“Running is like writing a book; each step you take, each new milestone achieved is a new sheet of paper. Over time, they start accumulating, and your effort becomes a book.” Those were the words my cross-country coach told me when I felt discouraged about not making progress. Mr. Peoples changed my life. He didn’t just make me a better runner; he shaped me into a better person. Someone who learned to listen and treat others with compassion. When I arrived at Mesa-Verde senior year, I had no friends and drowned in social anxiety; afraid to speak or stand out. I sat alone during lunch, knees to chest, mindlessly eating. Watching friend-groups laughing together made me realize how vulnerable I felt. I’d moved 90 miles away, and the one year that was supposed to “be fun” was gone. A group of girls passed and whispered in pity, “Omg, that’s so sad,”. I felt like someone stabbed me in the chest. As soon as they walked away, I broke down. Couldn't even finish my food. A man came over, worried something happened. I didn’t know who he was, and angry from before, I pushed him away. Later, I was called to the office. A counselor asked if I had any passions. I said, “Running.” Even though I’d never joined a sport before, he saw it as a way for me to find my people. I agreed, hoping it might help. That’s when I realized the man I pushed away was the cross-country coach. “So much for a great impression” I thought; afraid he'd hate me for my rude response. But he never did. Mr. peoples didn't know hate. He “killed people with kindness”. During the season, I got to know him not just as a coach or calculus teacher, but as a person. He’d run five 100-mile ultramarathons, many triathlons and displayed his medals all over the classroom. Every morning, he ran or lifted weights, same routine as always. He was 61, yet by far, healthier and energized than most teenagers I knew. Everything about the way he lived: how he ate, moved, and talked, made you want to change your life. He didn't just inspire you; he made you want to be better. I became the cross-country captain and his TA for AP Calculus. I learned more than just math. He taught financial-literacy, mental health, nutrition; things no one else talked about. That was who he was. Mr. Peoples taught me how to care for my body and how to love myself again. He never got mad when people ignored him. He gave love, no matter what. He helped me push past limits I didn’t think I could. He even kept training me in the mornings after the season ended. Thanks to him, I ran a half-marathon. Watching how much he cared about running, teaching, and people, made me care too. He didn’t just “know” people. He saw them. He taught me compassion, patience, and how to really listen. As the team captain I made sure no one felt left out. As his TA, I paid attention to how each student learned, making notes to myself on ways to help out. But most importantly, as a person, I changed. Mr. Peoples helped me become the kind of person I want to be as a future doctor. I want my patients to feel what he made me feel: seen, understood, and reminded that they matter. He taught me to be the better person, and to remind others, especially those feeling invisible, that they matter, just like he did for me.

Growing up low-income, I saw my mom struggle check after check to keep us fed. We relied on school aid, community programs, church meals, and food boxes handed out at parks or libraries. Most of our meals came from a mix of what we could buy and what was donated. But despite how little we had, my mom never stopped giving. I remember her dropping our last few dollars into the church donation basket without hesitation. She always quoted the scripture of the widow who ‘even in poverty, gave more than anyone because she gave all she had’. (Marcos 12:43–44). On the days we had food, she cooked generously. Always bringing huge dishes to parties, sharing meals with neighbors, and never holding back. Watching her live by those values showed me what real generosity looks like, and inspired me to give back in my own way. Later in life, I faced a different kind of hunger. One from an eating disorder. I avoided food entirely, haunted by guilt, especially knowing how hard my mom worked to put food on the table. That experience gave me a deeper understanding of what it means to struggle with hunger; not just physically, but mentally, and taught me to treat others with more compassion and care. That’s why participating in Sacramento’s Run to Feed the Hungry meant so much to me. It wasn’t just a race but a way to give back to my people. This annual race raises money for the Sacramento Food Bank & Family Services, which provides food, clothing, and resources to thousands of families in need. Just like mine. Crossing the finish line to me felt symbolic. I wasn’t just running as a student or an athlete, but as someone who had once stood in those food lines. It was my way of honoring everything my mom sacrificed, everything I survived, and helping those who are still quietly struggling. I felt strong. I had once been the one receiving help, and now I was giving it. But that desire to give back didn’t end with food. As I got older, I started noticing other kinds of need; the kind you can’t always see. I saw it in classmates struggling with mental health, in friends too afraid to ask for help, and in immigrant families who avoided doctors because they didn’t feel safe or understood. Giving back has shaped who I am at school, too. I speak up for students who feel overlooked, especially those going through mental health struggles. I’ve been that student sitting in a counselor’s office, unsure of how to explain what I was feeling. Now, I try to be the person I once needed. Someone who checks in, listens, and helps others find support. I’ve helped friends find support, encouraged them to speak up, and reminded them that they’re not alone. That’s also why I’m majoring in Molecular, Cellular, and Developmental Biology at the University-of-California-Santa-Barbara. I want to become a cardiologist, not just to treat patients, but to understand them. I’ve translated medical documents for my mother while doctors rushed us through appointments. I’ve seen firsthand how fear, language barriers, and cost keep families from getting care. I’m drawn to cardiology because the heart is where so much of our lived experience shows up, and in underserved communities, stress and limited healthcare only make it worse. I want to build healthcare programs that are cultural, language-accessible, and rooted in trust. I want to become the kind of doctor I wish we had. Someone who listens, explains things clearly, and makes families like mine feel seen and safe.

