1. Tell us about yourself, what motivates you, and what you would do with your life. I learned how to be independent long before I understood what independence meant. Both of my parents struggled with addiction, and much of my childhood was spent learning to take care of myself. I often relied on friends and their families for the stability, guidance, and support I needed. Their kindness taught me something that continues to motivate me today: you never know what someone is going through, and having someone who genuinely cares can change the course of a person's life. That lesson eventually found its way into my career. I spent twelve years working in veterinary medicine, primarily in emergency and critical care, surgery, and anesthesia. Later, I transitioned into human healthcare as an anesthesia technician at MedStar Georgetown University Hospital. Through these experiences, I discovered how much I love medicine, particularly the combination of science, problem-solving, and human connection. Today, I am a full-time student at Arizona State University with a 3.7 GPA, preparing to apply to medical school. Pursuing this goal while navigating financial challenges has not been easy, but I am determined to create a future different from the one I grew up imagining was possible. If I could do anything with my life, I would become a physician who combines clinical excellence with compassion, particularly in anesthesia, trauma, or critical care. I want to care for people during their most vulnerable moments and ensure they feel seen, heard, and supported. Ultimately, what motivates me is the opportunity to become the kind of person I needed growing up: someone who makes others feel safe when life feels uncertain. 2. What excites you about STEM, and how could you make a positive impact through information technology? What excites me most about STEM is that it allows us to understand problems that once seemed impossible to solve. I have always been fascinated by the human body, particularly how seemingly small changes in physiology can have enormous consequences for a patient's health. My experiences in veterinary medicine and human anesthesia strengthened that curiosity, but research has introduced me to another possibility: using technology to recognize problems earlier and improve medical decision-making. I currently participate in research involving artificial intelligence-assisted histological image analysis. My work includes reviewing and annotating digitized tissue samples from the lungs, heart, and brain to support AI-based analysis. Seeing how complex biological information can be organized and examined through technology has changed how I think about the future of medicine. What interests me most is the potential for information technology to make healthcare more accurate, efficient, and accessible. If I worked in health information technology, I would want to help develop AI-assisted tools that identify concerning patterns in medical images, support researchers in studying disease progression, and reduce the time required to analyze large datasets. I would also prioritize making these tools understandable to healthcare professionals. Technology should support clinical judgment, not replace it. A useful system must be accurate, carefully validated, and designed with patient safety in mind. Although my ultimate goal is to become a physician, I hope to collaborate with researchers, engineers, and technology professionals throughout my career. To me, the most exciting part of STEM is not simply discovering what technology can do. It is finding ways to use those discoveries to improve someone's life. 3. Describe the greatest challenge you've overcome and how you managed to get past it. The greatest challenge I have faced was growing up without the childhood I should have had. Both of my parents struggled with addiction, and I learned early that I could not always depend on the adults who were supposed to care for me. While other children were learning about the world with their parents guiding them, I was learning how to navigate it on my own. I grew up too quickly, taking on responsibilities and developing independence long before I was ready. Fortunately, my friends and their families became an important source of support. They welcomed me into their homes, looked out for me, and showed me what stability could feel like. Their generosity made a lasting difference, but I also learned that being independent out of necessity is not the same as having the opportunity to grow up feeling secure. For years, I believed that overcoming my circumstances meant proving I could handle everything myself. As I got older, I began realizing that asking for help, accepting support, and acknowledging my limitations were equally important forms of strength. My path through higher education has required that same lesson. I have balanced employment, financial uncertainty, and academic responsibilities while continuing to pursue medicine. Rather than allowing setbacks to define my future, I have worked to establish better habits, seek guidance, and keep moving forward, even when progress feels slow. Maintaining a 3.7 GPA at Arizona State University represents more than academic achievement to me. It reflects years of persistence and a commitment to building the future I want. I cannot change my childhood, and I do not believe suffering was necessary to make me strong. But I can choose what I do next. I want to use my experiences to become a compassionate physician and help others recognize that where they begin does not have to determine where they end up.

