Growing up as a stereotypical Chinese kid in America, I’ve always lived between two worlds. I was born in Sweetwater, Texas, but spent the first five years of my life in China with my grandparents while my parents ran our family’s restaurant. When I returned to the U.S., I faced two paths: one lined with the clatter of dishes, the smell of soy sauce, and the buzz of our small-town restaurant; the other a world of fluorescent-lit classrooms, ringing bells, and quiet textbooks. At the restaurant, I learned about resilience—how to work hard without complaint, how to serve others before yourself. At school, I discovered ambition and creativity, and imagined a future beyond the counter. For a long time, those two worlds felt like they didn’t belong together. At home, I translated bills, helped mop floors, and watched my parents shoulder the weight of survival. At school, I tried to blend in and succeed in a system my parents had never navigated. But over time, I’ve come to see that I’m not stuck between these paths—I am shaped by both My identity has taught me to see people deeply, to recognize their stories and to carry gratitude alongside drive. I see my background as the foundation for the life I’m building—not in spite of it, but because of it. My Chinese identity has given me perspective, purpose, and a deep respect for all, blurring the line of differences. We are all human after all. Thank you for considering me.

Thirteen years ago, I boarded a plane from China back to the United States with a backpack and suitcases almost too big for me to carry, and a heart full of questions, wondering about this new place I knew nothing about. My name is Mason Yang, and this is my story. My journey began in an unusual place: thousands of miles from my birthplace in Sweetwater, Texas. Less than a couple of months old, I was taken to China to be raised by my grandparents while my parents ran our family’s restaurant in America, which continues to support my family here and in China to this day. Then, at the age of five, I returned to the U.S. to begin my American childhood. At the time, I didn’t know the language, the culture, or the American society. Everything was a blur to me. Pre-K was even harder—it made me feel isolated and confused. With this language barrier, I struggled for years to learn this new language. Yet, as hard as it was, I kept trying, no matter what, as I practiced my vocabulary every morning before school. There were moments of frustration—when I couldn’t pronounce a word right, or when classmates giggled at my accent—but I kept going. Slowly, I became fluent—not just in speaking, but in understanding the world around me. But that wasn’t the only challenge. The biggest obstacle in my life was when I was diagnosed with Henoch-Schönlein Purpura (HSP), a rare skin disease that changed my relationship with myself and my education in 2021. The disease tore me apart physically and mentally, leaving permanent scars and dismantling my mental state. I felt hopeless. My grades in school also started to slip from 100s to 70s. I withdrew from friends and extracurriculars. For months, I was in and out of hospitals, missing school, and feeling like my life had come to a standstill. But slowly, I found my way back. I began asking teachers for help, determined to catch up on missed work. I taught myself to see my scars as symbols of survival rather than shame. I shifted my mindset away from worrying about others’ views and toward valuing my dignity. That being said, it changed the way I perceived my parents’ demeanor. Nothing changed on the surface—they were still the same stereotypically strict Chinese parents who expected straight A’s and success. They would compare me to my cousins, their Chinese friends’ kids, or even the ones on the Internet. But what hurt more than the comparisons was the feeling that my dreams didn’t carry weight. I was 14 when I first shared my dream of becoming a dentist. Instead of the usual “oohs” and “aahs,” I was met with discouragement. My parents' faces said it all. They pointed out my forgetfulness. In their eyes, I wasn’t suited for such a demanding career. I began using strategies to improve my memory and focus. From memorizing math tricks to mastering all 12 key ranges on the saxophone, I constantly challenged my memory. Over time, my parents also recognized this change, and their doubts eased. Looking back now, I realize that while my parents didn’t always show affection in ways I understood, their love was evident. They worked day and night at the family restaurant so my brother and I could dream bigger. Though their expectations felt heavy, I now realize they always wanted me to succeed, not for status, but because they didn’t want their sacrifices to be in vain. It’s why college isn’t just a personal goal—it’s a shared dream. Thank you for considering my application.