I refuse to be another statistic. As an immigrant female student, I did not get the privilege of choosing my own future like many American girls did. Had I stayed in Mexico, I would've been stuck as a stay-at-home mother with no option for a better life; voiceless, uneducated, and stripped of independence. When I was ten, my mother and I moved to the United States with the goal of rewriting that narrative. Watching my mother struggle as a janitor, living paycheck to paycheck, sacrificing basic comforts and food to give me an opportunity for a better life gave me ambition. She didn't have the chance to earn a degree or learn English, but she gave me a chance to dream. I study not just for myself, but for every woman who’s had the opportunity of education taken from them. For women like my mother. For the millions of immigrant daughters like me. Becoming the first in my family to pursue higher education wasn't an option but a necessity. I knew I wanted to make a change and advocate for my own community. I want to become a cardiologist who bridges the gaps between healthcare and underserved communities like mine. I've witnessed the inequalities existing in medicine; from lack of access to interpreters to the absence of health education and accessible clinics in low-income communities. I grew up translating medical documents for my mother, often seeing the doctor's frustration from me having to translate line by line. I not only felt pressured to hurry but angry that the healthcare system was not made for families like mine. Hispanic families not seeking help for their health because they're scared of the money or prejudice. This is where I break the cycle. I want to be a doctor who speaks their language. Who understands their culture and fears. Who can patiently explain every detail without them being scared to speak for their health. I want to make healthcare not a privilege but a right for all. Challenging societal norms hasn't been easy. I've navigated the college process without parental guidance; researching scholarships, learning how to apply for financial aid, and often seeking advice from my teachers and counselors. I've worked hard to maintain a 3.9 GPA while taking multiple AP and Honor courses, joining clubs, and serving as the captain of my cross-country team. I've been involved in volunteer work by advocating for the environment and food security for my community. I've done this all to reach for a better future while carrying the weight of being the “first”. I am not just carrying my own education but my family's hopes and dreams of everyone who came before me; to not disappoint them, and make their sacrifices count. There were moments when I felt incapable. Where I wanted to give up. But every time I tried to quit, I remembered my mother's struggles and sacrifices. I remembered all the women who never got to dream. I am not just pursuing higher education for myself. I'm doing it to break generational expectations, to serve as a voice for the voiceless, and to prove that being born into limitation does not mean living within it. I want to inspire other immigrant daughters to believe in the power of their potential and to know that their story doesn’t have to end where it began.