One of the most frustrating realities of medicine is that by the time a disease becomes impossible to ignore, significant damage may already have occurred. For people living with chronic health conditions, the time between the first signs of illness and a clear understanding of what is happening can be filled with uncertainty, worsening symptoms, and unanswered questions. I refuse to accept that delayed recognition of disease should simply be an unavoidable part of healthcare. My interest in this problem developed through twelve years working in veterinary medicine, primarily in emergency and critical care, surgery, and anesthesia. I witnessed how quickly a patient's condition could deteriorate and how valuable early recognition and intervention could be. Later, working as an anesthesia technician at MedStar Georgetown University Hospital, I became even more interested in the relationship between physiology, technology, and clinical decision-making. Those experiences left me asking an important question: What if we could recognize concerning changes earlier, before they developed into a medical crisis? My involvement in research using artificial intelligence to analyze histological images has given that question a new direction. I work with digitized tissue samples from the lungs, heart, and brain, reviewing and annotating microscopic structures to support AI-assisted analysis. This experience has introduced me to both the possibilities and limitations of applying technology to complex biological information. Under a microscope, tissue contains an extraordinary amount of information. Subtle structural changes may offer clues about injury, inflammation, or disease progression. Yet analyzing large collections of images takes time, and meaningful findings can be difficult to identify consistently. I am particularly interested in how AI could help researchers recognize patterns associated with chronic disease, while keeping human expertise central to interpreting those findings. My goal would be to help develop an AI-assisted histology platform that makes tissue analysis more efficient, accurate, and accessible. Rather than simply producing an automated result, I envision a system that highlights potentially significant abnormalities, compares patterns across samples, and allows researchers to verify findings through clearly annotated images. I would begin by working with expert-reviewed tissue datasets, evaluating where automated analysis succeeds and where it makes mistakes. Understanding those limitations would be just as important as improving the technology itself. A useful tool must be trustworthy, interpretable, and designed around the needs of the people using it. Although a system like this would not replace physicians or independently diagnose chronic conditions, it could support research into how diseases develop, progress, and respond to treatment. Ultimately, better research tools could contribute to earlier recognition of pathological changes and more informed approaches to patient care. As a student at Arizona State University preparing to apply to medical school, I hope to build a career that combines clinical practice with research and innovation. I am especially drawn to fields where careful observation, critical thinking, and timely intervention can profoundly affect patient outcomes. I do not believe innovation always requires discovering something entirely new. Sometimes it begins by recognizing that our existing tools could serve patients better. My goal is not simply to become a physician who understands disease. I want to help develop the tools that allow us to understand it sooner, respond more effectively, and reduce the uncertainty that so many patients with chronic conditions are forced to endure.

I have spent much of my life learning how to fix things. In veterinary medicine and later in human healthcare, I was drawn to environments where problems could be assessed, treatments could be initiated, and action could make something better. One of the most important lessons I have learned, however, came from a situation I could not fix. My father has lived with severe mental illness for much of his life. Earlier this year, he attempted suicide and suffered a serious brain injury. In the days that followed, I found myself on the opposite side of healthcare. I was no longer the person preparing equipment, anticipating what a clinical team might need, or helping care for someone else's family member. This time, the patient was my father. There was no task I could perform that would undo what had happened. I could not reason his illness away, predict the outcome, or make the uncertainty disappear. What the experience asked of me was much quieter: to remain present when I felt helpless. That challenged my understanding of what it means to care for someone. Before then, I often associated being useful with doing something tangible. Healthcare reinforced that instinct because so much of clinical work depends on action: preparing, monitoring, communicating, anticipating, and responding. My father's illness taught me that sometimes another person does not need you to have an answer. Sometimes showing up means tolerating uncertainty beside them, listening, advocating, and refusing to reduce them to the worst moment of their life. That lesson has followed me back into healthcare. Most recently, I worked as an anesthesia technician at Georgetown University Hospital while completing my Bachelor of Science in Medical Studies at Arizona State University. In the operating room, I became fascinated by the physiology, pharmacology, technology, and precision of anesthesia. But I also came to understand something equally important: every patient entering an operating room is someone's whole world. A monitor can tell us a patient's heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, and countless other measurements. A chart can tell us diagnoses, medications, and medical history. Neither can fully tell us who that person is, what they are afraid of, whom they love, or what it took for them to arrive at that moment. Shaunterrio Hudson's legacy resonates with me because his story reflects the kind of healthcare professional I hope to become: technically capable, dependable under pressure, and still deeply aware of the human being receiving that care. My long-term goal is to continue my education in physiology, medicine, and anesthesia and build a career caring for patients during some of their most vulnerable moments. I want to develop the knowledge and technical skills necessary to be excellent at that work. But I also want to remember the lesson I learned when there was nothing I could fix. Sometimes the most meaningful way to care for another person is simply to show up fully. Skill may allow us to treat a patient. Humanity reminds us why that patient matters.

