father was in a horrific car accident. We rushed to the hospital, hearts heavy with dread, awaiting for surgeons to emerge with news. My father’s spinal cord was severely damaged. He was a quadriplegic with a traumatic brain injury. Family members erupted into tears, their sobs echoing through the sterile hospital halls. I was too young to understand the full gravity of what happened. “Mom, what is a drunk driver?” I asked. In an attempt to shield me from the noise, my mother draped a blanket over our heads. She looked into my eyes and, with a calm voice, reminded me of the indecisive squirrel in the road. “You know how we say squirrels have a ‘squirrel brain’?” she said. “Humans are like those squirrels. Some choose the safe path, while others leap right into danger for the thrill of it.” For years, I adjusted to my new “normal.” Watching my father battle through physical rehabilitation was inspiring. He recovered from the brain injury, and though he never walked again, he learned to navigate an electric wheelchair. More importantly, we shared priceless moments together, and I found hope in his resilience. Over a year ago, my father was diagnosed with cancer. It felt like an injustice. After everything he endured, how could this happen? But cancer is indifferent. It doesn’t care about your family or what you’ve been through. It doesn’t care about my friend in kindergarten who lost her leg to bone cancer, my grandfather who recently passed from glioblastoma, or my aunt who is currently losing her battle with lung cancer. Cancer doesn’t discriminate. Returning to the hospital was a shock. It felt like stepping into a world of confusion, sadness, and fragility. Yet, amid the sorrow, I found solace in the doctors. Their calm composure, unwavering hope, and empathy provided a light in the darkness. One doctor even took the time to buy me dinner and said he was praying for my dad. I always felt a calling to work in healthcare but it was that moment, I vowed to become the kind of doctor who offered families the same compassion and support I received. A doctor who was there, not just to treat the body, but to comfort the soul. My father spent four months in the hospital, fighting stomach cancer, before it ultimately took his life. In the year since his passing, I’ve continued to follow a path which honors his strength and resilience. Last year, I worked as a practicum paramedic technician in a hospital. This year, I am working as a practicum pharmacy technician. My intended major in Biomedical Engineering, allowing me to explore the intersection of science and medicine. As a Christian, I strive to make decisions that align with my values, knowing that each choice plants seeds for the future. One reckless decision can alter everything, but so can a single act of kindness or compassion

Racket ready? Check. Eye contact? Check. I serve the tennis ball to my little sister, the newest addition to the tennis class. She returns it with such force that it nearly hits my eye. Welcome to my life. Sometimes, I’m the tennis coach. Sometimes, I’m the target. I often wonder if tennis will shape her future the way it has shaped mine. Ten years ago, I was her age. In my second tennis class, I stood near the same spot, jumping to return a volley when I tripped on my untied shoelaces and sprained my ankle. I lay there, embarrassed, betrayed by my own apparel. I remember wanting to give up in that moment. Little did I know how much tennis would ultimately change the course of my life. At just five years old, my father’s life was tragically altered by a drunk driver, leaving him paralyzed and eventually claiming his life. In the aftermath, my mom enrolled me in tennis classes. There, I met my coach, who nurtured my potential in a positive, encouraging environment. Tennis quickly became my lifeline—a sport and a source of strength and distraction that helped me navigate grief and loss. I’m not sure if my love for tennis came from the sport itself or from my coach, who taught me not just how to serve or hit a forehand, but how to cope with pain, focus on what I could control, and stay calm when life—or a tennis match—felt overwhelming. It didn’t take long for me to catch the tennis bug. My tennis journey continues to shape my goals and my future. I’m currently a varsity tennis player in high school and will continue to play in college. While the game remains the same, the expectations have only grown. In a world where winning is everything, it’s easy to get caught up in the rush of success and the emotions tied to both victories and defeats. But I carry with me a secret: the supernatural gift of calm. The trauma I endured in my youth has given me resilience. Maybe that’s the silver lining of tragedy—it offers perspective. Many of my teammates think losing a match is the worst thing that could happen. But when the worst has already happened, the threat of “the worst” no longer holds power. Here we are, ten years later. I’ve been a volunteer coach for three years, working alongside the same coach who mentored me in my youth. As I continue to play in college, I aim to pass on not just tennis skills, but the lessons of resilience, focus, and calm that have carried me through my darkest times. Coaching isn’t just about teaching the game—it’s about guiding others through life’s challenges, both on and off the court. Life, like tennis, is a series of matches—some won, some lost—but always offering opportunities to learn and grow. Tennis continued to teach me discipline, resilience, and how to find peace amidst chaos. In the end, it’s love—love for the game, for the people who’ve supported me, and for the life I’ve been given—that makes this incredible journey worthwhile.