“Shut up, count your calories, I'll never look good in mom jeans”  That line played on a loop inside my head. Sometimes from a song, sometimes from my inner thoughts. What started as an innocent weight loss journey, turned into an obsession with numbers. 120 calories for chicken, 180 for a protein bar, 160 for rice. I became a human calculator and each time I went to the grocery store I turned into a mathematician. I knew food nutrition labels better than myself. Eventually, I lost more than weight; I lost my health, energy, relationships, and almost my future.  Recovery wasn't easy. It meant crying over meals, yelling at my mom because I feared she’d added oil to my food, and forcing myself to stop exercising as punishment. Slowly, I got better. I began to appreciate my body for keeping me alive, even when I treated it so badly. I reconnected with my family and got back on track in school. I pushed myself academically, took AP courses, maintained a strong GPA, and stayed focused on my goal of studying biology. I refused to let my past define my potential. That’s when my purpose started to take shape.   I want to become a cardiologist. Not just because I’m fascinated by the human heart, but because of everything mine has survived. An eating disorder may not show up in an EKG, but I know firsthand how mental health and physical health are inseparably linked. I want to be a doctor who listens to the story behind the symptoms. Someone who doesn’t just ask what hurts, but why.  My goal isn’t just to work in a hospital. I want to return to communities like mine: immigrant, low-income, often overlooked, and be a resource for preventative care. Growing up in a Spanish-speaking household, I often watched my relatives struggle to navigate the healthcare system. I want to change that. For my community and every patient who has ever felt dismissed or unheard. I want to launch outreach programs to teach families about health early and avoid treating emergencies later. I want to provide care in Spanish and English and help patients feel seen, understood, and respected. Especially those who’ve been made to feel invisible in the system.    My dream feels so close yet so far.   My mother has been unemployed since last July. My father isn’t in the picture. Right now, I’m injured and on crutches, unable to work and completely dependent on scholarships to pay for college. As a first-generation student, getting accepted to UC Santa Barbara to study Molecular Biology was a huge step, but figuring out how to afford it has been overwhelming. Housing, tuition, and textbooks shouldn’t be the reason someone with a purpose can’t pursue medicine.   This scholarship wouldn’t just help me afford an education. It would give me the chance to build a life rooted in service, compassion, and healing. I’ve fought hard for my future. Now, I’m ready to use it to fight for others.

If you had told me five years ago that my childhood obsession with Legos and experiments with the mud would somehow lead to medicine, I would have laughed. And yet, here I am, signing up for a future filled with late-night study sessions, anatomy flashcards, and constantly debating if it will all work out at the end. Looking back, STEM has always been a big part of my life, even when I didn’t realize it. Whether it was helping my mom count grocery money, figuring out recipe measurements, or questioning how the water cycle affected my father’s crops, I was unknowingly setting the path towards a career of science. My curiosity went from the environment to planets to animals, and eventually the complexities of the human body. Little did I know, my casual kitchen math and backyard biology experiments were actually early steps toward medicine. As I grew older my passion for STEM became more evident. School gave me the opportunity to enroll in many AP classes in which I enjoyed. Each day I learned something different. Whether it was AP Psychology or environmental science I knew I wanted to go into the scientific field. Cardiology, however, wasn’t something I found in a textbook. It came from a podcast. I’ve always cared about my health, so learning about fitness, nutrition, and well-being was naturally interesting to me. One day, during my walk I was listening to a podcast and stumbled upon an episode about heart disease and factors that influence it. I was hooked. The more I listened, the more I wanted to know about the heart. However, it was the learning about how heart disease affects minority communities especially those with limited healthcare access that inspired me to become a cardiologist. As a minority I realized my own community was getting affected by a lack of access to health information and in a way, that episode opened my eyes to a career I never considered, but now determined to pursue. As an immigrant, I've experienced firsthand the challenges minority communities face in healthcare. Limited access to specialists, long wait times, and language barriers prevent families from receiving the medical care they need. Growing up, I translated medical documents for my mother, struggling to understand the terms myself. It was hard enough in English, let alone in a second language. Seeing her navigate through the system made me realize how many others face the same struggle. I want to be a doctor who doesn’t just understand the science but also understands my patients—their backgrounds, fears, and the best ways to support them. Through advocacy, education, and direct care, I hope to make heart health a priority, especially for those who need it the most. Years from now, I hope to be in a position where I can make a real difference—not just in treating heart disease, but in preventing it. I want to work with patients who feel unheard, educate communities who lack access to care, and bridge the gap between science and the people who need it most. Medicine is more than a career; it’s a responsibility. And while I still have a long journey ahead, I’m ready to take the next step. One heartbeat at a time.