For years, I understood mental health and reproductive health as separate parts of medicine. Learning about Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder and Premenstrual Exacerbation challenged that assumption. I was especially struck by PME because conditions such as PTSD, anxiety, and ADHD may worsen premenstrually, yet patients and providers may not recognize the pattern. Symptoms can be treated as isolated mental health episodes without anyone asking whether timing provides an important clinical clue. This issue is personally meaningful to me because I understand how difficult it can be to function as a student and healthcare worker while managing mental health challenges that others cannot see. There is often pressure to remain productive, calm, and capable regardless of what is happening internally. When symptoms fluctuate, it can be easy to blame yourself rather than recognize that your body and mind may be responding to factors that deserve medical attention. Looking back, I have also questioned whether some of my own periods of increased anxiety, difficulty concentrating, or emotional distress followed a cyclical pattern that was never explored. Professionally, I have spent years in clinical environments. I began working in veterinary medicine at sixteen and advanced through critical care, anesthesia, operating-room management, and hospital leadership. I later transitioned into human healthcare and worked as an anesthesia technician at MedStar Georgetown University Hospital. These experiences taught me that important patterns are often found by asking the right question. A single abnormal value may be overlooked, but repeated changes over time can reveal that something significant is occurring. I am completing my undergraduate degree in Medical Studies and plan to become a Certified Anesthesiologist Assistant. Although anesthesia is not the specialty primarily responsible for diagnosing PMDD or PME, perioperative care offers an important opportunity for recognition. Before surgery, patients are routinely asked about medications, medical conditions, mental health history, and factors that could affect their care. Yet cyclical changes in mood, concentration, sleep, functioning, or safety may never be discussed. One concrete way I hope to contribute is by developing a simple PMDD and PME recognition pathway for preoperative settings. The pathway would include brief intake questions about whether significant emotional or cognitive symptoms repeatedly worsen during a particular phase of the menstrual cycle. Patients who identify a possible pattern could receive clear information about tracking their symptoms and seeking follow-up from a primary care, gynecology, or mental health provider. Staff education would emphasize that these concerns are legitimate clinical information, not an inconvenience or an overreaction. I would also want the project to collect anonymous information about how often possible cyclical symptoms are identified and whether patients successfully receive follow-up resources. The goal would not be for anesthesia professionals to make diagnoses outside their scope. It would be to ensure that a potential warning sign is noticed rather than ignored. PMDD and PME will move into routine healthcare only when clinicians across specialties understand that recognition is part of their responsibility. I hope to help create clinical environments where patients no longer have to educate every provider they encounter before their symptoms are taken seriously.

