I Am Caribbean, but I Cannot Swim It's a little ironic, considering both sides of my family come from islands surrounded by water. My parents crossed an ocean to build a life in America, and somehow, their daughter is still afraid of the deep end. Now, as a first-generation college student studying Neurobiology and Spanish at Penn State, I hope to give back by becoming a physician whose understanding of different cultures is just as important as her understanding of medicine. I want to be someone who can connect with people regardless of where they come from, what language they speak, or what circumstances shaped their lives. My mother came to America with only her mother and brother. My father came alone. Neither knew exactly what their future would look like, only that they wanted something better. They started over in an unfamiliar country, navigating a new language, culture, and countless uncertainties. They had to learn how to stay afloat before they could ever think about reaching shore. I grew up in Elizabeth, New Jersey, surrounded by immigrant families with stories much like ours. As a little girl, I didn't fully understand the sacrifices behind the life I had. I just knew my mother worked hard, money was something we worried about, and education was supposed to be my opportunity to create a different future. Spanish was my first language, and learning English taught me early on what it felt like to navigate a world where I couldn't always express myself the way I wanted. Growing up between two languages and cultures eventually became something I took pride in rather than something that made me feel different. Today, I understand those sacrifices differently. My mother is a single parent, and the financial responsibility of my education has become almost impossible for us to manage. Between out-of-state tuition, housing, groceries, and mounting loans, I have learned that drowning doesn't always involve water. Sometimes, it happens slowly, in numbers on a tuition statement. However, growing up with financial uncertainty has shaped much more than my understanding of money. It has taught me to be resourceful, independent, and determined to pursue opportunities even when they seem out of reach. I have learned that ambition is not always about knowing exactly how you will reach your goals. Sometimes, it is about continuing to work toward them even when you cannot see a clear path forward. I think about my parents' sacrifices often. How they crossed an ocean searching for a better future, never knowing what opportunities would eventually become available to their daughter. Their courage has influenced the person I am today, someone who refuses to let circumstances determine the limits of her future. And I refuse to let those sacrifices end with me. I am striving to become a bilingual physician specializing in immunology or anesthesiology, but more importantly, I want to become someone who understands that patients are more than their diagnoses. My experiences have taught me that culture, language, and financial circumstances can determine whether someone feels comfortable seeking medical care. I want to bridge those gaps and make patients feel understood, respected, and safe. I want to be a physician who recognizes the importance of listening to someone's story before trying to understand their symptoms. I have already begun working toward that future through clinical experience as a certified phlebotomy technician, volunteering in an emergency department, and participating in research involving immunology and bilingual language processing. These experiences have allowed me to explore my interests in science while strengthening my appreciation for the different people and communities I hope to serve. Sometimes, I wonder how different college would feel if I could focus entirely on learning instead of constantly calculating what it costs. But I also recognize how much I have already accomplished because of the values I grew up with. I am someone who is curious, ambitious, and deeply connected to my culture. I am still learning how to navigate independence, uncertainty, and the responsibility of building a future that once felt out of reach. My parents came to America hoping to build a better life. I want to build one where my mother no longer worries about money, where patients never feel like strangers in a healthcare system, and where the next generation inherits opportunities instead of financial burdens. I still don't know how to swim. But I come from people who crossed oceans, and I have no intention of sinking.

I Am Caribbean, but I Cannot Swim I am Cuban and Puerto Rican, it's a little ironic, considering both sides of my family come from islands surrounded by water. My parents crossed an ocean to build a life in America, and somehow, their daughter is still afraid of the deep end. Now, as a first-generation college student studying Neurobiology and Spanish at Penn State, I hope to give back by becoming a physician whose understanding of different cultures is just as important as her understanding of medicine. I want to be someone who can connect with people regardless of where they come from, what language they speak, or what circumstances shaped their lives. My mother came to America with only her mother and brother. My father came alone. Neither knew exactly what their future would look like, only that they wanted something better. They started over in an unfamiliar country, navigating a new language, culture, and countless uncertainties. They had to learn how to stay afloat before they could ever think about reaching shore. I grew up in Elizabeth, New Jersey, surrounded by immigrant families with stories much like ours. As a little girl, I didn't fully understand the sacrifices behind the life I had. I just knew my mother worked hard, money was something we worried about, and education was supposed to be my opportunity to create a different future. Today, I understand those sacrifices differently. My mother is a single parent, and the financial responsibility of my education has become almost impossible for us to manage. Between out-of-state tuition, housing, groceries, and mounting loans, I have learned that drowning doesn't always involve water. Sometimes, it happens slowly, in numbers on a tuition statement. During my first year of college, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She kept it from me because she didn't want me to worry or lose focus on my education. While I was stressing over exams and whether I could afford another semester, she was carrying something far heavier without telling me. I think about that often. How my mother crossed an ocean searching for a better future, only to spend so much of her life making sure I could have one. And I refuse to let those sacrifices end with me. I want to become a bilingual physician specializing in immunology or anesthesiology, but more importantly, I want to become someone who understands that patients are more than their diagnoses. My experiences have taught me that culture, language, and financial circumstances can determine whether someone feels comfortable seeking medical care. I want to bridge those gaps and make patients feel understood, respected, and safe. I have already begun working toward that future through clinical experience as a certified phlebotomy technician, volunteering in an emergency department, and participating in research involving immunology and bilingual language processing. Every opportunity brings me closer to becoming the physician I once needed my own family to have. Sometimes, I wonder how different college would feel if I could focus entirely on learning instead of constantly calculating what it costs. But I remember that my parents crossed borders without guarantees, and my mother continues to sacrifice without asking for recognition. My parents came to America hoping to build a better life. I want to build one where my mother no longer worries about money, where patients never feel like strangers in a healthcare system, and where the next generation inherits opportunities instead of financial burdens. I still don't know how to swim. But I come from people who crossed oceans, and I have no intention of sinking.

I am Caribbean, but I cannot swim. It is a small contradiction, but I have realized that much of my life has been shaped by contradictions. I have always dreamed of becoming a physician, yet finances have often determined which opportunities I can realistically pursue. I am on track to graduate from college early, yet there are semesters when I cannot take as many courses as I want because every additional credit means another expense. I have ambitious goals in medicine and research, but tuition, housing, transportation, and everyday costs are never things I can take for granted. Those contradictions have taught me how to keep moving even when I do not have every advantage. My interest in medicine became personal long before it became academic. Growing up with severe food allergies made me aware of how quickly something ordinary could become a medical emergency. Instead of allowing that fear to distance me from medicine, it made me curious. That curiosity grew into interests in anesthesiology, allergy and immunology, neuroscience, and research. Today, I study neurobiology and Spanish while participating in research that allows me to explore science beyond a textbook. My experiences include immunology research as well as research involving bilingual language processing, neuroscience, and EEG. These opportunities have shown me that medicine does not begin when a patient enters an exam room. It begins years earlier in laboratories, unanswered questions, and researchers willing to continue searching for answers. Research has changed the way I envision my future. I do not only want to learn what science already knows; I want to contribute to what medicine will know next. My long-term goal is to become a physician and potentially pursue an MD-PhD so I can combine research with patient care. Service is equally important to me. Through phlebotomy, hospital volunteering, shadowing, and other clinical experiences, I have learned that medicine requires more than academic knowledge. It requires knowing how to communicate with someone who may be scared, uncomfortable, or vulnerable. Studying Spanish is especially meaningful because I hope to care for patients who may struggle to fully express themselves in English. No patient should receive poorer care because of a language barrier. These experiences have also shaped the kind of leader I want to become. To me, leadership is not simply holding a title. It is making opportunities more accessible for the people who come after you. Financial limitations remain one of my greatest challenges. I have carefully structured my education so I can graduate early, but sometimes my academic decisions are not based on what I want to learn; they are based on what I can afford. I would take heavier course loads and pursue even more opportunities if tuition were not such a significant barrier. I work, apply for scholarships, seek financial aid, and continuously find ways to make my education possible, but determination can only stretch finances so far. This scholarship would help remove part of that barrier and allow me to continue building toward medical school, research, and a career centered on service. Ultimately, I want my education to extend beyond my own success. I want to conduct research that improves how diseases are understood and treated, become a physician who makes patients feel heard, use Spanish to make healthcare more accessible, and mentor students who once believed medicine was financially or academically out of reach. Maybe one day I will finally learn how to swim. For now, I have become very good at learning how to move forward even when I cannot see solid ground beneath me.

I have a habit of falling in love with the animals people walk past. The snail inching across the sidewalk after it rains. The snake that makes everyone else take three steps backward. The hamster awake at an unreasonable hour. The cat missing an eye (and tail). The animals that are too slimy, too scaly, too strange, too small, or simply not considered beautiful enough to earn someone's attention. Those are usually the ones that get mine. My life has looked a little like a very poorly organized zoo. I have gotten the wonderful opportunity to love hamsters, a dog, a cat, snakes, and now snails. Some have had fur. Some have had scales. Some could fit in my palm. Some required explaining to visitors before they entered my house. But loving unconventional animals taught me something important: we are strangely selective about which lives we consider worth protecting. It is easy to care about an animal when it is sitting beside you on the couch. Conservation asks us to care about animals we may never touch, never name, and never even see. That is the kind of care I want to learn. This year, my classroom is taking me thousands of miles from Pennsylvania to Kenya, where I will study African savanna biology, ecology, and conservation. I will spend time in the Maasai Mara learning in an ecosystem where humans, livestock, predators, prey, disease, land, and climate are connected in ways that cannot be separated into neat textbook chapters. I will go from watching a snail navigate a few inches of soil to watching wildlife navigate an entire changing landscape. And I want to understand both. In Kenya, I will study wildlife and the pressures facing these ecosystems while learning from the people who actually live alongside them. I will also develop research connected to what we observe in the field. What excites me most is that conservation there isn't an abstract idea. A decision involving land, livestock, water, or human health can ripple outward until it reaches an animal miles away. That connects directly to the scientist I hope to become. I study Neurobiology because I am fascinated by living systems, but I don't believe health begins and ends with humans. Human health, animal health, and environmental health constantly intersect. My experiences with animals and my upcoming fieldwork have made me increasingly interested in that One Health perspective and in carrying it into my future work in science and animal medicine. I don't know exactly which animal will change the way I see conservation in Kenya. Maybe it will be one everyone travels across the world hoping to photograph. Maybe it won't. Maybe it will be an insect crawling across my field notebook while everyone else is looking toward the horizon. I hope I notice both. Because somewhere between my first hamster and the Maasai Mara, animals taught me that importance cannot be measured in pounds, beauty, usefulness, or how many people stop to look. Some animals roar. Some fit in the palm of my hand. I want to build a life that makes room for both. My Linkedin: www.linkedin.com/in/milena-arzuaga

The first thing phlebotomy taught me was how to find a vein. The second was that sometimes the person attached to it matters far more. When I earned my phlebotomy certification, I thought my job would be straightforward: identify the patient, prepare the tubes, find the vein, draw the blood, and move on to the next room. I practiced until the technical steps became almost automatic. Then I met a patient who changed the way I looked at healthcare. She was older and visibly nervous when I walked into her room. Before I even opened my supplies, she told me she hated needles. I gave her the reassuring answer I had learned to give: “I’ll be as gentle as I can.” But she wasn’t really asking me to be good with a needle. She was asking me to make her feel safe. So I stopped rushing. I sat beside her for a moment. We talked while I prepared everything, and I explained what I was doing before I did it. The blood draw itself lasted less than a minute. When I finished, she looked at me and said, “Oh, that wasn’t bad at all.” It was such a small interaction that I could have forgotten it by the end of my shift. Instead, I kept thinking about it. Phlebotomy gave me a small window into patients’ lives. I might spend only a few minutes with someone, but nurses remain through the moments that come before and after mine. They notice when the patient who says “I’m fine” is gripping the bedrail. They answer the family member who has asked the same question three times because they are scared. They catch the small change in a patient that everyone else might miss. The more time I spent around healthcare, the more I found myself watching the nurses. I watched them translate complicated medical language into words frightened families could understand. I watched them move quickly during emergencies and somehow become gentle again seconds later when speaking to a patient. I realized nursing requires something I deeply admire: the ability to understand both the science happening inside a person and the person experiencing it. That is what inspired me to pursue nursing. Getting my phlebotomy license taught me that I love working directly with patients, but it also made me want more responsibility for their care. I don't want my role to end when the tube is filled and labeled. I want to understand why the test was ordered, recognize what a change in a patient's condition could mean, educate them about their health, advocate for them, and be present throughout their care. Someday, I may not remember every blood draw I perform or every hospital room I enter. But I hope my patients remember something simpler: that when they were frightened, sick, or uncertain, someone noticed. Phlebotomy taught me how to find a vein. Nursing is where I hope to learn how to care for everything surrounding it.

I've introduced myself to the same person more times than I can count. "Hi, I'm Milena. I'm here to draw your blood." She smiles. Five minutes later, while I'm labeling her tubes, she looks at me and asks, "Who are you?" So I smile back. "Hi, I'm Milena." As a mobile phlebotomist, I spend my mornings traveling from one nursing home to another. Many of my patients are living with Alzheimer's disease or other forms of dementia. I often recognize them before they recognize me. I know who prefers their left arm, who likes to joke before the needle, and who gets nervous the moment they see the tourniquet. Yet every visit begins the same way—as if we've never met. At first, I thought memory was what defined a person. Now I don't. Dementia has taught me that even when memories fade, humanity doesn't. My patients may not remember my name, but they still recognize patience. They still respond to kindness, reassurance, and a calm voice. They still deserve to be spoken to with dignity instead of being spoken about. Working with these patients has changed both my career and the questions I ask about medicine. As a Neurobiology student at Penn State, I am fascinated by how the brain creates memories, language, and identity. This fall, I will begin neuroscience research in Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab, where I'll study cognition and language processing. Every time I walk into another nursing home, I'm reminded that behind every scientific discovery is a family hoping for one more conversation, one more story, or one more moment of recognition. One patient once thanked me for being "the nice young girl who always comes." She had no idea who I was. But somehow, she remembered how I made her feel. That moment completely changed the way I think about healthcare. Medicine isn't only about helping people remember. Sometimes it's about making sure they're never forgotten. That is the physician I hope to become. Whether I spend my career treating patients, conducting neuroscience research, or advancing our understanding of neurodegenerative disease, I want every patient to feel seen, respected, and cared for—even on the days when they cannot remember my face. I've introduced myself to the same people hundreds of times. And every single time, I hope they leave remembering one thing that Alzheimer's cannot take away: That, for a few moments, someone cared.