I refuse to be another statistic. As first-generation immigrant female student, I did not have the privilege of choosing my own path. Many girls in America, get to choose their own future. I did not have that chance. I knew if I stayed in Mexico I would be stuck as a stay-home mother with no option for a better future. Bounded with a closed-mind husband who demanded children and obedience. My mother has been my biggest motivation. We came together to the United States when I was ten. Over the years, I have watched her struggle to paycheck after check, not having money to buy luxurious items because of her janitorial job. Her lack of a college degree and limited English skills prevent her from finding a better-paying job. I see her struggle, cleaning houses for a very low wage. I do not wish to have that life. I aspire for a better education not only for my own future but for my mother who did not have the chance to have an education. Many females in developing countries have that option taken away from them. I study hard for every female who has been denied the right to education. I work twice as hard to have the same opportunities as men. My experience as an immigrant furthered influenced my ambitions of becoming a cardiologist. I've experienced firsthand the challenges minority communities face when it comes to healthcare. Limited access to specialists, long waiting times, and language barriers prevent families from receiving the medical care they need. Growing up, I translated medical documents for my mother, struggling to understand the healthcare system. This opened my eyes to the importance of cultural and linguistic understanding in medicine. Patients deserve doctors who not only understand their conditions but also their backgrounds and challenges. I want to connect with my patients and ensure that immigrant families receive the care and guidance they deserve without fear of miscommunication or financial burden. Preparing for college has been a roller coaster. Without guidance from my parents, everything was new to me, but I started to seek out resources on my own. I have been researching financial aid options and scholarships, tying to take advantage of every opportunity available to me. I've sought advice from teachers and counselors who have been guiding me through this journey. Academically, I have enrolled in multiple AP courses, joined different clubs, and actively sought leadership roles, including serving as the captain of my cross-country team. Additionally, I have worked to refine my bilingual skills, ensuring that I can confidently advocate for myself in academic and professional spaces. I am not just pursuing higher education for myself; I am doing it for my mother, who sacrificed everything for a better future. I am doing it for the countless women denied the right to learn, and for the immigrant families struggling to access the healthcare they deserve. With every step forward, I am redefining what is possible, proving that circumstances do not define potential. I am ready to embrace this journey, not just to succeed, but to uplift others along the way.

While I may not have survived the Holocaust or had to worry about World War II, I too have encountered my own battlefield; with myself. My struggles weren’t fought with weapons or in distant lands, but within my own mind, in moments of doubt, fear, and hardship. Yet, like Jack Terry, I refused to let adversity define me. As a first-generation immigrant student, I faced language barriers and constant discouragement. People told me a Mexican girl wouldn’t go further than high school. For a while, I believed them. Being first-generation meant everything was foreign to me. Not just the country, but the entire educational system. I had no idea how to navigate my future. Many of my peers had their high school schedules planned out, their parents guiding them, ensuring they took the right classes and extracurriculars to get into a good college. I envied them. They had a clear path, while I didn’t even know where to begin mine. So, I did what a coward would do and gave up. I let my depression consume me. My grades dropped. I became what they expected me to be: another statistic, another stereotype. But junior year came, and I realized I couldn’t keep going like this. If I only focused on missed opportunities, I could never forge new ones. I had to create my own path. If I didn’t advocate for myself, who would? I took accountability and enrolled in multiple AP classes while studying hard to keep up. I didn’t stop there. I joined school clubs fueling my passion for the environment and art. Advocated for the environment through lecturing of kids. Ran to feed the hungry. And took yet another challenge: cross country. Starting a sport late was intimidating, but I refused to let fear hold me back from something I loved. I pushed myself beyond limits, and by senior year, I became the captain. While I may not have started with the same advantages as others, persistence allowed me to create my own opportunities. Being an immigrant has presented challenges, but also given me resilience that no setback can take away. My identity isn’t something I lost when I left my home country but something I continue building with every new experience. This resilience has fueled my passion for cardiology. My experiences taught me the importance of perseverance, and I want to bring that same hope to others. The heart is the center of life, yet so many in my community lack access to proper cardiovascular care. I’ve seen firsthand how limited healthcare options affect immigrant families—how conditions go undiagnosed, how preventable diseases take lives too soon. I refuse to stand by while this continues. My goal is becoming a cardiologist and provide care to underserved communities, ensuring that no one is left behind due to their background or financial situation. Through my studies, I will work toward medical advancements that benefit minority populations, advocate for health education, and mentor aspiring doctors from similar backgrounds. I want to create programs that provide free screenings and preventative care, giving families the resources they need to take charge of their health. Just as I had to carve my own path, I want to help others overcome the obstacles in their way. Jack Terry’s story reminds me that survival is only the beginning. What we do after overcoming hardship defines who we are. I have faced my own battles, but I have emerged stronger. And now, I want to use my strength to heal others—to give back to the community that shaped me, one heartbeat at a time.