The books that have shaped me most did not make medicine look glamorous. They taught me what healthcare feels like from the side of the person who is hurting. In A Doctor in a Patient’s Body, Dr. Simone C. Eastman Uwan describes pursuing medicine while living with sickle cell disease and chronic pain. What stayed with me was the contrast between possessing medical knowledge and still having to navigate healthcare as a patient whose suffering may not be immediately visible. Her story taught me that earning a clinical title does not make someone the sole authority in the room. Patients also carry expertise—the lived knowledge of their own bodies—and good care requires listening to them. That lesson has shaped the kind of healthcare provider I hope to become. I have spent years caring for patients under anesthesia, first in veterinary medicine and later as an anesthesia technician in a human hospital. An unconscious patient cannot explain that something is wrong or advocate for what they need. Their safety depends on providers who pay attention, recognize subtle changes, prepare for complications, and never allow efficiency to replace compassion. Dr. Uwan’s story reinforced my belief that symptoms should not have to be dramatic or easily measurable before they deserve attention. The Body Keeps the Score affected me even more personally. It helped me understand that trauma is not always something a person can simply decide to leave behind. I had often judged myself for reactions I could not explain and believed that working harder or staying busy should be enough to overcome them. The book gave me language for experiences that had previously felt confusing and isolating. It helped me view seeking support not as weakness, but as part of healing. That understanding has also changed how I see other people. A patient, coworker, or student may appear completely capable while carrying something invisible. I want to become a provider who remembers that a person’s behavior may reflect fear, pain, or past experiences that I cannot see. Technical skill is essential in anesthesia, but patients also need to feel safe, respected, and believed. I am completing my undergraduate degree in Medical Studies and plan to become a Certified Anesthesiologist Assistant. My goal is to care for patients during some of their most vulnerable moments and to contribute to safer, more compassionate operating rooms. I also hope to mentor nontraditional students who believe that hardship, an imperfect academic path, or starting later has disqualified them from meaningful careers. These books taught me that knowledge without perspective is incomplete. One helped me see medicine through the eyes of a patient who repeatedly had to advocate for herself. The other helped me understand my own experiences with greater compassion. Together, they shaped my goal of becoming a clinician who not only monitors the body, but listens carefully to the person living inside it.

I was about ten years old when I first learned that an infection could change—or end—a life. A young man who lived near my family became ill and sought care. He was evaluated and sent home, but his condition worsened dramatically. The next thing I understood was that he had developed sepsis and experienced severe brain injury. He was only in his mid-twenties. Instead of quickly returning to the life he had known, he endured a prolonged and painful battle before ultimately passing away. At ten, I did not understand sepsis, organ dysfunction, or the medical decisions surrounding his care. I only understood the frightening contrast between who he had been and what had happened to him. He was young, and an infection initially seemed like something that should have been treatable. Watching his decline made illness feel sudden, unpredictable, and deeply unfair. The suffering he and the people who loved him endured stayed with me long after I was old enough to understand more of what had occurred. Years later, I entered healthcare myself. I began working in veterinary medicine at sixteen and eventually progressed into critical care, anesthesia, operating-room, and hospital-management roles. I later transitioned into human healthcare and worked as an anesthesia technician at MedStar Georgetown University Hospital. Through these experiences, I learned how quickly a patient’s condition can change and how important it is to recognize subtle warning signs before they become a crisis. Sepsis taught me, long before I had the vocabulary to describe it, that being young does not make someone invulnerable. My clinical experience has since taught me that numbers, symptoms, and family concerns must be considered together. A change that initially seems small can become life-threatening. Careful monitoring, preparation, communication, and a willingness to escalate concerns can make an enormous difference. I am now completing my undergraduate degree in Medical Studies at Arizona State University while continuing to work and prepare for graduate education in anesthesia. My goal is to become a Certified Anesthesiologist Assistant. In that role, I hope to protect patients during moments when they cannot speak or advocate for themselves. I also want to contribute to operating-room preparedness and patient-safety initiatives that help teams recognize emergencies and respond without delay. My experience with sepsis did not happen to me directly, but it changed the way I understood health, vulnerability, and time. A young person I knew lost his future, and the people around him lost someone they expected to have for many more years. This scholarship would help me continue an education centered on preventing suffering and protecting patients. I cannot change what happened when I was ten, but I can carry its lesson into every clinical environment I enter: take deterioration seriously, listen carefully, prepare early, and never assume there will always be more time.