In Chapter Two of Real Insights by John Graff, the author emphasizes the importance of initiative, curiosity, and authentic engagement in building a meaningful and successful career. He discusses how professionals who actively seek knowledge, welcome new challenges, and connect deeply with their work tend to stand out, not just because of their skill, but because of their commitment to lifelong growth. As someone who aspires to become a dentist, I found this chapter incredibly relevant to my future. It reminded me that technical knowledge and training are only the beginning; the real difference is made by those who embrace learning, value human connection, and lead with intention. To me, dentistry is a career field that demands both precision and empathy. That is because a dentist does more than treat cavities and straighten teeth—they play a vital role in someone’s health, confidence, and quality of life. Reading Graff’s thoughts on being proactive and engaged reminded me that I can’t afford to approach this profession passively. Instead, I have to lean in with curiosity about the latest dental innovations, a desire to improve patient experience, and a commitment to understanding each individual who sits in my chair. Graff encourages readers to "show up" in every sense of the word—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. In dentistry, this translates to being fully present with patients, listening carefully to their concerns, and adjusting care to their needs. One insight that especially resonated with me was Graff’s idea that success is not only about climbing a career ladder, but about building something of value. In dentistry, this could mean opening a practice that serves underserved communities, investing time in educating patients, or mentoring future dental students. It reminded me that I want to do more than just “do” dentistry—I want to make it accessible, human, and empowering. The chapter also explores how authenticity fosters trust. In healthcare, and especially dentistry, where fear and discomfort are common, trust is everything. Patients don’t just need to know that I’m qualified—they need to feel safe, respected, and heard. Graff’s emphasis on real relationships reinforced my belief that the best dentists aren’t the ones with the fanciest tools, but the ones who connect with patients and lead with care. Ultimately, Chapter Two of Real Insights reframed my perspective on the path to becoming a dentist. I learned that it’s not just about earning a degree or perfecting my technique—it’s about cultivating a mindset of purpose, adaptability, and service. These values will not only help me excel in dental school and beyond, but also ensure that I become the kind of healthcare provider who makes a real, lasting difference. I now realize that being a successful dentist is as much about character and intention as it is about clinical skill, which isn't a skill that l lack but shall "perfect" in the future. Graff's kind of insight will stay with me as I work toward building a career centered on both technical excellence and genuine human care.

3 years ago, I never imagined a rare disease would rewrite my identity. In November 2021, I was diagnosed with Henoch-Schonlein Purpura (HSP), a rare skin disease that bit deep into my skin. It happened without warning. What started like mosquito bites soon turned into bloody scars, from the size of bullets to dots, as they spread to my legs. Beyond these external deformities, the disease also caused complications with my kidneys, leading to two years of urinalysis checkups. I felt like a zombie, as the disease continued to spread and showed no sign of recovery. Nothing helped to diminish them—the countless bottles of pills and creams I used were ineffective. Trapped by the fear of judgment, I wore pants and avoided social interactions everywhere I went. The last thing I wanted was for a stranger to express utter disgust at my “decaying body.” In frustration, I sometimes thought, “Maybe it was me all along. Perhaps acquiring this disease wasn’t accidental after all; it was a punishment for everything I’ve done wrong.” I felt like it was the end for me. That was until my mother told me, “In life, everyone can talk the talk, but can you walk the walk?” I didn’t fully understand her words until one day, as I applied ointment to my scars, it clicked—that real strength was first embracing myself and the scars. So for the first time since my diagnosis, I began to see my scars differently—not as imperfections but as symbols of strength. They looked like small galaxies, each filled with potential and hope. Through battling sleepless nights and moments of pain, I realized that a perfect life does not exist: I have the responsibility to find hope within my scars. And so, as I began to navigate the world—not blindly this time—I started to craft my own portrait, searching for the beauty within my scars despite their external deformities. While some found solace through accolades, and others through hours at the gym, I found mine through daily journaling and meditations. Each night, I’d reach the side of my bed and pour my boundless thoughts onto the journal, transforming each word into small steps toward clarity. And each morning, I’d meditate before the Buddha necklace above my bed, letting its quiet presence remind me of the resilience I was striving to build. Over time, this developed into a mindset of acceptance and empathy, as I began to view my struggles as a bridge to understanding others and myself. That mindset slowly led me to a moment I once thought impossible—to step out in public bare-legged, vulnerable, but free. I remember vividly the moment I dived into the coldness of the pool without a second thought of looking back. Splash! As the water enveloped me, a rush of sensations flooded my body. Beneath the surface, time stopped for what felt like an eternity. The water cradled me, lifting me effortlessly, and for the first time, I felt free from the weight of my burdens. I’d never thought I’d even go to a public pool again—not with these legs of mine. But with my parents smiling over me each day, I now carry my scars with purpose. Although my disease and its deformities have since stopped, I thank its former presence for challenging me to find the silver lining in myself and my imperfections. I will not let my loss of “beauty” hinder my desire to explore, learn, and create my future. Looking back, HSP’s legacy was the imprint of countless scars that covered my legs, leaving a permanent impression. Mine will be these words.