Growing up in a low-income immigrant household, I witnessed the challenges that minority communities face when it comes to healthcare. Limited access to specialists, long waiting times, and language barriers prevent families from receiving the medical care they need. As a future cardiologist, I want to bridge this gap by providing accessible quality care to underserved populations. My college education is the first step in achieving this goal. At UC-Santa Barbara, I will major in biology and complete pre-med coursework to prepare for medical school. I will involve myself in hands-on experiences, such as research opportunities and volunteer work at community health clinics to develop skills needed and serve my community effectively. I want to engage in outreach programs that educate families on preventive health measures, ensuring they have knowledge to take care of themselves before conditions arise. Growing up, I translated medical documents for my mother, struggling with language barriers in the healthcare system. This opened my eyes to the importance of cultural and linguistic understanding in medicine. Patients deserve doctors who not only understand their conditions but also their backgrounds and challenges. As a bilingual physician, I will ensure that immigrant families receive the care and guidance they deserve without fear of miscommunication or financial burden. As a cardiologist I will go beyond treating heart conditions. I want to help my patients regain their confidence after a life changing diagnosis. I want to be a source of hope, showing them that their futures are not defined by their illnesses. Whether it’s guiding them through lifestyle changes, supporting them emotionally, or listening to their concerns, I want my patients to know they are not alone. Additionally, I want to mentor students from similar backgrounds who aspire to enter the medical field but feel discouraged by financial or systemic barriers. As someone navigating these challenges myself, I know how valuable it is to have guidance and support. By sharing my journey and offering mentorship, I hope to inspire the next generation of healthcare professionals who will continue advocating for equitable medical care. Pursuing a career in medicine is not just about treating illnesses but empowering individuals to live healthier lives and creating lasting change in communities that need it most. Through my education, I will gain knowledge and skills necessary to make a difference, ensuring that quality healthcare is not a privilege for a few but a right for all.

I began counting calories at 16. It started innocently; Trying to lose weight after letting myself go. I was naturally skinny since childhood and never worried about what I ate. Hunger wasn't a big part of my life then; I was too depressed to worry about it. Until I was prescribed clonazepam to treat depression. It brought joy for a while, but had side effects of weight gain. I gained 50 pounds in a year. I hated myself and everything I had become. What began as me wanting medicine, ended in me secretly stopping it, desperate to bring myself back. After stopping medication, my psychiatrist noticed I lost 10 pounds, and that's where it all began. At first, the weight came off easily, I didn’t have to try. But then it got competitive. I craved his praise. Each month, I stepped on the scale, wanting to prove I was never fat to begin with. When my body stopped losing weight, I turned to extreme measures. I began restricting calories and exercised obsessively. By May, it took complete control over me. As AP exams approached, I was too stressed to eat and survived off caffeine and protein bars. I told myself that if I couldn’t control my test scores, I could at least control my body. During the AP exam, my teacher handed out cookies as encouragement. I made the mistake of eating one, guilt consuming me, not allowing me to concentrate on the exam. Months of studying—gone, all because of one cookie. It wasn't just academics, but health, friends and family as well. My heart rate dropped, I lost muscle, hair and my period. I couldn't wear the summer clothes I wanted because I was cold all the time. I distanced myself from my family, seeing them as obstacles to my “progress.” Every minute spent with them was a minute I wasn’t burning calories. That’s when I realized my disorder was taking everything from me. My focus, my friendships, my ability to enjoy life. I was stuck in a miserable cycle of never having enough, no matter how much I lost. I knew I needed change. Recovery wasn’t perfect, I struggled many times, but I slowly stopped seeing food as the enemy and started recognizing it as fuel. As I nourished myself, I noticed my energy levels changing. I could focus academically and even tried athletics. Running was previously a punishment for me. Something I did to burn the calories binged before. But after recovering, I realized my eating disorder opened many opportunities to me; like joining cross-country and becoming captain of the team. It opened my eyes to nourish myself properly and take care of myself. I got educated on nutrition and exercise to maintain a healthy weight. Now I prioritize healthy habits like eating well, proper sleep and training smart. This disorder encouraged me to contribute to my community by participating in Sacramento’s Run to Feed the Hungry Turkey Trot, in which the funding goes straight to the Sacramento Food Bank to help provide meals for families in need. Today, I am facing yet another challenge. A hip stress-fracture that has temporarily taken running from me. Old me would've panicked, terrified of being inactive. But now I trust my body, listen to my doctor and rest, knowing that healing is part of the process. This journey wasn’t just about food, weight, or running. It was about learning that real strength isn’t found in restriction—it’s found in balance. Proper nourishment didn’t just restore my energy; it gave me my life back. And this time, I’m not letting it go.