I did not learn to love math because of a perfectly solved worksheet. I learned to love it in operating rooms, where numbers can reveal what a patient cannot say. I have spent years working with patients under anesthesia, first in veterinary medicine and later as an anesthesia technician in a human hospital. An unconscious patient cannot explain that they feel dizzy, cannot breathe well, or are beginning to deteriorate. Instead, the anesthesia team relies on measurements and patterns: heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, carbon dioxide, medication doses, fluid volumes, and changes over time. That is what I love about math. It gives us a way to make the invisible visible. A single number may not tell the entire story, but relationships between numbers can. A trend in blood pressure may indicate how a patient is responding to anesthesia. A medication dose must be calculated carefully using factors such as weight and concentration. Ventilation depends on measurable values that help providers determine whether a patient is receiving adequate support. Even preparation requires math, from calculating how much medication is available to confirming that emergency supplies are sufficient. Math also teaches me not to panic when a problem appears complicated. It encourages me to identify what I know, determine what is missing, and work through the problem one step at a time. That method has helped me in science courses, clinical environments, financial planning, and everyday decisions. As I complete my undergraduate degree in Medical Studies and prepare to pursue graduate education in anesthesia, math will remain central to my education and future career. I love that it is precise, practical, and capable of protecting people. To me, math is more than a subject. It is one of the languages healthcare professionals use to understand what is happening inside a patient—and decide what to do next.

Mental health became important to me as a student when I learned that determination alone cannot always overcome what the mind and body are experiencing. I have always been someone who works hard and keeps moving. I spent years balancing employment with my undergraduate education, including working full-time in a hospital while completing demanding science courses online. I believed that if I organized my schedule carefully enough and pushed myself hard enough, I could manage every responsibility. However, living with anxiety and post-traumatic stress taught me that mental health does not disappear simply because an assignment is due or because other people depend on you. There have been periods when concentrating, sleeping, retaining information, and completing ordinary tasks required far more effort than anyone around me could see. At times, I interpreted those struggles as personal failures. I compared myself to students whose circumstances I did not know and wondered why I could not simply be more disciplined. Learning to seek support, adjust my expectations, and make responsible changes to my academic plan helped me understand that protecting my health was not abandoning my goals. It was necessary to continue pursuing them. That lesson now shapes how I advocate for mental health in my community. My advocacy is often personal rather than public. I speak honestly about the fact that capable, hardworking people can struggle. When friends, classmates, or coworkers are overwhelmed, I try not to respond with empty advice or tell them to remain positive. I listen, check in again later, offer practical help, and encourage them to use professional and institutional resources when they need more support than one person can provide. I also try to challenge the belief that someone must reach a crisis before asking for help. In healthcare environments, people are often praised for working through exhaustion, grief, and emotional distress without allowing it to affect their performance. Although resilience is valuable, silence should not be mistaken for strength. Healthcare workers and students need permission to acknowledge when they are struggling before their well-being, education, or ability to care for others deteriorates. My goal is to become a Certified Anesthesiologist Assistant. Anesthesia requires scientific knowledge, preparation, clear communication, and the ability to remain calm when patients are frightened and vulnerable. My experiences with mental health will make me a more compassionate provider because they have taught me that distress is not always visible. I want patients, colleagues, and future students I mentor to feel that they can speak honestly without being judged as weak or incapable. This scholarship would help me continue my undergraduate education while working and rebuilding a healthier, more sustainable academic foundation. Mental health support does not reduce ambition. It gives students the stability needed to turn ambition into a future.