My mother has never worn a white coat, but she is the first person who taught me what it means to care for someone. I learned it in the quiet ways. I saw it in a woman who left Cuba and built a life in a country that did not always speak her language. I saw it when there was no second income or second person to fall back on. My mother is the person who had to make the numbers work, keep our family moving, and somehow make sure I never confused having less with being capable of less. She taught me that sometimes strength does not look impressive from the outside. Sometimes it looks like figuring things out when there is no obvious solution and continuing anyway. Growing up in a single-parent household made me notice things other people can afford not to notice. I understand what it means when an unexpected expense is not simply inconvenient, but capable of changing an entire month. I know the uncomfortable feeling of wanting an opportunity while wondering whether your family can afford for you to take it. I learned that opportunity is not distributed according to ambition. Two people can want something equally badly and have completely different distances to travel to reach it. Instead of making me dream smaller, that reality made me determined to see how far I could go. That is one reason I am drawn to medicine. I am now studying neurobiology at Penn State to become a physician, but I do not want to wait until medical school to begin helping people. I became a certified phlebotomist and learned to care for patients during moments when something as small as a needle could make them afraid. I joined research studying how bilingual people process language through EEG and eye-tracking because, as someone who grew up speaking Spanish, I understand that language can determine whether someone feels heard or completely lost. I am also pursuing Spanish alongside science because I want my future patients to hear more than medical terminology from me. I want them to hear, in their own language, “I understand you.” The more I learn, the more I realize that medicine needs people who understand patients beyond what is written in their charts. A person brings their language, family, finances, fears, and entire life into the exam room with them. Growing up the way I did has made it impossible for me to overlook those things. Someday, I imagine myself standing in a hospital wearing the white coat my mother never wore. But that coat will carry pieces of everything she gave me: resilience, empathy, and the belief that difficulty should make you more aware of other people, not less. My definition of success has changed because of how I was raised. I still dream of becoming a physician, conducting research, and building a financially stable life. But I do not want to be the only person who benefits from getting there. I want to advocate for patients whose language, income, or background makes healthcare harder to navigate. Eventually, I want to mentor first-generation students who look at medicine the way I once did: as an enormous world filled with rules and opportunities no one in their family can explain to them. I want to become the person who explains those rules and holds the door open behind me. My mother raised me by turning limitation into possibility. The greatest way I can repay her is not simply by becoming successful. It is by learning how to do the same for someone else.

The Girl Who Kept Her Questions in Jars Mina collected questions. Not stamps. Not seashells. Not shiny rocks from the playground, although she had seven of those too. Questions. She kept every question she had ever been too afraid, too embarrassed, too confused, or too late to ask inside a glass jar. There were hundreds. Maybe thousands. Mina had stopped counting at 2,413 because Question 2,414 was: Why do we stop counting things when the numbers get too big? And then she had become distracted. Her jars covered an entire wall of her bedroom. There was a tiny blue jar labeled: QUESTIONS ABOUT WATER Where does a puddle go when it disappears? Do fish ever get thirsty? Who decided the ocean should taste like salt? Beside it sat a yellow jar: QUESTIONS THAT PROBABLY HAVE EASY ANSWERS Why does my stomach make noises? How does a zipper know how to close? Why can I see the moon during the daytime? There was a green jar: QUESTIONS ABOUT THINGS THAT GROW Do trees know when it is spring? Why does cutting my hair not hurt, but cutting my finger does? If I whisper nice things to a tomato plant, will the tomatoes taste better? There was a purple jar: QUESTIONS ABOUT PEOPLE Why do grown-ups say “I'm fine” when they aren't? Why does Grandma tell me the same story twice? Why do people sometimes laugh when they're nervous? And underneath Mina's bed, hidden behind three mismatched socks, a tennis ball, and a library book that was approximately six months overdue, there was a black jar. Mina never touched that one. Its label read: QUESTIONS THAT MIGHT MAKE ME LOOK STUPID It was the fullest jar in the room. Mina had not always kept questions in jars. When she was little, she released them everywhere. At breakfast: “Why are eggs called eggs?” On the bus: “How does the driver know where everybody lives?” At the doctor's office: “If medicine helps my body, how does it know where the hurting part is?” During thunderstorms: “If clouds bump into each other, do they apologize?” Her mother tried to answer. Her grandmother invented answers when she did not know them. Her teacher sometimes said, “That's a great question.” But Mina noticed something as she got older. Questions had rules. There were questions you were supposed to ask. And questions you apparently were not. Sometimes Mina raised her hand and another student whispered: “You seriously don't know that?” Sometimes she asked a question and somebody laughed. Sometimes the teacher said: “We don't have time for that right now.” Sometimes Mina asked three questions in a row and heard someone sigh. So Mina developed a system. Whenever a question appeared, she wrote it down. Fold. Fold. Drop. Clink. Into a jar. It was safer there. A question inside a jar could not make anyone laugh. Eventually, Mina became very good at looking like someone who understood everything. She nodded. She took notes. She smiled thoughtfully. She wrote down words she planned to look up later. Nobody knew that every afternoon she came home with her pockets stuffed with questions. Fold. Fold. Drop. Clink. Fold. Fold. Drop. Clink. The jars multiplied. Soon Mina needed another shelf. Then another. Her father installed one over the window. Her mother bought labels. Her grandmother contributed empty pasta-sauce jars. “You ask too many questions,” her brother said. Mina looked at the wall. “Apparently.” Then, on an otherwise completely ordinary Tuesday at exactly 11:43 p.m., Mina woke to a sound. Tap. She opened one eye. Silence. Then: Tap tap. Mina sat up. Tap. Tap tap tap. One of her jars was shaking. “No,” Mina whispered. The jar shook harder. “Absolutely not.” The lid flew off. A folded question shot into the air. It unfolded itself above her bed. The handwriting glowed silver. WHERE DOES THE SKY END? Before Mina could grab it, the question flew through her open window. A silver thread followed behind it. Mina stared. She considered waking her mother. She considered screaming. She considered pretending none of this was happening. Instead, Mina did what curious people have been doing since the beginning of time. She followed it. The silver question floated down the street. Past the bakery. Past the playground. Past the house with the terrifyingly small dog that barked as though it paid the mortgage. Up a hill. At the very top sat an old woman beside a telescope. The question landed gently in her lap. The woman unfolded it. “Where does the sky end?” she read. Mina waited. The woman shrugged. “I don't know.” Mina blinked. “You don't know?” “No.” “But you have a telescope.” “Yes.” “And all those books.” “Yes.” “And you're...” “Careful.” Mina reconsidered. “...clearly very experienced.” “Excellent recovery.” “But shouldn't you know?” The woman laughed. “Oh, goodness. The more I learn, the more things I find that I don't know.” “That sounds terrible.” “It is wonderful.” The woman pointed toward the telescope. “Look.” Mina looked. The moon was enormous. It wasn't the smooth white circle she drew in the corners of her notebooks. It had craters. Shadows. Mountains. Mina gasped. “Why does it have holes?” The old woman smiled. “Good question.” “What are those dark parts?” “Another good question.” “Could someone live there?” “Excellent.” “What does moon dust feel like?” “Now we're getting somewhere.” Mina pulled a pencil from her pajama pocket. She always carried one. By sunrise, Mina had arrived with one question and left with forty-three. This seemed mathematically unfair. She loved it. The following night: Tap tap tap. Another question escaped. WHY DOES THE NEW BOY EAT LUNCH ALONE? This one glowed yellow. It did not lead Mina to a telescope. It led her to Table 14 in the school cafeteria. The next afternoon, Mina stood holding her lunch tray while Leo sat alone. Science questions were easier. You could Google them. People were complicated. Mina almost walked away. Instead, she sat down. Leo looked up. “Hi.” “Hi.” Silence. Mina panicked. She considered asking why he was alone. That suddenly felt enormous. So she asked something smaller. “Would you rather have spaghetti for hair or waffles for feet?” Leo stared at her. “What?” “You'd have to wear syrup-resistant socks.” He laughed. “Spaghetti hair.” “Obviously.” The next day, Leo sat with Mina. Mina never discovered one dramatic reason he had been eating alone. She discovered that he had moved recently. That he missed his old friends. That he loved drawing dragons. That he hated tomatoes. That his grandmother made the best empanadas in the world, according to a completely unbiased source named Leo. Mina learned something important. Not every question exists to uncover an answer. Some exist to begin a conversation. After that, the jars became impossible to control. WHY DID MY PLANT DIE? That question led to the library. Mina learned about roots, sunlight, soil, and the unfortunate consequences of watering a cactus fourteen times in one afternoon. She planted another. WHY DOES GRANDMA TELL THE SAME STORIES? That question did not lead anywhere at first. So Mina sat beside Grandma and listened to the story again. This time, instead of saying, “You already told me,” Mina asked: “What happened next?” Grandma smiled. Mina realized some questions were more important than answers. WHY DOES MAYA DRAW PEOPLE WITH PURPLE HAIR? “Because purple is better,” Maya explained. There was apparently nothing else to investigate. WHY DID I GET A 62 ON MY MATH TEST? Mina disliked that question. She attempted to return it to the jar. The jar rejected it. So she brought the test to her teacher. “I don't understand what I did wrong.” Her teacher pulled over a chair. They went through every problem. Mina discovered she had misunderstood one idea that affected almost everything after it. She had spent three days thinking: I'm bad at math. The real answer was: I don't understand this yet. Mina thought those sentences looked similar from far away. Up close, they were completely different. One by one, Mina opened her jars. Questions about animals. Questions about stars. Questions about why people get sick. Questions about why some families have more money than others. Questions about languages. Questions about why some words cannot be translated perfectly. Questions about airplanes. Questions about countries she had never visited. Questions about why her own body sometimes did strange things. Questions about whether she could become a scientist. Questions about whether scientists were allowed to ask questions they could not answer. Especially those, it turned out. Her bedroom slowly emptied. Except for the black jar. QUESTIONS THAT MIGHT MAKE ME LOOK STUPID It remained underneath her bed. Until Thursday. Thursday was terrible. Mina forgot her homework. It rained during recess. Someone ate the snack she had been saving. She answered a question incorrectly in class and heard two students laugh. Then her teacher announced a science competition. “You can design an experiment about anything you're curious about.” Mina's heart jumped. She had an idea immediately. Then another thought arrived. What if everyone else's idea is better? Fold. Fold. Drop. Clink. Another followed. What if I don't know enough? Clink. What if I ask for help and everyone realizes I have no idea what I'm doing? Clink. What if I fail? CLINK. The black jar began shaking. Mina shoved it farther under the bed. “No.” The jar shook harder. “No no no.” CRACK. A thin line appeared across the glass. Mina reached for it. Too late. BOOM. The jar exploded. Questions filled the room. Hundreds. Thousands. They spun around Mina like frightened birds. WHAT IF I'M NOT SMART ENOUGH? WHAT IF EVERYONE ELSE ALREADY KNOWS? WHAT IF I DON'T BELONG HERE? WHAT IF I TRY AND FAIL? WHAT IF I ASK AND THEY SAY NO? WHAT IF I GO SOMEWHERE I'VE NEVER BEEN AND GET LOST? WHAT IF MY DREAM IS TOO BIG? WHAT IF I AM TOO SMALL? Mina covered her ears. “STOP!” The questions did not stop. She ran downstairs. Her mother found her sitting on the kitchen floor. “What happened?” “My questions got out.” Her mother looked upstairs. A glowing question floated past the doorway. WHAT IF I DISAPPOINT EVERYONE? “Oh,” Mom said. “That one.” “You've had it too?” Her mother laughed softly. “Mina, I still have it.” Mina stared at her. “But you're my mom.” “Yes.” “Aren't moms supposed to know what they're doing?” Her mother laughed so hard she had to sit on the floor too. “No.” “Oh.” They sat quietly. “What do I do with them?” Mina finally asked. Her mother picked up one of the questions. WHAT IF I ASK AND THEY SAY NO? She handed it to Mina. “I suppose you find out.” “That is not helpful.” “It might be the only way.” So Mina tried something new. She caught the question. She turned it over. The back was blank. She wrote: Then I can ask someone else. The question stopped glowing. Another floated toward her. WHAT IF I FAIL? Mina wrote: Then I will know something I didn't know before I tried. Another: WHAT IF I DON'T BELONG? Mina thought longer about that one. Finally: Maybe belonging sometimes begins by showing up before you feel ready. The question folded itself into a tiny paper bird. It flew out the window. One by one, Mina caught the others. Some had answers. Some didn't. Some became experiments. Some became conversations. Some became apologies. Some became friendships. Some became books. One became a plane ticket many years later. And some questions simply remained questions. Mina learned to be okay with that too. The next morning, Mina removed every jar from her bedroom. She recycled the blue one. The yellow one. The green one. Even the black one, although she kept one piece of glass on her desk to remember it. She kept only a single jar. Clear. Empty. No label. Her brother walked in. “What's that one for?” “Questions.” “I thought you weren't collecting them anymore.” “I'm not.” He looked confused. “Then why have a jar?” Mina dropped a question inside. CLINK. “Because I want somewhere to start.” Years passed. Mina grew. Her questions grew with her. Why does the brain remember some things and forget others? Why can two people speak different languages and still understand each other? Why does the body sometimes attack something harmless? Why do some people have access to healthcare while others don't? What happens when humans, animals, and the environment all affect one another? Those questions took Mina into classrooms. Hospitals. Laboratories. Countries she had once only seen on maps. She met people who knew things she didn't. She became very good at saying: “Can you teach me?” Sometimes they did. Sometimes they couldn't. Sometimes they said no. Mina learned that “no” was surprisingly survivable. Then she asked someone else. One day, Mina stood somewhere very far from the bedroom where the jars had once covered her walls. The grass stretched farther than she could see. Animals moved across the horizon. The sky looked enormous. Someone beside her asked: “Did you always know you'd end up here?” Mina laughed. “No.” “Then how did you get here?” Mina thought about the telescope. Leo. The dead cactus. The math test. Her grandmother. Her mother sitting on the kitchen floor. The black jar. Every raised hand. Every email. Every application. Every time she had admitted: I don't know. Every time she had followed it with: Can I learn? She smiled. “I followed my questions.” That night, Mina found a tiny glass jar. She placed it beside her bed. She wrote one question. Fold. Fold. Drop. Clink. WHERE DO I GO NEXT? And this time, Mina couldn't wait to find out. Why I Chose This Message There is a particular kind of embarrassment that comes with being the person who does not know something everyone else seems to already understand. I know that feeling very well. As a first-generation college student, I entered higher education believing that if I worked hard enough, I could figure everything out. What I did not realize was how much of college exists outside the classroom. There were opportunities, research positions, scholarships, programs, professors to contact, certificates, applications, and entire paths I did not know existed. Sometimes I would hear another student casually mention an opportunity and think: How did you know to look for that? For a while, that question made me sad. Then it became useful. I started asking. I emailed professors I had never met. I asked advisors questions I worried were obvious. I applied for opportunities even when I wasn't sure I belonged. I asked researchers whether I could work with them. I asked what else existed. I asked, “Can you tell me more?” Those questions have changed my life. They helped lead me into research studying bilingualism, language processing, cognition, eye-tracking, and EEG. They pushed me toward studying Neurobiology and Spanish and thinking about how language affects healthcare. My own experiences with severe allergies created another collection of questions about the immune system and why the human body sometimes interprets something harmless as dangerous. Working with patients gave me questions medicine cannot always answer with a textbook. And now my questions are taking me to Kenya for field research. I chose curiosity as the center of this story because children are naturally phenomenal question-askers. Then something happens. They begin noticing which questions make adults impatient. They hear someone laugh at a wrong answer. They realize admitting “I don't know” can feel vulnerable. Slowly, some children stop raising their hands. That is why Mina does not collect answers. She collects the questions she becomes afraid to release. I wanted the jars to make that invisible process visible. Every time Mina chooses silence, another question gets trapped behind glass. The questions remain beautiful and full of possibility, but they cannot take her anywhere until she lets them out. The black jar matters most to me. Children's curiosity is not limited by what they don't know. It is often limited by what they become afraid that not knowing says about them. What if I'm not smart enough? What if everyone else already understands? What if I fail? Those questions follow many of us long after childhood. I did not want Mina to magically stop being afraid of them. Instead, she learns to turn them over. That is the lesson I would want a child to remember. “What if I fail?” does not need to become “I definitely won't fail.” Sometimes the healthier answer is: Then I will learn what happens next. Storytelling is uniquely powerful because it allows children to experience an idea before they have language for it. A child may not understand a lecture about intellectual humility, resilience, metacognition, empathy, or fear of failure. But they understand a jar. They understand hiding something because someone might laugh. They understand a question knocking against the glass because it wants to get out. They understand the difference between “I'm bad at this” and “I don't understand this yet.” And maybe, months after reading the story, that child will be sitting in a classroom with a question. Maybe their hand will start to rise and then stop. Maybe they will wonder whether everyone else already knows. I hope they remember Mina. I hope they imagine the question folding itself smaller and smaller, waiting to be put away. And I hope, instead, they raise their hand. Because I have learned that a question does not have to be brilliant to change your life. It just has to be asked. The world celebrates people for finding extraordinary answers. I want children to understand something that took me much longer to learn: Every extraordinary answer was once a question someone was brave enough not to put in a jar.