“Shut up, Asian”, one called me out, putting his fingers to the side of his eyes and squinting them. Those words were a constant in my life. Racial slurs and comments were thrown around all the time like paper airplanes, as it bombarded my school experience with hatred. But, every time, instead of cowering away in silence only to get mocked again, I embrace it, taking pride in every act against me. As a “stereotypical” first-generation Chinese kid, I can proudly say that my self-identity is deeply intertwined with the cultural traditions my parents raised me. These traditions, steeped in respect, discipline, and courtesy, are not just lessons but living threads in the fabric of who I am. My parents, with their unyielding expectations and pride, embody a stereotype often associated with Chinese families, yet their teachings have become the cornerstone of my moral compass. I interpret the world around me through these principles of humility and consideration. It is what sets me apart from the others. Growing up in a predominantly Western community, I’ve considered myself a bridge spanning two distinct yet profoundly influential worlds. One foot remains grounded in the values of my heritage: honoring elders, cultivating honesty, and demonstrating self-discipline. The other foot strides into a culture that prizes individual expression and innovation. This balance was not always easy. As a child, I often found myself standing out—not for my accomplishments, but for my identity. I was labeled the “stereotypical Asian student,” a caricature rather than a person. Yet, over time, I realized that being a bridge was not a burden but a privilege—a chance to connect worlds and foster understanding. Active listening became my most powerful tool. I learned to approach misunderstandings with curiosity rather than defensiveness. When classmates questioned my culture or leaned into stereotypes, I saw these moments not as affronts but as openings for dialogue. I would share the meaning behind Lunar New Year traditions or explain why filial piety matters so deeply to my family. In these exchanges, mutual respect emerged, and stereotypes dissolved into shared understanding. I also discovered the transformative power of empathy in unlikely places. A peer who once mocked me for my "overachieving" tendencies later became an ally after we collaborated on a group project. My willingness to listen and calmly explain my perspective—not as a rebuttal but as an invitation to connect—left an impression. Through our shared work, I saw how misunderstanding often masks untapped potential for growth. Now, as I look past the last 18 years, it has been full of emotions and transformations, and it wouldn’t be “possible” without my parents and the people who used to bully me, I call my best friends today. They are the cornerstone of my life. With those watching me as I progress, I want to return their support by pursuing higher education. I plan to follow a pre-med track to become a dentist or optometrist. In college, I hope to engage in research, shadow professionals, and contribute to my community—whether it’s crafting smiles or making their lives clearer. That being said, this journey isn’t just mine but my family’s. My parents came to America with nothing but a dream and a relentless work ethic. So, I want nothing but to honor every sacrifice that brought me here. So, this scholarship will help relieve my family’s financial burden and enable me to commit fully to my education. More than just financial aid, it represents an investment in my future, the lives I aspire to impact, and the legacy I wish to create. Thank you for considering my application.