For most students, college begins with a roadmap: parents who understand applications, financial aid, majors, and what comes after graduation. I began without one. Neither of my parents completed high school, and to my knowledge, none of my grandparents attended college. Being a first-generation student has meant learning how to build a future my family could not teach me how to navigate. I did not follow a traditional path. I began working in veterinary medicine at sixteen and spent more than a decade advancing from technician to critical-care and anesthesia roles, and eventually into hospital management. I was proud of how far I had progressed, but I realized that the clinical work I loved most required an education I had once struggled to imagine for myself. Returning to school as an adult meant balancing demanding science courses with full-time employment. While pursuing my Medical Studies degree at Arizona State University, I worked in human healthcare, including as an anesthesia technician at MedStar Georgetown University Hospital. My shifts began at 7:00 a.m., and my evenings and weekends were spent completing lectures, laboratory work, assignments, and exam preparation. There was no family college fund or experienced relative who could tell me which decisions were safest. I learned to compare programs, understand financial aid, seek mentors, and recover from academic and personal setbacks largely through persistence and self-education. My challenges have taught me that progress does not have to be perfectly linear to be meaningful. I have chosen to remain at ASU during the upcoming academic year, continue working, complete my degree carefully, and strengthen my academic record. This decision extends my timeline, but it also reflects something I have learned as a first-generation student: making a responsible plan is not the same as giving up on an ambitious one. My dream is to become a Certified Anesthesiologist Assistant. I want to care for patients during the moments when they are unable to speak or advocate for themselves and contribute to safer, better-prepared operating rooms. I also hope to mentor other nontraditional and first-generation students who believe they started too late or took the wrong path. Sometimes one person explaining what is possible can change the direction of another person’s life. This $5,000 scholarship would help cover tuition and required coursework while reducing the number of hours I must work during school. More importantly, it would give me the time and stability to strengthen the scientific foundation my future patients will depend on. Being first-generation means that I did not inherit a roadmap. I am creating one—and I intend to leave it behind for others.

For much of my undergraduate education, I have measured time in small, carefully protected blocks. I worked full-time as an anesthesia technician at MedStar Georgetown University Hospital, beginning my shift at 7:00 a.m. and finishing at 3:30 p.m. After work, I changed from scrubs into the role of an Arizona State University student, completing lectures, assignments, laboratory work, and exam preparation in the evenings and on weekends. I am pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Medical Studies and currently maintain a GPA above 3.5. During the upcoming academic year, I plan to remain enrolled as a full-time undergraduate while working at least ten hours per week. I have chosen to complete my remaining coursework over the next year so I can continue earning an income, strengthen my academic record, and prepare for graduate training in anesthesia. Working while studying is financially necessary, but it is also directly connected to my professional goals. My hospital experience has allowed me to learn from anesthesiologists, residents, and anesthesiologist assistants while supporting patient care in a fast-paced operating room. One of the most challenging periods occurred when I was balancing my hospital schedule with intensive organic chemistry coursework and other science requirements. My workday began before many of my classmates were awake. By the time I returned home, I was often mentally and physically tired, but assignments and examinations still had fixed deadlines. There were evenings when I wanted nothing more than to sleep, yet I still needed to review reaction mechanisms, complete laboratory work, or prepare for an exam. I overcame that period by becoming much more deliberate with my time. At the beginning of each week, I reviewed every assignment, work obligation, examination, and personal responsibility. I divided large assignments into smaller tasks and scheduled them around my hospital shifts. I used lunch breaks for flashcards and brief reviews, reserved evenings for lectures and assignments, and protected longer weekend blocks for difficult material. I also learned to begin projects early rather than relying on the energy I hoped I would have after a demanding shift. Most importantly, I learned to adjust without abandoning my goals. When a schedule became unsustainable, I reconsidered my course load, sought support, and focused on making steady progress rather than forcing myself to follow someone else’s timeline. Extending my undergraduate plan is not a retreat from my ambition. It is a thoughtful decision that allows me to continue working, reduce additional debt, and give my coursework the attention it deserves. Balancing employment and education has required sacrifices. I have had less time for rest, social activities, and extracurricular opportunities than many students. However, it has also made me resilient, organized, and deeply appreciative of my education. Every shift helps finance my future, and every course brings me closer to becoming a Certified Anesthesiologist Assistant. This scholarship would reduce the financial pressure of working through school and allow me to devote more focused time to completing my degree successfully.