I used to think some stamps were too beautiful to use. I would collect them and tell myself I was saving them for something important. A special letter. A perfect occasion. Something worthy of peeling one from its backing and knowing I could never use it again. The funny thing about perfect occasions is that they are very good at never arriving. I started collecting stamps because I loved traveling before my family could really afford to travel. My mom could not simply book a flight every time I became fascinated with another part of the world, so I found smaller ways to collect places. Whenever we did travel somewhere, even close to home, I looked for stamps. I loved that something so tiny could carry evidence of somewhere else. For years, I mostly kept them. Then I went to college. Leaving home made me strangely afraid of forgetting ordinary things. Not exams or major accomplishments, but the details nobody thinks to document: what I was worried about on a random Tuesday, something funny my mom said on the phone, the first time I felt like I belonged in a laboratory, or the night I wondered whether I could afford another semester. So I started writing letters to my mom. And I started using my stamps. At first, it felt strange. Once I used one, it was gone. But eventually I realized that a stamp kept forever does exactly the opposite of what it was created to do. It never goes anywhere. That realization followed me beyond philately. Being a first-generation college student has taught me how tempting it is to postpone living. I'll enjoy college when I'm less stressed about money. I'll travel when I can afford it. I'll apply when my résumé is better. I'll celebrate when everything finally feels secure. But if I waited for life to become perfect before participating in it, I would miss most of it. So I apply. I ask questions. I joined research labs studying bilingualism, language, and the brain. I became a certified phlebotomy technician and cared for patients. I volunteer in healthcare, study Neurobiology and Spanish, and help lead Women in Pre-Med/Pre-Health. None of that means the difficult parts disappeared. There have been semesters when the price of my education frightened me more than any exam. I have worked while studying and searched constantly for scholarships because continuing my education requires finding a way to afford my ambition. This scholarship would help me continue that education and eventually give back as a bilingual physician and researcher serving communities where language, finances, and access affect healthcare. I also want to help first-generation students discover opportunities that can remain invisible when no one in your family has navigated college before. This winter, I am supposed to study field biology in Kenya. Sometimes I think about the younger version of me collecting stamps from the few places my family could afford to visit. She would never believe that one day I would conduct research on another continent. When I get there, I want to write my mom a letter. Not when I accomplish everything. Not when life becomes easier. From Kenya. While it is happening. And when I choose the stamp, I won't save the prettiest one. I'll use it. Because stamps, opportunities, and lives were never meant to be saved for the perfect moment. They were meant to go somewhere.

I have always liked making something out of nothing. Growing up, I did not have endless art supplies or expensive materials waiting for me. If I wanted to make something, I usually started with whatever was around me. I would build, shape, rearrange, and turn ordinary things into something completely different. At the time, I did not think of that as being an artist. I just knew that making things made me happy. Art became an escape for me before I really understood that I needed one. I grew up in a low-income family with my mom and grandmother, and there were plenty of things we simply could not afford. As a kid, though, I could take something that did not seem valuable and imagine what else it could become. I think that is part of why I eventually fell in love with sculpture. I love that sculpture lets me physically create something that did not exist before. I can start with a material that looks ordinary and slowly give it a completely different shape, purpose, or personality. There is something really satisfying about working with my hands. I like the messiness of it. I like having an idea and realizing halfway through that it is not working, then figuring out how to make it work anyway. Sometimes what I end up creating looks nothing like what I originally imagined, and I actually love that. Sculpture has taught me that creating does not always mean following a perfect plan. That lesson feels familiar to me. As a first-generation college student, much of my life has involved figuring things out with what I have. My path has not always come with clear instructions or unlimited resources. I have learned to ask questions, find opportunities, improvise, and keep building from whatever is available to me. In a strange way, that is exactly what I have always done with art. I hope my artwork can make other people see value in things they might normally overlook. Beauty does not have to come from expensive materials or perfect circumstances. Sometimes it comes from noticing something ordinary and deciding it deserves another look. I especially want younger students who grew up like me to understand that creativity does not belong only to people who can afford the best supplies, classes, or studios. You can begin with what you have. That is what art has always meant to me. It gave me somewhere to put my imagination when my circumstances felt limiting. It taught me that having less does not mean you have less to create. Maybe that is why I still love sculpture so much. I grew up learning how to make the most out of very little, and somewhere along the way, making something out of nothing became one of my favorite things to do.

I am Caribbean, and I cannot swim. For a Puerto Rican and Cuban girl, I know that sounds a little ridiculous. But growing up, the ocean always felt like a good representation of how I saw the world: there was so much beyond what I knew, but reaching it was not always as simple as wanting to go. I grew up in a low-income household with a single mother. Home has mostly been my mom, my grandmother, and me, and money was something we had to think about carefully. I learned early that wanting something and being able to afford it were two completely different conversations. That followed me into college. As a first-generation student, I did not grow up knowing about research labs, study abroad programs, internships, or all of the opportunities hidden inside a university. Once I started discovering them, I became almost obsessed with finding more. I send the email. I ask the question. I apply even when I am not sure I have a chance. I love meeting people who know something I do not, trying things I have never done, and coming home with a story I would not have had otherwise. The difficult part is that almost every exciting opportunity eventually comes with a price. I have learned to look at an opportunity and immediately look for the scholarship attached to it. I have learned how to fill out financial aid forms, search for funding, and ask for help even when I would rather be able to say I do not need it. Growing up with limited money has sometimes made my world feel smaller, but it has also made me determined not to let my circumstances decide how much of that world I get to experience. That determination has shaped the education I am building. I became a certified phlebotomist and completed more than 100 blood draws because I wanted to experience healthcare with actual patients. I found research opportunities in immunology and bilingual language processing because I wanted to explore questions that interested me beyond the classroom. Now I am preparing to conduct field research in Kenya, something that would have sounded almost impossible to the younger version of me. I study Art (sculpture), Spanish, and Neurobiology because I hope to become a bilingual physician. Growing up between Spanish and English taught me that being understood can change how comfortable someone feels asking for help. I want my future patients to be able to explain what hurts, what scares them, and what they do not understand in the language that feels most natural to them. I especially want to serve communities where finances, language, or background can make healthcare feel less accessible. Growing up low-income has made me value opportunity, but it has also made me value sharing it. When I find a scholarship, program, research position, or resource that could help someone else, I tell them. I know what it feels like not to know an opportunity exists, and I never want knowledge to become another advantage available only to people who already have it. My goals have become bigger than the circumstances I grew up in, but I have not forgotten those circumstances. They are part of why I work so hard to experience everything my education can offer and why I want what I eventually accomplish to matter beyond myself. I still cannot swim. But I have learned that being afraid of deep water and staying on shore forever are two different things.

Growing up, I thought confidence came first. I thought successful women woke up believing they belonged in every room they entered. Then I started meeting women in medicine, research, and higher education, and I realized something surprising: many of them had been afraid too. The difference wasn't that they had never doubted themselves—it was that someone, somewhere, had given them permission to try anyway. I know what it feels like to wait for permission. As a first-generation Black and Latina college student, there weren't many roadmaps for becoming a physician. Research felt like something "other people" did. Working in hospitals felt intimidating. Applying for scholarships, asking professors for opportunities, and imagining myself in a white coat all felt like goals reserved for students with more connections, more money, or more confidence. Every opportunity I've earned has come from deciding to raise my hand before I felt ready. Today, I volunteer in a hospital emergency department, work as a mobile phlebotomist serving nursing homes across New Jersey, and conduct neuroscience research in Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab. Every one of those experiences began with the same quiet decision: I don't need permission to belong here. That belief has changed the way I support other women. I don't want to be remembered as the woman who gave inspirational speeches. I want to be remembered as the woman who opened doors and then held them open. Whether it's helping another first-generation student apply for research, showing someone how to find scholarships, encouraging a classmate to email a professor they're intimidated by, or someday mentoring young women interested in medicine, I want my impact to come from expanding what another woman believes is possible for herself. Through Project Cura Cuba, the nonprofit initiative I'm building to deliver medical supplies to underserved communities, I also hope to create opportunities for women to lead, volunteer, and recognize the influence they already have within their communities. To me, women's empowerment isn't measured by how many people know your name or how many leadership titles appear on your résumé. It's measured by how many women walk through doors because they watched you walk through first. If I become a physician, I hope young Black and Latina girls don't see me as exceptional. I hope they see me as evidence. Evidence that they belong in laboratories, hospitals, boardrooms, and classrooms just as much as anyone else. If my journey gives even one young woman permission to believe that before the world tells her she can, then I will have created exactly the kind of impact I want to leave behind.

I am Caribbean, and I cannot swim. For a Puerto Rican and Cuban girl, this feels almost embarrassing to admit. I grew up surrounded by people who talked about beaches like they were second nature, while I was perfectly happy staying where my feet could touch the bottom. I used to think it was a funny contradiction about myself. Now, I think it explains me surprisingly well. I have never been fearless. I have just gotten really good at being curious enough to do things anyway. My educational goal is to become a bilingual physician and researcher. I study Neurobiology and Spanish because I want to understand people from more than one direction: what is happening inside their bodies, but also everything happening around them. Growing up between Spanish and English showed me how much can disappear between two people when they do not share a language. I want my future patients to be able to tell me where it hurts, what scares them, or what they do not understand in the language that feels most like home. I want to know people, not just their symptoms. That goal has taken me into places I never expected. I became a certified phlebotomist and completed more than 100 blood draws because I wanted to experience healthcare beyond a classroom. I joined research in immunology and bilingual language processing because I wanted to understand questions I could not answer from a textbook. Now I am preparing to study biology in Kenya, where I will trade a traditional classroom for field research in the Maasai Mara. Apparently, the Caribbean girl who cannot swim has no problem crossing an ocean. As a first-generation college student, though, pursuing every opportunity comes with a question that is much less exciting: Can I afford it? I have learned how to search for scholarships, send the email, ask for help, and keep looking when the first answer is no. I am proud of that resourcefulness, but I also know that ambition cannot make tuition, research experiences, certifications, and educational opportunities free. This scholarship would help me continue building an education that extends beyond simply earning my degree. It would reduce the financial pressure behind decisions about which opportunities I can pursue and allow me to keep investing in the experiences that are preparing me to become the physician I want to be. More importantly, it would be an investment in the kind of healthcare I hope to provide someday: scientifically informed, culturally aware, and understandable to the person sitting across from me. I still cannot swim. Maybe I will finally learn. But education has taught me something else about myself: I do not need to feel completely ready before I move toward something that matters to me. There are too many people I have not met yet, too many questions I have not asked, and too much of the world I have not experienced. I may not know how to swim, but I have gotten pretty good at going into the deep end.

I Grew Up Under a Flight Path I did not grow up looking for airplanes. They found me first. I grew up in Elizabethport, New Jersey, only a few miles from Newark Liberty International Airport. Airplanes were part of the background noise of my childhood. They flew over my neighborhood while I walked outside, while my family talked, while I wondered where all those people above me were going. Sometimes they were low enough that I could make out the colors on the aircraft before watching them disappear. For most people, a plane overhead lasts a few seconds. For me, those few seconds became a question: What would it feel like to be the person in the cockpit? As I grew older, that question collided with another fascination: medicine. I study Neurobiology because I am fascinated by what happens to the human body when it is pushed beyond ordinary conditions. Aviation does exactly that. Altitude, acceleration, fatigue, oxygen availability, and split-second decision-making all affect the person operating an aircraft. Eventually, I hope to pursue flight training at Linden Municipal Airport and combine my interests through aerospace and space medicine. I do not want to choose between medicine and aviation. I want to stand where they meet. That same curiosity has pushed me to seek opportunities even when no one handed me a roadmap. As a first-generation college student, I learned quickly that leadership does not always begin with being given a title. Sometimes it begins with being willing to ask the first question, send the first email, or create the opportunity that you wish existed. That mindset has shaped how I lead. At Penn State, I became a founding executive board member and Treasurer of Women in Pre-Med/Pre-Health, helping build a community for other students pursuing healthcare. I have also worked as a certified phlebotomy technician, volunteered in an emergency department, shadowed physicians, and become involved in neuroscience and bilingual-language research. Before college, I spent two summers as a camp counselor working with children from my hometown, including Spanish-speaking families who sometimes needed someone to bridge a communication gap. Those experiences taught me that leadership is rarely about being the loudest person in the room. It is about noticing when someone needs reassurance, taking responsibility when others depend on you, and helping the person behind you find their way forward. That is one reason Craig Huffman’s legacy resonates with me. The kind of pilot I hope to become is not defined only by technical ability. Aviation demands judgment, communication, responsibility, and the humility to keep learning. Those are the same qualities I want to carry into medicine. There is something full-circle about beginning flight training near the place where this dream started. I spent my childhood in Elizabethport watching aircraft descend toward Newark. Someday, I want to drive to nearby Linden, climb into a cockpit, and become the person I used to wonder about from the ground. But I also want to remember the people still looking up. Leadership, to me, means learning how to fly and then helping someone else believe they belong in the sky too.

