I have always paid meticulous attention to the appearance of my hands. Skin that remains smooth and unmarred with fingernails perfectly intact. They were a testament to my ancestors’ resilience and unyielding pursuit of a better life. There is a sharp contrast between my hands and my grandmother’s aged hands which showed wear and tear from fifteen years of farm work, my aunt’s hands which had worked tirelessly making leather whilst living as a migrant worker, and my mother’s hands that aged ten years faster than herself from working over twenty years in warehouses. Etched into these hands is a story of sacrifice that shaped my life to never have to endure the same. As the granddaughter of cherry and grape pickers and cannery workers and the daughter of immigrants from the rural Ilocos region of the Philippines, I am proud to call myself a first-generation Pilipinx-American born and raised in the California Central Valley’s city of Stockton. Unbeknownst to myself at the time of growing up with these identities, public health was deeply embedded into my life. On the other hand, what I was indeed aware of was that pursuing higher education was the key to breaking the generational chain of enduring arduous labor. Stockton was never a picturesque sight, but it was still home. Instead, the city’s backdrop was painted with smoke arising from the giant cargo ships docked at the port, fields of crops lined the town’s perimeter, and gunshots echoed the night skies. However, nestled beneath it all was a vibrant Filipino-American community with my family among them. Once home to the largest Filipino population outside of the Philippines, Stockton houses the historic Little Manila site. What is left of the historic Little Manila site are demolished buildings and a freeway built over the houses of the bustling community that was displaced. I recalled learning about this history that took place in the heart of my hometown as a setting for progressive change. The windows that once held signs indicating “Positively no Filipinos allowed” still stand and I can walk the same streets Larry Itliong and others from the Farm Labor Movement once did. I came to understand the importance of where I grew up to the entirety of Filipino-American history. To see the negligence of this historic district drove me towards the fight for social justice. “Isang Bagsak” is what they say — if one falls in our community, we all fall. What else I can piece together from my memories growing up were hospital bedsides, care home waiting areas, and accompanying my older relatives at doctor appointments. It appeared that decades of agricultural and factory work coupled with the health disparities present among Filipino-Americans had rapidly caught up to the health of my family members. Therefore for myself, there was never a doubt about pursuing a future career in healthcare. It wasn’t until I found myself sitting on my living room floor, celebrating my 18th birthday during the initial COVID-19 stay-at-home order by opening college decision emails that the prospect of such a future became a more tangible reality. My acceptance to the University of California, Berkeley was a reminder of the privilege I held as one of the first members of my family to attend an American four-year university, let alone a world-renowned institution. However, my world came to a staggering halt in 2021 when COVID-19 took the life of my aunt and her partner. They had become a part of the morbid statistic in which a quarter of deaths among all nurses in the United States were of Filipino-American nurses. Then five months later, I was left to grapple with the news that my father suffered from a heart attack. I witnessed him fall into yet again another statistic of Filipino-Americans disproportionately affected by heart disease. Witnessing the unsettling statistics of the Filipino-American community ignited another profound sense of determination in me. I now aimed to study the methods of analyzing health disparities to contribute to research rooted in catalyzing transformative change. Post graduating with my Bachelor’s in Public Health, I returned back to Little Manila and the non-profit that was started to preserve its history. I began working under their health equity program, giving back to my community by providing health education and resources, and becoming an advocate for the community that inspired me from the very beginning. As the product of generations of struggle, sacrifice, and triumph, my identity and experiences have molded the opportunity that stands before me today—the privilege to be the first person in my family to attend graduate school. I have chosen to pursue a Master’s in Public Health (MPH) in Epidemiology with the goal of becoming a research epidemiologist because I aspire to represent underserved communities in healthcare policy reform and epidemiologic studies to foster intentional progress in these communities. I have had the honor of being accepted into an MPH program that allows me to bridge my identity, history, personal experiences, and future aspirations together. Growing up as a Pilipinx-American has ingrained into myself the values of social justice and transformative impact, empowering me to dedicate my education and prospective career to work that contributes to dismantling systemic barriers to health. These hands, engraved with a history of labor and relentless endeavors, not only tell my story as a Pilipinx-American and how my identity has shaped me to pursue a career focused on achieving equitable health, but come together with every “Isang Bagsak.”