I Grew Up Under a Flight Path I did not grow up looking for airplanes. They found me first. I grew up in Elizabethport, New Jersey, only a few miles from Newark Liberty International Airport. Airplanes were part of the background noise of my childhood. They flew over my neighborhood while I walked outside, while my family talked, while I wondered where all those people above me were going. Sometimes they were so low that I could make out the colors on the aircraft before watching them disappear. For most people, a plane overhead lasts a few seconds. For me, those few seconds became a question: What would it feel like to be the person in the cockpit? As I grew older, that question collided with another fascination: medicine. I am studying Neurobiology because I am fascinated by the human body, especially what happens when it is pushed outside its normal conditions. Aviation does exactly that. Altitude changes oxygen availability. Acceleration challenges the cardiovascular and nervous systems. Fatigue affects cognition and reaction time. Pilots have to understand not only an aircraft, but also the human being operating it. And then there is space. My dream is not to choose between medicine and aviation. I want to stand where they meet. I hope to pursue flight training at Linden Municipal Airport and eventually explore aerospace and space medicine. I want to understand what happens to the brain and body in environments humans were never biologically designed to enter. What happens to cognition under extreme conditions? How does microgravity affect human physiology? How do we protect the health of pilots and astronauts when the nearest hospital may be hundreds or thousands of miles away? Those questions fascinate me because aviation turns the human body itself into part of the engineering problem. My experiences in healthcare have already taught me to remain calm when another person is depending on me. As a certified phlebotomy technician, I have worked directly with patients, including completing more than 100 blood draws during my clinical training. I have volunteered in an emergency department, shadowed physicians, earned my BLS certification, and pursued research involving the brain and human behavior. Each experience has made me more interested in what humans are capable of when precision matters. Learning to fly would challenge me in a completely different way. I would have to understand weather, navigation, aerodynamics, instruments, decision-making, and risk while accepting the responsibility that comes with controlling an aircraft. I want that responsibility. There is also something beautifully full-circle about pursuing aviation near the place where it began for me. I spent my childhood in Elizabethport watching aircraft descend toward Newark. Someday, I want to drive to nearby Linden, climb into a cockpit, and become the person I used to wonder about from the ground. But I do not want the sky to be my limit. I want it to be my laboratory.

I spent most of my childhood believing a cookie could kill me. Not metaphorically. Not because it had too much sugar. One wrong ingredient could turn an ordinary afternoon into an emergency room visit. I grew up with severe food allergies, which meant I learned to read nutrition labels before I understood half the words printed on them. Other kids could grab food without thinking. I searched packages for milk, peanuts, and tree nuts. At restaurants, my first question was never, “What looks good?” It was, “What can I eat?” Traveling meant another question: Where is the nearest hospital? Food was supposed to nourish me. For years, I was afraid of it. Eventually, I got tired of fear making decisions for me. Allergy testing and treatment were expensive, so I began reading everything I could about allergies, immunology, and oral immunotherapy. With what I learned, I began gradually exposing myself at home to foods I had spent years avoiding. Then one day, I ate a cashew. To anyone watching, nothing happened. That was the miracle. No reaction. No panic. No emergency medication. I just ate it. I would never encourage a patient to attempt allergy treatment independently. If anything, my experience taught me why affordable access to qualified healthcare professionals matters so much. No one should have to weigh the cost of medical care against the fear of food. That experience also changed the direction of my life. I became fascinated by the immune system and eventually chose to study Neurobiology while pursuing Spanish and Spanish for Healthcare. I became a nationally certified phlebotomy technician and completed more than 100 blood draws during my clinical training. I worked directly with patients as a mobile phlebotomist, volunteered in an emergency department, shadowed physicians, earned my BLS certification, and became involved in research. Every experience has reinforced the same lesson: health advice only works when it fits the human being receiving it. “Eat healthier” sounds simple until the patient cannot afford the foods being recommended. Or their cultural foods are absent from every nutrition pamphlet. Or they have allergies. Or they speak Spanish and are too embarrassed to admit they did not understand the instructions. In nursing, I want to replace “You need to eat better” with a question: “What does eating well look like in your life?” I would teach patients to understand labels, find affordable substitutions, incorporate nutritious foods they already enjoy, and make gradual changes they can maintain. As a Spanish speaker pursuing Spanish for Healthcare studies, I also want to make nutrition education understandable across language barriers. Sometimes better healthcare can begin with something as small as explaining the why behind a recommendation. Most importantly, I would remember that food is never just fuel. Food is culture. Food is money. Food is family. Food is comfort. Sometimes, food is fear. I know because I have experienced all five. And now, something incredible is happening. This winter, I am preparing to study abroad in Kenya. Years ago, traveling that far would have terrified me. I would have been thinking about unfamiliar foods, emergency medication, and how quickly I could reach a hospital. Now I am thinking about the research I will conduct, the people I will meet, and everything I will learn. That may be the greatest thing healthcare has given me: the ability to imagine an adventure before imagining an emergency. For years, I entered kitchens asking, “Could this hurt me?” I want my career to help more people reach the point where food inspires a different question: “How can this help me live?”

I've always thought it was ironic that I'm Caribbean, but I don't know how to swim. My family comes from Cuba and Puerto Rico—two islands surrounded by water—yet put me somewhere my feet can't touch the bottom and my first instinct is to panic. College has taught me there is another way to drown: slowly, in numbers. Tuition. Rent. Textbooks. Groceries. Interest rates. Loan balances. For a first-generation student pursuing medicine, those numbers follow nearly every opportunity I consider. I can calculate what a class costs before I ever sit in it. I can look at an incredible opportunity and immediately wonder what working fewer hours would cost me. And because medical school is part of my future, I know my undergraduate debt is only the beginning if I don't make deliberate decisions now. So I refuse to simply watch the water rise. My approach to student debt is a combination of working, applying, planning, and shortening the distance to graduation whenever possible. I work while attending Penn State and have deliberately pursued skills that allow me to earn money while also building my future in healthcare. I became a nationally certified phlebotomist and worked drawing blood from patients in long-term-care facilities. Instead of viewing employment and education as completely separate parts of my life, I try to make them work together: the money helps fund my education while the experience prepares me for medicine. I have also become almost stubborn about scholarships. I search for them constantly. I apply even when the odds look ridiculous. I have learned that $500 can be groceries, books, transportation, or money I do not have to borrow—and that several "small" scholarships can become thousands of dollars that never accumulate interest. Every application is another attempt to replace borrowed money with earned support. Academically, I am pursuing Neurobiology and Spanish along with a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate. I am also looking for ways to complete my education efficiently. My goal isn't to rush through college just to escape it; I love learning, research, meeting people, and finding new opportunities. But every unnecessary semester has a price tag. Planning my credits carefully and using summer coursework when appropriate can reduce the amount I eventually need to finance. My longer-term plan is equally intentional. I want to become a bilingual physician, and eventually combine patient care with research and service to Spanish-speaking and underserved communities. Medicine requires years of education, so managing debt now gives my future self more freedom later. I don't want enormous educational debt determining where I practice, which patients I can afford to serve, or whether I can pursue community-focused work. That is why receiving this scholarship would do something deceptively simple: It would remove weight from the water. Five thousand dollars is not abstract to me. It is $5,000 I would not need to earn twice—once through the education it helps purchase and again through years of repayment and interest. It would allow more of my energy to go toward coursework, research, clinical experience, and building the physician I am working to become. I still don't know how to swim. But being first-generation has made me surprisingly good at refusing to sink. I work. I budget. I ask questions. I plan ahead. And whenever I find another opportunity to make college more affordable, I reach for it. My plan isn't to wait for someone to pull me out of the water. It's to keep removing the weights until I can reach the shore myself—and someday use the education I fought so hard to afford to help someone else stay afloat.

I have used artificial intelligence for a lot of things. One of the more unconventional ones was trying to understand why a Goldfish cracker could potentially send me to the hospital. Around my sophomore year of high school, AI tools were becoming accessible to regular people, and at almost the exact same time, I was becoming fascinated—and frustrated—with my severe food allergies. I had learned about oral immunotherapy, or OIT, which exposes patients to carefully controlled amounts of an allergen over time under medical supervision. I had watched how allergy testing and food challenges worked, read about the science, and asked countless questions. The problem was that appointments, testing, and treatment could become expensive for my family. So, being the slightly obsessive and curious teenager I was, I went online. I read articles, watched explanations, searched medical terminology, and used AI like an endlessly patient study partner. I asked about dilution and concentration. I asked why an immune system could mistake milk protein for something dangerous. I asked about desensitization, antibodies, allergic reactions, and the tiny measured exposures used in OIT. If I didn't understand, I would essentially say, "Okay, explain that again, but pretend I'm fifteen." Sometimes I argued with it. Sometimes I checked its answers against books and other resources. Usually, one question produced five more. My curiosity even influenced how I thought about my own allergy journey at home, always with my mother nearby. Looking back, I understand why allergen exposure requires medical supervision: anaphylaxis is unpredictable, and an algorithm cannot administer epinephrine or recognize every warning sign. But that experience taught me something I still carry with me: Information can make a patient feel less powerless. Today, I'm a Neurobiology and Spanish double major at Penn State pursuing a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate, and my online-learning habits are still a little unconventional. I don't want technology to hand me answers. I want to bother it with questions. I'll use AI to make me reason through a biological mechanism, then check it against my course materials. I'll investigate something mentioned for thirty seconds during lecture simply because I suddenly need to know more. Anatomy became real when I became a certified phlebotomist and had an actual patient's vein in front of me. Language and cognition became real when I entered neuroscience research. Spanish becomes more meaningful when I imagine someday explaining a diagnosis to a patient in the language they feel safest speaking. As a first-generation student, the internet has also become my unofficial instruction manual for college. I've used it to discover research, scholarships, programs, mentors, and opportunities my family couldn't necessarily tell me existed. I love finding someone doing something fascinating and doing my favorite thing: introducing myself. Sometimes a search becomes an email. An email becomes a conversation. A conversation becomes an opportunity. I've always thought it was ironic that I'm Caribbean but don't know how to swim. My family comes from Cuba and Puerto Rico, islands—and yet I panic when my feet can't touch the bottom. Maybe that's why online learning appeals to me. There is an ocean of information in front of me, and I know I'll never reach the bottom. I don't want to. I want to keep asking strange questions about Goldfish crackers. I want one answer to create five more. I want what I learn online to follow me into laboratories, hospitals, and eventually my patients' lives. I still can't swim. But give me an ocean of questions? I'll dive in.

I've always thought it was ironic that I'm Caribbean, but I don't know how to swim. My family comes from Cuba and Puerto Rico—two islands surrounded by water—yet put me somewhere my feet cannot touch the bottom, and I panic. Maybe that is why I recognize the feeling of drowning so easily. Growing up in a Spanish-speaking family, I sometimes watched the people I loved enter doctor's offices and become smaller versions of themselves. Words they understood at home were replaced by medical terminology, unfamiliar instructions, and questions they weren't always sure how to answer. I learned that someone can technically have access to healthcare and still feel completely lost inside of it. Sometimes, I became the bridge. Before I ever imagined wearing a white coat, I understood what it meant to help someone find the words they needed. Those experiences are part of why I now double major in Neurobiology and Spanish at Penn State while pursuing a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate. I don't want Spanish to simply be something written under "languages" on my résumé. I want it to change the way someone experiences medicine. My own body gave me another reason. I grew up with severe food allergies, which meant learning that something as ordinary as food could become dangerous within minutes. Later, experiencing oral immunotherapy fascinated me. My immune system could mistakenly identify something harmless as a threat, yet medicine could gradually change that response. I became obsessed with the question: How can the body be so intelligent and still be wrong? That question pulled me toward immunology and medicine. Since then, I have tried to get as close to healthcare as possible. I became a certified phlebotomist and worked with patients in long-term-care facilities. I volunteer in an emergency department. I conduct neuroscience research at Penn State. Every experience has reinforced something I didn't expect when I first became interested in science: my favorite part is still the people. I love talking to patients. I love hearing people's stories. I love asking questions. I love walking into rooms where I know almost nothing and leaving with a completely different understanding of someone's life. That is the physician I want to become. I hope to practice medicine while contributing to research in immunology, but I also want to address the quieter barriers that determine who actually benefits from scientific progress. I want Spanish-speaking patients to understand their diagnoses without depending on their children to interpret. I want low-income families to have access to treatments that too often feel reserved for people who can afford them. I want to mentor first-generation students who look at medicine and wonder whether there is a place for them in it. And through Project Cura Cuba, an initiative I am developing to increase access to medical supplies in underserved Cuban communities, I hope my impact eventually reaches beyond the patients standing directly in front of me. I used to think becoming a doctor meant learning enough science to save someone. Now I think it also means noticing when someone is struggling to stay above water. I still don't know how to swim. But someday, I hope a frightened patient will walk into my office feeling overwhelmed by a diagnosis, a language barrier, or a healthcare system they don't understand. I may not be able to calm every wave waiting outside that room. But I can make sure they don't have to navigate the water alone.

've always thought it was ironic that I'm Caribbean, but I don't know how to swim. My family comes from Cuba and Puerto Rico, two islands surrounded by water, yet put me somewhere my feet can't touch the bottom and my first instinct is panic. College has taught me something unexpected: sometimes you have to jump in before you know how to float. That is probably the best way to describe how I live my life now: I jump. I'm a first-generation college student at Penn State double majoring in Neurobiology and Spanish while pursuing a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate. My goal is to become a bilingual physician specializing in immunology, but when I imagine my future, I don't just picture a white coat. I picture a career built around people. I love talking to people. I love hearing how someone ended up where they are, asking questions, and discovering opportunities I didn't know existed five minutes earlier. Some of my most important experiences began with simply introducing myself, sending an email, or asking, "Can I help?" That curiosity has taken me into nursing homes as a certified phlebotomist, an emergency department as a volunteer, neuroscience research at Penn State, and leadership as a founding Treasurer for Women in Pre-Med. It is taking me to Kenya to study African savannah biology and inspired me to create Project Cura Cuba, an initiative I hope to grow to provide medical supplies to underserved communities. I don't pursue these experiences to collect titles. Every new room introduces me to another person or perspective that changes how I understand healthcare. My dream is to combine medicine, research, Spanish, and service. I want to become the physician who speaks directly with a Spanish-speaking family instead of making their child translate. I want to conduct research without forgetting the people represented by the data. I want to mentor first-generation students who enter college feeling like everyone else received an instruction manual they somehow missed. But jumping into deep water is harder when you're worried about the cost of staying afloat. My college journey has included financial instability and family changes that affected my academics and security. Instead of allowing that uncertainty to shrink my ambitions, it made me search harder. I took summer courses, worked, applied for scholarships, sought mentors, and kept saying yes even when I wasn't sure I belonged in the room. This scholarship supports first-generation and underrepresented students who have overcome obstacles pursuing college. For me, $550 would mean books, transportation, groceries, or another educational expense I currently have to figure out myself. More importantly, it would give me something financial stress constantly takes away: room to breathe. I've learned something about floating: the more you panic and fight the water, the harder staying above it becomes. I'm still learning—in water and in life. Until then, I'll keep doing what got me this far: talking to people, asking questions, taking chances, and jumping toward opportunities before fear convinces me not to. One day, I hope to reach back and help someone else stay afloat too.

1. Please tell us a bit about yourself and what specifically motivates you. If you could do anything with your life, what do you imagine you’d do? I have a habit of applying for things before I have time to convince myself I don't belong there. That habit has changed my life. I'm a first-generation Caribbean college student at Penn State, double majoring in Neurobiology and Spanish while also earning a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate. Since arriving at college, I've tried to say yes to every door that opens, and knock on the ones that don't. I became a certified phlebotomist and drew blood from patients in long-term care facilities. I volunteer in an emergency department. I joined Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab to conduct neuroscience research. I became a founding executive-board Treasurer for Women in Pre-Med. I pursued study abroad in Kenya. I even began building Project Cura Cuba, an initiative focused on getting medical supplies to underserved communities. None of this happened because I felt completely ready. Most of the time, I was terrified. I just applied anyway. What motivates me is knowing how much can change when one person finally gets an opportunity. As a first-generation student from a lower-income family, I've learned that talent can exist everywhere while opportunity does not. If I could do anything with my life, I would become a bilingual physician-scientist specializing in immunology, serve communities like the one that raised me, expand Project Cura Cuba, and mentor students who think careers like mine belong to somebody else. I don't need every door to open. I just need enough people to believe in me that I can eventually hold those doors open for someone else. 2. What excites you about STEM? How do you feel you could make a positive impact on the world through a job in information technology? My immune system once taught me one of my favorite things about science: the human body can be wrong. I grew up with severe food allergies. My immune system could identify something harmless and respond as though my life were in danger. Through oral immunotherapy, I experienced something even more fascinating: science could gradually teach that same immune system to respond differently. That changed STEM for me. I became fascinated by the enormous amount of information hidden inside our bodies, immune responses, neural signals, genetics, language processing, and how technology allows us to turn that information into something capable of helping people. That's what I now experience from another perspective in neuroscience research. Studying neurobiology and working in a lab examining language and cognition has shown me that technology isn't separate from medicine. Modern healthcare depends on our ability to collect, analyze, and interpret information. I want to bring that intersection into my future career in immunology. I imagine technology helping physicians recognize patterns across patient histories, laboratory results, environmental exposures, and symptoms earlier, while research data helps us develop increasingly personalized treatments. But innovation means little if it never reaches the people who need it. Growing up in a Spanish-speaking Caribbean family taught me that a healthcare system can possess incredible technology and still fail someone who cannot understand it or access it. That's why I'm also studying Spanish. I want to help build a future where medical technology doesn't widen healthcare disparities—it closes them. To me, the most exciting technology isn't the one that knows the most. It's the one that helps us care for people better. 3. Please describe the greatest challenge you’ve had to overcome and how you managed to get past it. I've always thought it was ironic that I'm Caribbean, but I don't know how to swim. My family comes from Cuba and Puerto Rico, islands surrounded by water, yet I never learned how to float. Put me in deep water and my instinct is still to panic. Sometimes college has felt strangely similar. During my first year, my parents separated. For months, I didn't know where I would be living. Financial instability became something I carried alongside chemistry exams, biology assignments, and the enormous expectations I had placed on myself as a future physician. My grades fell, and suddenly the dream I had worked toward for years felt like it was drifting farther away. I felt like I was drowning while everyone around me somehow already knew how to swim. So I stopped waiting for calmer water. I enrolled in additional and summer courses to rebuild my academic record. I changed how I studied. I sought mentors. I worked. I became a phlebotomist. I pursued research, volunteering, leadership, scholarships, and every opportunity I could find. When I didn't know how something worked, I asked. When I wasn't sure I belonged, I applied anyway. My greatest challenge wasn't one bad semester or one financial crisis. It was learning to believe that a difficult beginning didn't disqualify me from an extraordinary ending. I still don't know how to swim. But I've become remarkably good at staying afloat. I don't know exactly which opportunity will finally change my financial circumstances or which application will receive a yes. I only know that I'll keep reaching for them. I don't need someone to carry me to shore. I just need someone to believe I'm worth giving a little more time above the water—and I promise I'll keep swimming from there. Receiving this scholarship would be life-changing for me. It would mean more than financial assistance; it would give me room to breathe, reset, and focus on rebuilding the academic and financial stability I have worked so hard to regain. I would be incredibly grateful for someone to invest in my future at a moment when that support could change its direction. This scholarship wouldn't finish the journey for me, but it would give me the chance to come back up for air and keep swimming.

I want to practice an art that will never hang in a museum: the art of making someone feel safe enough to say, “I need help.” As a Caribbean, first-generation college student studying Neurobiology and Spanish, I’ve learned that healing lives somewhere between science and art. Growing up in a Cuban and Puerto Rican immigrant family, I watched my family navigate systems that were never explained to them. Science can explain neurotransmitters and depression, but there is an art to listening across cultures and recognizing when “I’m fine” means anything but. I want to build bilingual mental-health programs that bring care into places people already trust—schools, hospitals, community centers, and cultural organizations. Growing up in Elizabeth, New Jersey, I saw how cost, language, and cultural stigma can turn asking for help into another obstacle. I envision free screenings, peer-support groups, creative-expression workshops, and connections to affordable professional care in both English and Spanish. Being first-generation has taught me the art of navigating without a map. Financial uncertainty and family challenges have taught me something equally important: resilience isn't always carrying everything yourself. Sometimes strength is finally letting someone help carry it with you. As a future bilingual physician, I want to combine neuroscience with the human art of healing so someone's income, language, or culture never determines whether they receive support. Medicine may be a science, but making someone believe their life is worth caring for is an art.

I've always thought it was ironic that I'm Caribbean, but I don't know how to swim. My family comes from Cuba and Puerto Rico, islands surrounded by water, yet I never learned how to float. Every time I've stepped into deep water, my first instinct has been panic because I don't trust that I'll stay above the surface. College feels a lot like that. As a first-generation college student, there are days when it feels like I'm treading water while everyone else somehow knows how to swim. They know how to navigate financial aid, internships, research opportunities, and networking because someone in their family has done it before. I'm learning as I go. Every application, every scholarship essay, every setback—I have to figure it out myself. But maybe that's what college really means to me. It doesn't mean earning a diploma. It means proving that my family's story doesn't end where theirs had to. Growing up in Elizabeth, New Jersey, I watched my parents work tirelessly to give me opportunities they never had. English wasn't the language spoken at home, so I became the translator in doctors' offices long before I understood the medical terminology myself. I watched them smile politely when they were confused because asking another question felt intimidating. Those moments shaped the physician I hope to become. I promised myself that one day no patient of mine would leave feeling unheard simply because of the language they spoke. That promise is why I'm a Neurobiology and Spanish double major at Penn State University while earning a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate. I'm also a certified phlebotomist, volunteer in the emergency department at Rahway Hospital, and conduct neuroscience research in Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab. Every long day, every patient I meet, and every late night studying has been in pursuit of something much bigger than a career. I'm trying to become the doctor my younger self wished my family had. College has taught me that success isn't a straight line. I've balanced work with demanding coursework, searched endlessly for scholarships, and turned down opportunities because financial reality came first. Every challenge has strengthened my belief that education is the greatest investment I can make—not only for myself, but for every patient and family I'll one day serve. As a Black and Latina woman pursuing STEM, I hope my journey reminds other students that they belong in spaces where they may not always see themselves represented. I've never learned how to swim. But every semester, every exam, every research project, and every obstacle teaches me how to stay afloat a little longer. College hasn't made the water any calmer—it has made me stronger. It has taught me that resilience isn't something you're born with. It's something you practice every time you refuse to give up. One day, I won't just be staying above the surface. I'll be the physician reaching back into the water for someone else—the little girl translating for her parents, the first-generation student wondering if they belong, or the patient who simply wants to feel understood. That's what college means to me. It isn't just helping me build a future; it's teaching me how to help others build theirs. If my family's dream was to make it to shore, then mine is to make sure others never have to swim alone.

If you looked at my résumé, you would probably think I've never struggled a day in my life. Neurobiology and Spanish double major. Certified phlebotomist. Hospital volunteer. Neuroscience researcher. Scholarship applicant. Future physician. On paper, it looks like ambition. What the paper doesn't show are the days when depression convinced me that getting out of bed was harder than any exam I would take. It doesn't show the nights I questioned whether I could keep carrying the weight of school, work, finances, and the expectations I placed on myself. It certainly doesn't show how exhausting it is to smile through a day when your mind is telling you that you're falling behind everyone else. That's why mental health matters to me as a student. For a long time, I thought being successful meant pretending I was okay. I believed asking for help somehow made me less capable. But living with depression taught me something that neurobiology later explained: the brain is an organ, not a measure of someone's character. We would never expect someone with a broken bone to simply "try harder," yet we often expect people struggling with mental illness to do exactly that. Studying neurobiology has transformed the way I understand mental health. Every lecture reminds me that thoughts, emotions, memory, and behavior all originate in the same remarkable organ. Mental illness isn't a personal failure; it's a healthcare issue deserving of research, compassion, and treatment. That realization has shaped the physician I hope to become. I advocate for mental health in ways that aren't always visible. As a certified phlebotomist, I've learned that patients often need reassurance before they need a needle. As a volunteer in the emergency department at Rahway Hospital, I've seen how fear and anxiety can change a person's entire healthcare experience. Even among friends, I try to create the kind of space I once needed myself—one where people don't feel pressured to pretend they're okay. Mental health advocacy isn't always organizing events or giving speeches. Sometimes it's answering, "I'm here. Tell me what's really going on." This scholarship would do more than ease financial stress. It would give me something mental health often steals from students: room to breathe. Less time worrying about tuition means more time conducting research, serving patients, volunteering, and becoming the physician I know I can be. My résumé tells one story. My mental health tells another. I'm proud that both stories exist, because together they've taught me that strength isn't measured by how well you hide your struggles. It's measured by what you choose to do with them. Mine has inspired me to build a career where every patient feels seen—not just for what's happening in their body, but for what's happening in their mind as well.

My family never sat me down and told me what success looked like. They showed me. Growing up in Elizabeth, New Jersey, I watched my parents build a life from almost nothing after leaving Cuba and Puerto Rico in search of greater opportunity. They rarely talked about sacrifice because, to them, it wasn't extraordinary—it was simply what parents do. My father spent years traveling for physically demanding work to provide for our family. My mother learned to navigate a country where English wasn't her first language while making sure I never doubted that education could change my future. Looking back, I realize they weren't just building a home. They were building possibilities they hoped I would someday inherit. One of my earliest responsibilities was becoming my parents' translator in medical offices. I was still young, yet I often found myself explaining paperwork, translating conversations, and helping them navigate a healthcare system that felt unfamiliar. At the time, I didn't think much of it. It was simply what our family needed. Years later, I realized those moments had quietly shaped the direction of my life. I saw firsthand that language could become a barrier to healthcare and that even the best medical care loses its impact if a patient leaves confused or afraid to ask questions. That realization became the foundation of my career aspirations. Today, I'm a Neurobiology and Spanish double major at Penn State University, pursuing a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate. I'm also a certified phlebotomist, volunteer in the emergency department at Rahway Hospital, and conduct neuroscience research in Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab. Every experience has reinforced the same lesson my family taught me years ago: knowledge is only meaningful when it is used to serve others. My long-term goal is to become a bilingual physician specializing in immunology. I want families like mine to walk into a medical office knowing they will be understood without needing their child to translate. I want patients to leave appointments feeling respected, informed, and confident about their care. Beyond medicine, I'm building Project Cura Cuba, an initiative dedicated to collecting medical supplies for underserved communities because I believe where someone is born should never determine the quality of healthcare they receive. My family's story taught me that resilience isn't loud. It looks like showing up to work every day, learning a new language, starting over in a new country, and believing your children can dream even bigger than you did. Everything I hope to accomplish in medicine is rooted in that lesson. If one day a patient feels heard because I speak their language, trusts their treatment because I took the time to explain it, or receives care they otherwise wouldn't have had, then I'll know my family's story didn't end with them. It continued through me.

I've never been interested in having all the answers. I've always been fascinated by asking better questions. Why does one child's immune system mistake milk for a threat? Why can two people experience the same event but remember it completely differently? Why can a single conversation change the chemistry of someone's brain? Those questions led me to STEM long before I knew the word "neurobiology." Growing up, doctor's offices were familiar places. As the daughter of Spanish-speaking parents, I often became the translator during medical appointments before I fully understood the medical terminology myself. At the same time, I was navigating my own allergies and learning firsthand how much science could shape a person's everyday life. Medicine wasn't something I saw on television—it was woven into my childhood. I realized early that behind every diagnosis was a question someone had been curious enough to ask. That curiosity eventually became purpose. Today, I'm a Neurobiology and Spanish double major at Penn State University, pursuing a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate. I'm a certified phlebotomist, volunteer in the emergency department at Rahway Hospital, and conduct neuroscience research in Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab. While each experience looks different, they all teach me the same lesson: science is most powerful when it reaches the people who need it most. As a woman in STEM, I don't want to simply occupy a seat that previous generations fought for. I want to leave the room larger than I found it. I hope to become a physician specializing in immunology while continuing to conduct research that improves patient care. My goal is to combine neuroscience, immunology, and bilingual healthcare to serve communities that are often overlooked. Too many patients leave medical appointments feeling confused because of language barriers, intimidated because of complex medical terminology, or unheard because their experiences don't fit neatly into a textbook. I want to change that. To me, the future of medicine isn't just discovering better treatments—it's making sure every patient can understand and trust the care they receive. I also want young women, especially first-generation Black and Latina students, to see STEM differently. I don't want them to believe they need to be the smartest person in the room to belong. I want them to know that curiosity is enough. Questions are enough. Every discovery in science began because someone looked at the world and wondered, "Why?" I still ask that question every day. And I hope I never stop. Because I don't believe STEM belongs to the people with all the answers. I believe it belongs to the people who are brave enough to keep asking better questions.

I've always thought it was ironic that I'm Caribbean, but I don't know how to swim. My family comes from Cuba and Puerto Rico, islands surrounded by water. Although I was born in the United States, I grew up understanding that the ocean meant something different to my family. It represented leaving behind familiarity in exchange for possibility. They crossed borders, languages, and cultures so that I could grow up with opportunities they never had. Ironically, I've never learned how to swim. Every time I step into deep water, my first instinct is panic because I don't trust that I'll stay above the surface. In many ways, that's what being the child of immigrants has felt like. Growing up in Elizabeth, New Jersey, I watched my parents work tirelessly to build a life from the ground up while learning to navigate a country that wasn't built for them. English wasn't the language spoken at home, so I often became the translator in doctors' offices, helping explain forms and conversations long before I understood the medical terminology myself. I watched my parents smile politely when they didn't fully understand what was being said because asking another question felt intimidating. Those moments taught me that language can be just as powerful a barrier as money. As a first-generation college student, I've carried their sacrifices with me into every classroom. Today, I'm a Neurobiology and Spanish double major at Penn State, earning a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate, working as a certified phlebotomist, volunteering in the emergency department at Rahway Hospital, and conducting neuroscience research in Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab. None of those accomplishments happened because the path was easy. They happened because my family taught me that courage isn't the absence of fear—it's continuing to move forward despite it. My career aspiration is to become a bilingual physician specializing in immunology while serving underserved communities. I want families like mine to leave medical appointments feeling confident instead of confused. I want children to focus on being children instead of carrying the responsibility of translating complicated medical conversations. I also hope to grow Project Cura Cuba, an initiative dedicated to collecting medical supplies for underserved communities, because access to healthcare should never depend on where someone was born. People often describe immigration as crossing an ocean. I think the harder journey begins after you arrive. It's learning a new language, navigating unfamiliar systems, building a life from very little, and believing your children can dream bigger than you ever had the chance to. My parents crossed the water so I could cross every door that once seemed closed to our family. I've never learned how to swim. But because of my family's courage, I've learned something even more important: how to keep moving forward even when the water feels deeper than I expected. One day, I hope to be the physician who reaches back into that water—not just to treat illness, but to help other immigrant families find their footing, their voice, and the confidence that they belong exactly where they are.

I've never learned how to swim. For most of my life, that has been a source of anxiety. I don't trust myself in deep water because I don't know how to keep myself afloat. As I've gotten older, I've realized that not all drowning happens in water. Some people drown in medical bills. Some drown in language barriers that keep them from understanding their own diagnosis. Some drown because they live in places where a simple blood pressure cuff, antibiotic, or pair of gloves isn't guaranteed. Others drown quietly, feeling invisible in a healthcare system that was never designed with them in mind. I don't want to build another hospital or invent the next groundbreaking medical device. I want to build a life raft. That life raft is Project Cura Cuba, the nonprofit organization I'm creating to collect unused medical supplies from hospitals, clinics, and healthcare professionals and redirect them to underserved communities with limited access to care. But supplies are only one piece of what I hope to build. I want to create a network of students, physicians, volunteers, and bilingual healthcare professionals who believe that where you're born or the language you speak should never determine the quality of care you receive. That vision comes from my own life. Growing up in Elizabeth, New Jersey, I translated for my Spanish-speaking parents during medical appointments long before I understood the terminology myself. Today, I'm a certified phlebotomist, a Neurobiology and Spanish double major at Penn State, a volunteer in the emergency department at Rahway Hospital, and a neuroscience researcher in Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab. Every experience has taught me the same lesson: healthcare isn't just about treating illness. It's about making people feel seen before they're treated. One day, I hope to become a bilingual physician serving underserved communities. I want my patients to leave appointments understanding their diagnosis instead of pretending they do. I want children to watch their parents speak directly to their doctor instead of relying on them to translate. I want future healthcare professionals to see service not as volunteer work but as part of their profession. I've spent years trying to stay afloat myself. Now I want to spend my life making sure other people don't have to tread water alone. That's what I want to build. Not a building. Not a title. A life raft that keeps reaching people long after I've learned how to swim.

I've always thought it was ironic that I'm Caribbean, but I don't know how to swim. My family comes from Cuba and Puerto Rico, islands surrounded by water, yet I never learned how to float. Every time I've stepped into water, my first instinct has been panic because I don't trust that I'll stay above the surface. In a way, that's how life has always felt. Growing up in Elizabeth, New Jersey, it seemed like every time my family managed to catch a breath, another unexpected expense surfaced. We would barely make it back to the surface before something pulled us under again. As a first-generation college student, I've carried that feeling with me. College has been an incredible opportunity, but it has also felt like trying to tread water while holding everything I love above the surface. Sometimes the hardest part isn't the workload, it's wondering whether you'll be able to afford to keep going. Learning to keep moving anyway has become my definition of resilience. Hi, I'm Milena, a Neurobiology and Spanish double major at Penn State University. I'm also a certified phlebotomist, a volunteer in the emergency department at Rahway Hospital, and a neuroscience researcher in Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab. Every title I've earned was built between work shifts, volunteer hours, scholarship applications, and helping support my family. I've learned that success isn't about waiting until life becomes easier. Sometimes it's about refusing to stop swimming, even when your arms are exhausted. My passion for medicine began long before college. As the daughter of Spanish-speaking parents, I became the translator in doctors' offices before I fully understood the medical terminology. I watched my parents nod politely even when I knew they were confused or too embarrassed to ask another question. Years later, during my first job as a summer camp counselor, I met children who reminded me of my own family. Many spoke only Spanish. Some had parents working long hours or living in another country. I became the person they ran to when they needed someone who understood them. That's when I realized language isn't just communication; it's comfort. It's trust. It's dignity. I don't just want to become a physician. I want to become the doctor who walks into the room and makes families feel like they no longer need an interpreter to advocate for their own health. Through medicine, I hope to make underserved communities feel seen and understood. That mission is why I volunteer, pursued phlebotomy, joined a research lab, and why I continue searching for opportunities to serve underserved communities. Medicine is about more than diagnoses. It's about making people feel seen. The hardest part is that opportunities often come with a price tag. I've had to turn down experiences that would have strengthened my education simply because I needed to work or help cover expenses at home. As much as I love learning, financial reality often decides before I do. I've never learned how to swim, but I've become incredibly good at staying afloat. This scholarship wouldn't erase every challenge my family and I face, but it would lift one of the weights pulling me under. It would give me the freedom to spend less time worrying about tuition and bills and more time becoming the physician I've dreamed of being, the one who serves families like mine with both medical knowledge and compassion. One day, I hope to be the person reaching back into the water, helping someone else find the surface. Right now, this scholarship would help keep me afloat long enough to get there.

I've always thought it was ironic that I'm Caribbean, but I don't know how to swim. My family comes from islands surrounded by water, yet I never learned how to float. Every time I've stepped into water, my first instinct has been panic because I don't trust that I'll stay above the surface. In a way, that's how life has always felt. Growing up in Elizabeth, New Jersey, it seemed like every time my family managed to catch a breath, another unexpected expense. We would barely make it back to the surface before something pulled us under again. As a first-generation college student, I've carried that feeling with me. College has been an incredible opportunity, but it has also felt like trying to tread water while holding everything I love above the surface. Sometimes the hardest part isn't the workload, it's wondering whether you'll be able to afford to keep going. Hi, I'm Milena, a Neurobiology and Spanish double major at Penn State University. I'm also a certified phlebotomist, a volunteer in the emergency department at Rahway Hospital, and a neuroscience researcher in Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab. Every title I've earned represents hours of work, but none of them appeared by chance. They were built in between work shifts, volunteer hours, scholarship applications, and helping support my family however I could. I've learned that success isn't about waiting until life becomes easier. Sometimes it's about refusing to stop swimming, even when your arms are exhausted. My passion for medicine began long before college. As the daughter of Spanish-speaking parents, I became the translator in doctors' offices before I fully understood the medical terminology. I watched my parents nod politely even when I knew they were confused or too embarrassed to ask another question. Years later, during my first job as a summer camp counselor, I met children who reminded me of my own family. Many spoke only Spanish. Some had parents working long hours or living in another country. I became the person they ran to when they needed someone who understood them. That's when I realized language isn't just communication; it's comfort. It's trust. It's dignity. I don't just want to become a physician. I want to become the doctor who walks into the room and makes families feel like they no longer need an interpreter to advocate for their own health. That mission is why I volunteer, why I pursued phlebotomy, why I joined a research lab, and why I continue searching for every opportunity to serve underserved communities. Every patient I meet reminds me that medicine is about more than diagnoses. It's about making people feel seen. The hardest part is that opportunities often come with a price tag. I've had to turn down experiences that would have strengthened my education simply because I needed to work or help cover expenses at home. As much as I love learning, financial reality often decides before I do. I've never learned how to swim, but I've become incredibly good at fighting to stay afloat. This scholarship wouldn't erase every challenge my family and I face, but it would lift one of the weights pulling me under. It would give me the freedom to spend less time worrying about tuition and bills and more time becoming the physician I've dreamed of being, the one who serves families like mine with both medical knowledge and compassion. One day, I hope to be the person reaching back into the water, helping someone else find the surface. Right now, this scholarship would help keep me afloat long enough to get there.

I've always thought it was ironic that I'm Caribbean, but I don't know how to swim. My family comes from islands surrounded by water, yet I never learned how to float. Every time I've stepped into water, my first instinct has been panic because I don't trust that I'll stay above the surface. In a way, that's how life has always felt. Growing up in Elizabeth, New Jersey, it seemed like every time my family managed to catch a breath, another unexpected expense. We would barely make it back to the surface before something pulled us under again. As a first-generation college student, I've carried that feeling with me. College has been an incredible opportunity, but it has also felt like trying to tread water while holding everything I love above the surface. Sometimes the hardest part isn't the workload, it's wondering whether you'll be able to afford to keep going. Hi, I'm Milena, a Neurobiology and Spanish double major at Penn State University. I'm also a certified phlebotomist, a volunteer in the emergency department at Rahway Hospital, and a neuroscience researcher in Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab. Every title I've earned represents hours of work, but none of them appeared by chance. They were built in between work shifts, volunteer hours, scholarship applications, and helping support my family however I could. I've learned that success isn't about waiting until life becomes easier. Sometimes it's about refusing to stop swimming, even when your arms are exhausted. My passion for medicine began long before college. As the daughter of Spanish-speaking parents, I became the translator in doctors' offices before I fully understood the medical terminology. I watched my parents nod politely even when I knew they were confused or too embarrassed to ask another question. Years later, during my first job as a summer camp counselor, I met children who reminded me of my own family. Many spoke only Spanish. Some had parents working long hours or living in another country. I became the person they ran to when they needed someone who understood them. That's when I realized language isn't just communication; it's comfort. It's trust. It's dignity. I don't just want to become a physician. I want to become the doctor who walks into the room and makes families feel like they no longer need an interpreter to advocate for their own health. That mission is why I volunteer, why I pursued phlebotomy, why I joined a research lab, and why I continue searching for every opportunity to serve underserved communities. Every patient I meet reminds me that medicine is about more than diagnoses. It's about making people feel seen. The hardest part is that opportunities often come with a price tag. I've had to turn down experiences that would have strengthened my education simply because I needed to work or help cover expenses at home. As much as I love learning, financial reality often decides before I do. I've never learned how to swim, but I've become incredibly good at fighting to stay afloat. This scholarship wouldn't erase every challenge my family and I face, but it would lift one of the weights pulling me under. It would give me the freedom to spend less time worrying about tuition and bills and more time becoming the physician I've dreamed of being, the one who serves families like mine with both medical knowledge and compassion. One day, I hope to be the person reaching back into the water, helping someone else find the surface. Right now, this scholarship would help keep me afloat long enough to get there.

I've never learned how to swim. Whenever I step into deep water, I panic. My body fights to stay above the surface because sinking feels inevitable. Depression feels surprisingly similar. People often describe mental illness as sadness, but for me it has never been that simple. It feels like treading water with exhausted arms while everyone else seems to glide effortlessly across the surface. Some days I convince myself that if I just work harder, smile more, or stay busier, the feeling will disappear. Other days, the weight becomes so overwhelming that I've questioned whether I wanted to keep fighting at all. Mental illness doesn't only affect the person living with it. It changes entire families. It steals conversations, replaces laughter with worry, and makes the people who love you feel helpless because they desperately want to pull you to shore but don't always know how. What has surprised me most is that I kept moving anyway. Not because I was fearless, but because I refused to let depression make every decision for me. I enrolled in college. I became a certified phlebotomy technician. I volunteer in a hospital emergency department. I joined a neuroscience research lab because I want to better understand the brain and someday become a physician who recognizes that mental health deserves the same compassion and urgency as physical health. None of these accomplishments erased my depression. They simply reminded me that I was still capable of building a future, even on days when my mind tried to convince me otherwise. There are still mornings when it feels like I'm carrying more than one person should. Between classes, work, research, volunteering, rent, and the constant pressure of paying for college, it can feel like the water keeps getting deeper. As a first-generation college student from a low-income family, financial stress often magnifies struggles that already feel heavy. Bills have a way of making every worry seem louder. This scholarship would not magically make depression disappear. But it would help lift one of the weights pulling me under. It would allow me to spend less time worrying about how I'll afford another semester and more time focusing on my education, my patients, and the future I've worked so hard to build. I've realized something about swimming. People think surviving in deep water means never sinking below the surface. It doesn't. Sometimes surviving means swallowing water, catching one breath, and deciding to kick again. That is what depression has taught me. Strength is not the absence of struggle. It is choosing, again and again, to keep reaching for the surface—even when you can't yet see the shore. That is the person I am becoming, and that is the future this scholarship would help me continue pursuing.

Selected Passage "The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way." — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations (Book 5) Essay Most readers interpret this passage as motivational advice about perseverance. They hear it as another version of "never give up." While that interpretation is understandable, I believe it overlooks the radical philosophical argument Marcus Aurelius is making. He is not simply encouraging people to endure hardship. He is dismantling the assumption that obstacles and progress exist on opposite sides of life. In Stoic philosophy, the obstacle is not something standing between you and your purpose—it is the very thing that creates your purpose. The passage is built around a paradox. The opening sentence, "The impediment to action advances action," appears self-contradictory because an impediment is, by definition, something that prevents movement. Marcus intentionally places these opposing ideas side by side because he wants the reader to pause. The contradiction forces us to reconsider what we believe an obstacle actually does. Instead of slowing progress, the obstacle changes the nature of progress itself. It demands creativity where routine would have been enough. It demands courage where comfort once existed. It demands patience where speed would have sufficed. The obstacle becomes an active participant in human development rather than a passive inconvenience. The second sentence is even more revealing. Marcus does not write that the obstacle reveals the path or leads to the path. He chooses the word becomes. That single word carries the entire weight of the passage. "Becomes" suggests transformation rather than transition. If Marcus had written that hardship merely leads to success, the reader could still imagine two separate roads: one filled with suffering and another filled with achievement. Instead, he eliminates that distinction entirely. There are not two roads. There is only one. The difficult road was never a detour—it was always the destination's entrance. This subtle shift reflects one of Stoicism's central beliefs: external events possess no inherent meaning. Human beings assign meaning through judgment. Two people can encounter the exact same obstacle and walk away with completely different lives because the obstacle itself is morally neutral. Marcus is less interested in changing circumstances than changing perception. The real battle is not against hardship but against the stories we tell ourselves about hardship. Understanding who Marcus Aurelius was deepens this interpretation. He was not writing these reflections as abstract philosophy or public speeches. Meditations was a private journal written while he ruled the Roman Empire through wars, political unrest, economic uncertainty, and the devastating Antonine Plague. These words were never intended to inspire millions of readers centuries later. They were reminders written to himself during moments of exhaustion and uncertainty. That context matters because it strips away the idea that Marcus was offering easy optimism. He was not claiming that suffering is enjoyable or that everything happens for a predetermined reason. Instead, he argues that suffering becomes meaningful only through disciplined response. The structure of the passage also deserves attention. Marcus says remarkably little. Eleven words contain an entire philosophy of life. There are no emotional appeals, no dramatic examples, and no elaborate metaphors. The brevity itself reflects Stoic discipline. Excessive explanation would weaken the argument because Stoicism values clarity over persuasion. Marcus trusts the reader to wrestle with the paradox independently. In many ways, the sentence behaves like the obstacle it describes—it resists immediate understanding, forcing the reader to slow down and think. Perhaps the most overlooked implication of this passage is that Marcus removes the possibility of waiting for the "right time." Modern culture often encourages people to postpone meaningful action until conditions improve. We tell ourselves that life will begin after graduation, after financial security, after the perfect opportunity arrives. Marcus rejects this mindset entirely. If the obstacle becomes the way, then the difficult season is not preventing life from beginning—it is life. Waiting for hardship to disappear is equivalent to waiting for the journey itself to start. This philosophy remains profoundly relevant because our instinct has not changed in nearly two thousand years. We still confuse comfort with progress. We still believe success exists somewhere beyond uncertainty. Marcus argues the opposite. Character is not revealed after obstacles disappear; it is formed because they exist. Without resistance, there is no patience. Without failure, there is no perseverance. Without uncertainty, there is no courage. Virtue cannot exist in theory—it requires something difficult to push against. The brilliance of this passage lies in its ability to overturn a deeply rooted assumption with almost no words. Marcus Aurelius transforms the obstacle from an enemy into a teacher, from a barrier into an architect. His insight is not that adversity makes success sweeter. It is that adversity is one of the materials from which success is built. The path we spend so much time searching for has been beneath our feet all along.

I collect experiences the way some people collect souvenirs. At nineteen, I don't bring home keychains or postcards. I bring home stories. A pair of gloves from another morning drawing blood in a nursing home. A notebook filled with research ideas after meeting with my neuroscience lab. A Spanish phrase that helped a nervous patient finally smile. A hospital badge from another volunteer shift in the emergency department. On paper, those experiences don't seem connected. To me, they're building blocks. When I learned about Kayla Nicole Monk, I kept thinking about her dream of creating something that would outlive her. She wanted to build businesses. I want to build a physician. Not earn the title. Build the person. That's why I chose Neurobiology. People often imagine science as memorizing pathways, equations, and anatomy. I see it differently. Science is a puzzle where every patient hands you another piece. Every opportunity I've pursued has been another piece of the physician I'm trying to become. I became a certified phlebotomy technician because I wanted my first patient interaction to happen long before medical school. Now I spend my mornings caring for patients in nursing homes, learning that compassion matters just as much as technical skill. This fall, I'll begin neuroscience research at Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab, studying how language and the brain interact. Outside the laboratory, I volunteer in a hospital emergency department where I've learned that healthcare is rarely predictable, but kindness always matters. Even Project Cura Cuba, the nonprofit initiative I'm building to collect medical supplies for underserved communities, is another piece of the same picture. Every experience teaches me something a classroom cannot. Some people wait until they have a degree before they start making a difference. I didn't want to wait. This scholarship would give me something incredibly valuable—not just financial support, but time. Time I could spend conducting research instead of picking up extra work shifts. Time to expand Project Cura Cuba. Time to continue serving patients. Time to become better before someone someday calls me "Doctor." Kayla believed in building things that lasted. So do I. Except the thing I'm building isn't a company. It's a career rooted in curiosity, service, and compassion. Years from now, no one will remember my GPA or how many scholarships I won. I hope they'll remember something much simpler. That every experience I collected eventually became someone else's second chance.

I've introduced myself to the same person more times than I can count. "Hi, I'm Milena. I'm here to draw your blood." She smiles. Five minutes later, while I'm labeling her tubes, she looks at me and asks, "Who are you?" So I smile back. "Hi, I'm Milena." As a mobile phlebotomist, I spend my mornings traveling from one nursing home to another. Many of my patients are living with Alzheimer's disease or other forms of dementia. I often recognize them before they recognize me. I know who prefers their left arm, who likes to joke before the needle, and who gets nervous the moment they see the tourniquet. Yet every visit begins the same way—as if we've never met. At first, I thought memory was what defined a person. Now I don't. Dementia has taught me that even when memories fade, humanity doesn't. My patients may not remember my name, but they still recognize patience. They still respond to kindness, reassurance, and a calm voice. They still deserve to be spoken to with dignity instead of being spoken about. Working with these patients has changed both my career and the questions I ask about medicine. As a Neurobiology student at Penn State, I am fascinated by how the brain creates memories, language, and identity. This fall, I will begin neuroscience research in Penn State's Brain Tracking Lab, where I'll study cognition and language processing. Every time I walk into another nursing home, I'm reminded that behind every scientific discovery is a family hoping for one more conversation, one more story, or one more moment of recognition. One patient once thanked me for being "the nice young girl who always comes." She had no idea who I was. But somehow, she remembered how I made her feel. That moment completely changed the way I think about healthcare. Medicine isn't only about helping people remember. Sometimes it's about making sure they're never forgotten. That is the physician I hope to become. Whether I spend my career treating patients, conducting neuroscience research, or advancing our understanding of neurodegenerative disease, I want every patient to feel seen, respected, and cared for—even on the days when they cannot remember my face. I've introduced myself to the same people hundreds of times. And every single time, I hope they leave remembering one thing that Alzheimer's cannot take away: That, for a few moments, someone cared.

My life is color-coded. Blue is for classes. Green is for money. Red is for deadlines I cannot afford to miss. Purple is for service. Yellow is for research. Every hour has a job, and every dollar already has a destination before it reaches my bank account. Some people call it overplanning. I call it survival. I am a first-generation Cuban and Puerto Rican student studying Neurobiology at Penn State with one long-term goal: become a physician specializing in immunology and serve patients whose chronic conditions are too often misunderstood. My route includes completing my undergraduate degree, attending medical school, finishing residency, and pursuing specialized training in allergy and immunology. That is more than a decade of education, so I cannot afford to treat my dream like a wish. It needs a blueprint. For the 2026–27 academic year, my out-of-state Penn State tuition is approximately $44,574. Once housing, food, textbooks, transportation, and personal expenses are included, one year can approach $70,000. My apartment alone costs about $1,000 per month. Because I am a Pell Grant recipient, I receive approximately $5,000 in Pell funding, and I expect roughly $6,000 in federal loans. That leaves close to $59,000 to address through additional grants, scholarships, work, family contributions, and careful cost reduction. Those numbers frighten me. They also give me instructions. My first strategy is to reduce the number of semesters I pay for. I am using summer courses, transferred credits, and detailed degree planning to work toward graduating early without sacrificing the science preparation medical school requires. Every semester avoided could save tens of thousands of dollars in tuition and living costs. I meet with academic and financial-aid advisors, map prerequisite sequences in advance, and monitor my degree audit so that every class advances at least one requirement. My second strategy is to combine income with experience. I became a certified phlebotomy technician so I could earn money while building clinical skills. I volunteer in a hospital emergency department, shadow physicians, and will conduct neuroscience research in Penn State’s Brain Tracking Lab. I am also studying Spanish so I can communicate more effectively with Hispanic patients. Rather than collecting random activities, I ask one question before committing: Does this move me closer to becoming the physician my community needs? My third strategy is aggressive scholarship planning. I maintain a calendar of deadlines, apply throughout the year, and treat each award as part of my funding plan—not extra spending money. A $1,315 scholarship would cover more than a month of rent, approximately two semesters of books, or reduce the amount I must borrow. My goal is to limit undergraduate debt because medical school may add hundreds of thousands of dollars to the path ahead. There are backup routes built into my plan. I pursue paid research and campus employment, apply for need-based assistance, search for funded summer programs, and remain willing to adjust my graduation timeline if taking on too many responsibilities would damage my academic performance. A plan is not rigid; it must survive reality. Joe Gilroy carried an index card in his shirt pocket. I carry my future across calendars, spreadsheets, financial-aid statements, and dozens of open scholarship tabs. It is messy. It is exhausting. Some days, I come dangerously close to believing the numbers are bigger than I am. Then I make the next line green. Submit one more application. Work one more shift. Save one more dollar. Complete one more course. Plans do not erase fear. They give fear somewhere to go. Plan your work. Work your plan. And when life draws a roadblock, build another route.

The immune system fascinates me because it has the power to save a life—or quietly turn against the very person it's meant to protect. A microscopic change can mean the difference between health and chronic illness, and I have always been drawn to understanding those invisible battles. That curiosity is what led me to pursue nursing and ultimately shaped my goal of specializing in immunology. I want to become the kind of nurse who helps patients navigate diseases they often carry for a lifetime rather than a single hospital stay. Whether someone is living with autoimmune disorders, severe allergies, immunodeficiencies, or receiving biologic therapies, they deserve a healthcare professional who not only understands the science behind their condition but also recognizes the emotional weight of managing a chronic illness. Many of these patients spend years searching for answers, adjusting medications, and learning to adapt to a new normal. I want to be there throughout that journey. My experiences in healthcare have reinforced that passion. Working toward a career centered on patient care has shown me that compassion and communication are just as important as clinical knowledge. Every patient arrives with a unique story, fears, and questions, and nurses are often the professionals who spend the most time beside them. They educate, advocate, reassure, and provide comfort during some of life's most difficult moments. That level of trust is something I deeply admire and hope to earn throughout my own career. Immunology combines everything that excites me about medicine. It is constantly evolving through new research, innovative treatments, and personalized therapies that improve patients' quality of life. I am particularly interested in caring for individuals with chronic immune-related conditions because their relationships with healthcare providers often last for years. Rather than treating a single illness and moving on, nurses have the opportunity to build meaningful connections with patients and their families while helping them manage complex conditions over time. As I continue my education, I hope to gain specialized experience in immunology and infusion therapies while staying involved in research that advances treatment for immune disorders. Although I do not currently have specialized training in stoma care, I am committed to pursuing every educational opportunity that allows me to become a more knowledgeable and compassionate nurse. Nursing is more than the career I want—it is the impact I hope to leave behind. I want every patient who walks into my care to feel heard, respected, and confident that they are not facing their illness alone. By combining scientific curiosity with genuine compassion, I hope to make a lasting difference in the lives of people living with chronic immune conditions, one patient at a time.

My nephew will grow up knowing his mother through stories instead of memories. That is what addiction stole from my family. It stole my sister; Nicole Arzuaga, my parents' chance to say goodbye, and a little boy's opportunity to grow up with his mom. My sister lived in North Carolina while the rest of our family was in New Jersey. By the time we learned how serious her condition had become, there wasn't enough time. After injecting fentanyl into her leg, she developed a severe infection that led to sepsis. Doctors amputated her leg in an attempt to save her life, but the infection had already spread too far. She passed away before my parents ever had the chance to hold her hand one last time. For a long time, I only saw addiction through the lens of grief. I was angry that something so powerful could convince someone they weren't worth saving. As I've grown older, my perspective has changed. I've learned that addiction is a disease, not a moral failure. Recovery isn't simply about becoming sober—it's about helping someone believe they deserve another tomorrow. That realization changed not only how I remember my sister, but how I want to care for every patient I will one day meet. Her story is one of the reasons I chose medicine. Today, I am a first-generation Cuban and Puerto Rican student studying Neurobiology at Penn State with the goal of becoming a physician. I am a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, volunteer in a hospital emergency department, conduct neuroscience research, and founded Project Cura Cuba, an initiative that collects medical supplies for underserved communities. Every patient interaction reminds me that the person sitting in front of me is someone's child, someone's sibling, or someone's parent. We often see people at the lowest moments of their lives, and I never want anyone to feel defined by the worst decision they've ever made or the hardest battle they're fighting. Bishop Mozell Haymon believed that "life begins with sobriety." I believe life also begins when someone finally feels seen instead of judged. My sister never had the opportunity to experience the future she deserved, but her story continues to shape mine every day. I cannot rewrite her ending, and my nephew cannot get his mother back. What I can do is honor her by becoming the kind of physician who listens without judgment, advocates for those struggling with addiction, and reminds families that recovery is always worth fighting for. If I can help even one family say "welcome home" instead of "goodbye," then a part of my sister's legacy will continue to live on through the life I choose to serve.

My mom never had the luxury of falling apart. As a single mother raising me while caring for my grandmother, there was always another shift to work, another bill to pay, and another sacrifice to make. I grew up watching resilience instead of hearing lectures about it. She taught me that perseverance isn't something you talk about—it's something you choose every single day, even when life gives you every reason not to. Because of her example, I stopped waiting for opportunities and started creating them. Today, I'm a first-generation Cuban and Puerto Rican college student studying Neurobiology at Penn State with the goal of becoming a physician. I've earned my phlebotomy certification, volunteer in a hospital emergency department, conduct neuroscience research, and founded Project Cura Cuba, an initiative that collects medical supplies for underserved communities in Cuba. Every experience is another step toward the future I've worked to build. Growing up in a low-income, single-parent household taught me that access to opportunity can change a person's life. That's why I hope to dedicate my career to improving healthcare access for underserved communities, particularly Hispanic families who often face language and cultural barriers in medicine. My goal isn't simply to become a physician—it's to become the kind of physician who helps others believe that where they come from doesn't determine where they're going. My mom built that belief in me, and I hope to spend my life passing it on.

The first time I put on a varsity tennis uniform, I wasn't thinking about scholarships or medical school. I was just trying to prove to myself that I was stronger than the voice telling me I wasn't good enough. That voice had followed me for years. I was bullied throughout middle school, struggled with anxiety, and doubted whether I belonged anywhere. Tennis became one of the first places where I learned resilience. Every match taught me that one bad point doesn't determine the outcome of the match, just like one bad day doesn't determine the outcome of your life. That lesson has carried me far beyond the court. Today, I am a first-generation Cuban and Puerto Rican student at Penn State University majoring in Neurobiology with plans to become a physician. My path has been shaped by service, curiosity, and the belief that education should be used to improve the lives of others. I am a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, volunteer in a hospital emergency department, shadow physicians, and recently accepted a position as a mobile phlebotomist. Every patient I meet reminds me why I chose medicine. Beyond healthcare, I founded Project Cura Cuba after realizing how difficult it had become for my family in Cuba to access even basic medical supplies. What began as a conversation with my mom has grown into an effort to collect and donate medical supplies to underserved communities. Whether I'm volunteering in my local hospital or organizing donations, I've learned that making a difference often starts with simply asking, "How can I help?" Receiving this scholarship would allow me to continue saying yes to opportunities that will make me a better physician. As a first-generation college student, my family and I carefully consider every expense, from tuition to textbooks to housing. Financial support would allow me to spend less time worrying about costs and more time pursuing clinical experiences, conducting research, volunteering, and studying abroad in Kenya, where I'll learn about global health and conservation through Penn State. Experiences like these are preparing me to serve patients with greater empathy and a broader understanding of healthcare around the world. Kalia Davis's story is one of excellence, kindness, determination, and living life with purpose. Those are qualities I hope to carry with me throughout my own journey. I don't want success to be measured only by the degrees I earn or the career I build. I want it to be measured by the people I serve, the communities I uplift, and the opportunities I create for others. Every challenge I've faced has strengthened my determination to give back, and every opportunity I receive becomes another chance to honor the sacrifices my family made to help me get here. This scholarship would not simply invest in my education—it would invest in a future physician committed to serving others with compassion, resilience, and purpose.

At 4:00 a.m., while most college students are still asleep, my alarm is going off. By the time many of my classmates are just waking up, I've already begun my day as a mobile phlebotomist, driving to healthcare facilities, preparing supplies, and caring for patients. When my shift ends, my work isn't over. I go home to study, complete assignments, and prepare for another day. This isn't the college experience most people imagine, but it's the one I've chosen because I know every early morning brings me one step closer to becoming the physician I hope to be. I've been working since high school because I've always believed that if I wanted opportunities, I had to help create them. As a first-generation college student, I understand that earning a degree requires more than attending class. It requires financial responsibility, sacrifice, and a willingness to work when it would be easier not to. Throughout high school, I balanced classes with part-time jobs while continuing to build experiences that would prepare me for a career in medicine. Instead of spending my summers taking a break, I earned certifications that would allow me to serve patients directly. I became a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earned my Basic Life Support certification, completed Registered Behavior Technician training, volunteered in a hospital emergency department, and shadowed physicians. Most recently, I accepted a position as a mobile phlebotomist with Aculabs. This job is more than a source of income. Every patient interaction teaches me how to communicate with empathy, remain calm under pressure, and understand the responsibility that comes with working in healthcare. One of the most difficult times balancing work and school came during my freshman year of college. I was adjusting to rigorous science courses while commuting home for volunteer shifts, physician shadowing, certification training, and part-time work. There were evenings when I didn't finish studying until after midnight, only to wake up early the next morning and do it all again. I quickly realized that motivation alone wasn't enough. I had to become disciplined. I learned to organize every hour of my day, study between classes, complete assignments whenever I found extra time, and ask for help when I needed it. Those habits didn't just help me stay afloat—they helped me become more resilient. I stopped viewing work as something that competed with my education and instead saw it as another classroom where I was learning responsibility, professionalism, and compassion. Working while pursuing my degree has strengthened my determination to become a physician who serves underserved communities. Every shift reminds me that healthcare begins with small moments of trust between a patient and a provider. Every challenge reminds me why this journey is worth it. I don't work because it's convenient. I work because my education matters, my future patients matter, and every hour I spend working today is an investment in the doctor I hope to become tomorrow.

The first time I held a tennis racket, I had no idea it was teaching me how to become a doctor. To most people, tennis is just a sport. To me, it became the place where I learned resilience. I played competitively for years, eventually competing as a varsity singles player in high school. Tennis is unique because when you're on the court, there's no one to hide behind. Every point is yours to win or lose. You learn to stay calm under pressure, adjust after mistakes, and keep fighting even when you're losing. Looking back, I realize those same lessons have shaped every part of my life. My dream is to become a physician, but my impact won't begin the day I earn an M.D. It's already started. As a first-generation Latina college student studying neurobiology, I've spent every opportunity I can finding ways to serve others. I became a nationally certified phlebotomy technician because I wanted hands-on patient experience as early as possible. I volunteer in the emergency department, shadow physicians, and earned my BLS certification because I believe the best healthcare professionals never stop learning. Outside the hospital, my biggest passion project is Project Cura Cuba. It started with a conversation between my mom and me in our kitchen after talking about our family in Cuba and how difficult it had become to access even the most basic medical supplies. Instead of ending the conversation with "that's so sad," I asked, "What can we actually do?" That question turned into a nonprofit initiative dedicated to collecting medical supplies for underserved communities. It reminded me that making a difference doesn't require waiting until you have a title. Sometimes it just requires taking the first step. The people who inspire me most aren't famous. They're my mom and my grandmother. My mom is a single mother who works two jobs so I can chase a dream she never had the chance to pursue herself. She never complains. She simply keeps going. My grandmother helped raise me and taught me that kindness isn't something you do when it's convenient. It's part of who you are. Watching them sacrifice everything they could for my future taught me that success means very little if you don't use it to lift someone else up. That's the kind of future I want to build. I want to become a physician who not only treats patients but also expands access to healthcare for underserved communities, conducts meaningful research, and mentors students who don't see themselves represented in medicine. I hope to combine science, advocacy, and service to improve lives both locally and globally. Whether that's caring for patients in New Jersey, expanding Project Cura Cuba, or conducting research through my future interests in immunology and aerospace medicine, my goal is always the same: leave people better than I found them. This scholarship wouldn't simply help pay for tuition. It would allow me to spend less time worrying about how I'll afford the next semester and more time gaining clinical experience, volunteering, conducting research, and preparing to become the physician my community deserves. Sloane Stephens has shown that success means more when you use it to create opportunities for others. That's exactly the kind of life I hope to live. My education isn't just changing my future. It's preparing me to change someone else's.

I don't think selflessness is measured by the biggest thing you've ever done. I think it's measured by what you choose to do when no one is watching. Some of the moments I'm most proud of will never appear on a résumé. They're the evenings I spent volunteering in the emergency department, quietly restocking supplies so nurses could spend more time with patients. They're the mornings I spent drawing blood as a newly certified phlebotomy technician, reminding nervous patients to take a deep breath before a procedure they were afraid of. They're the afternoons I spent as a camp counselor with the Elizabeth Board of Education, helping children from immigrant families feel included through sports and activities when home often felt uncertain. None of those moments made headlines. But they changed me. I've always believed that helping people shouldn't depend on whether someone is keeping score. That's one of the reasons I want to become a physician. Medicine isn't about being the smartest person in the room. It's about showing up for people on the days they need someone most. One of the projects closest to my heart started with a conversation in my kitchen. My mom and I were talking about our family in Cuba and how difficult it had become for them to access basic medical supplies. We sat there asking ourselves the same question over and over: What can we actually do? Instead of letting it become another sad conversation, I created Project Cura Cuba, an initiative focused on collecting medical supplies for underserved communities. I learned that making a difference doesn't always require millions of dollars. Sometimes it starts with one conversation and one person deciding to act. Selflessness has also meant giving people something much harder to give than money: time. Growing up, I was bullied and struggled with my mental health. Because of that experience, I notice when someone seems left out or overwhelmed. I know what it feels like to believe nobody sees you. Whether it's sitting with a patient who's anxious before a blood draw, encouraging a shy camper to join a game, or simply checking in on a friend who's been unusually quiet, I've learned that being present can change someone's entire day. My family taught me that lesson long before I understood it. My mom, a single mother working two jobs, never stopped helping other people, even when we didn't have much ourselves. Watching her taught me that generosity isn't about how much you have. It's about what you're willing to give. Today, I'm a first-generation college student studying neurobiology with the goal of becoming a physician. Every experience I've pursued—from volunteering in the hospital to shadowing physicians to earning my phlebotomy certification—has reinforced one belief: knowledge means very little if you aren't willing to use it to serve others. When I think about Michael Rudometkin's legacy, what stands out to me isn't that he helped people. It's that he made time for people. That's the kind of life I hope to live. Years from now, I don't want to be remembered for the degrees hanging on my wall or the title after my name. I hope people remember that I made them feel seen, that I showed up when they needed someone, and that I used whatever abilities I had to leave my community a little better than I found it. To me, that's what selflessness really looks like.

My first science experiment wasn't in a laboratory. It was on myself. At fourteen years old, I started sleeping with tape over my mouth. My mom thought I had completely lost it. I had just finished reading Breath by James Nestor after years of struggling with severe allergies, anxiety, poor sleep, and chronic mouth breathing. I wasn't trying to follow a trend. I was trying to understand why my own body worked the way it did. That one book sent me down a rabbit hole that completely changed my life. I wasn't satisfied with hearing what happened in the human body anymore. I wanted to know why. That curiosity became an obsession. Instead of stopping with one book, I spent nights reading medical journals, listening to physicians and researchers explain new discoveries, and asking questions at every doctor's appointment. I became fascinated by immunology, neuroscience, breathing physiology, and how incredibly connected every system of the body is. Living with severe food allergies made science personal. I wasn't memorizing biology for a test—I was trying to understand my own life. Eventually, curiosity turned into action. I became a nationally certified phlebotomy technician before finishing my sophomore year of college because I wanted to step outside the textbook and into patient care. I've volunteered in a hospital, shadowed physicians, and even started Project Cura Cuba after realizing how difficult it was for my family in Cuba to access basic medical supplies. Science shouldn't only exist in research papers. It should improve people's lives. One of the biggest reasons I advocate for science is because I've seen how quickly misinformation spreads. Whether it's myths about vaccines, allergies, nutrition, or chronic diseases, I've watched people make decisions based on fear instead of evidence. I don't believe the answer is making people feel ignorant. I think the answer is making science understandable. That's why I genuinely enjoy explaining things. Whether it's helping a friend understand why an allergic reaction happens, showing someone how blood is processed after a blood draw, or talking about the biology behind breathing, I love turning complicated ideas into conversations anyone can follow. Good scientists don't just discover knowledge. They share it. This winter, I'll be studying ecology in Kenya through a program built around the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals. I'm especially excited because it combines two things I care deeply about: scientific research and making that research meaningful for communities. Science doesn't stop at the edge of a laboratory. It influences conservation, public health, food security, and the future of our planet. People often ask me why I study so many different things. Neurobiology. Aerospace aviation. Spanish for Healthcare. Ecology. To me, they're all the same subject. They're all about people. Science has never been just a career goal for me. It's become the way I understand the world. Every question I answer leads to ten more questions, and honestly, I hope that never changes. The day I stop being curious is the day I stop becoming the kind of scientist and physician I want to be. I used to think science was about having all the answers. Now I know it's about having the courage to keep asking better questions.

The scariest part about depression isn't always wanting to die. Sometimes it's slowly forgetting what it feels like to want to live. When people meet me today, they usually see a first-generation college student studying neurobiology, a certified phlebotomy technician, someone volunteering in hospitals and working toward medical school. They don't see the twelve-year-old girl who cried before school every morning because she was terrified of being bullied again. They don't see the teenager who couldn't picture herself living long enough to graduate high school. Mental health shaped my life long before I understood what mental health even was. I was bullied relentlessly because of my appearance, especially my nose. Eventually, those words became my own inner voice. At twelve years old, I struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts. At fourteen, I had a rhinoplasty because I thought changing my face would finally make the pain disappear. Looking back now, I realize I wasn't asking for a different nose. I was asking for acceptance. Around the same time, my family was carrying struggles of their own. My older sister battled addiction before losing her life, leaving behind a young son. Watching someone you love fight battles you can't fix changes the way you see the world. It taught me that mental illness doesn't always look the way people expect. Sometimes it's hidden behind a smile, a joke, or someone insisting they're "fine." For years, I didn't talk about what I was feeling because I thought staying quiet meant staying strong. I was wrong. The moment I started opening up was the moment I started healing. My experiences completely changed the way I build relationships. I check in on people more often now because I know how easy it is to hide pain. I pay attention when someone suddenly becomes quieter than usual. I try to be the person who listens instead of assuming everything is okay. You never know what someone is carrying, and sometimes a simple conversation can mean more than you'll ever realize. Mental health has also shaped my career goals in ways I never expected. Growing up with severe allergies introduced me to medicine, but surviving depression taught me what kind of healthcare professional I want to become. I don't just want to diagnose illnesses or perform procedures. I want to treat the whole person sitting in front of me. Some of the deepest wounds people carry can't be found on an MRI or in a blood test. They exist quietly, and they deserve just as much compassion as any physical illness. Today, I'm pursuing a career as a physician because I want to care for people during some of the hardest moments of their lives. I've become a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, and shadowed physicians because I want to start making a difference now, not someday. Every patient reminds me that kindness isn't an extra part of healthcare. It is healthcare. If twelve-year-old me could see my life today, she probably wouldn't believe it. She wouldn't believe that I'd move away to Penn State, dream about medical school, study abroad in Kenya, or spend my days working toward a future she couldn't even imagine. Mental health didn't just shape my understanding of the world. It saved it. Today, I speak openly about my experiences because I never want another young person to mistake silence for strength the way I did. Healing begins when someone feels safe enough to say, "I'm not okay." If sharing my story helps even one person realize they aren't alone, then every difficult chapter I've lived through has found a purpose.

The women in my family never told me life would be easy. They taught me how to survive it. I was raised by three incredibly strong women: my mom, my grandmother, and the memory of my older sister. Each of them shaped me in a different way, and because of them, I learned that resilience isn't something you're born with. It's something you choose every single day. I'm a first-generation Latina college student from New Jersey, and today I study neurobiology at Penn State with the goal of becoming a physician. But my story started long before college. Growing up wasn't easy. I was bullied throughout middle school because of my appearance, and by twelve years old, I struggled with severe depression and couldn't imagine living long enough to graduate high school. At fourteen, I had a rhinoplasty because I believed changing the way I looked would finally make the bullying stop. Looking back, I realize I wasn't searching for a different face. I was searching for peace. At home, my mom was carrying burdens I didn't fully understand until I got older. As a single mother working two jobs, she somehow managed to keep our family together while making sure I never stopped believing college was possible. My grandmother helped raise me, and although she never had the opportunity to attend college herself, she taught me lessons no classroom ever could about compassion, humility, and perseverance. My family has experienced loss, financial hardship, and uncertainty, but they never stopped showing up for one another. Watching that love in action changed the kind of person I wanted to become. Instead of allowing my experiences to define me, I decided to let them drive me. I became a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, shadowed physicians, and began pursuing a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I want every patient to feel understood, especially those who speak Spanish like my own family. My passion for medicine also inspired me to start Project Cura Cuba, an initiative to collect medical supplies for underserved communities in Cuba after my mom and I realized how difficult it was for our relatives to access even basic healthcare resources. For me, becoming a physician isn't only about science. It's about representation. It's about being the doctor that a young Latina girl can look at and think, "She looks like me. Maybe I can do that too." This scholarship would do much more than help pay for tuition. It would ease the financial burden that my mom has carried for years while supporting my education. Every scholarship I receive means fewer hours she has to work and one step closer to the future we've both dreamed about. It allows me to spend more time gaining clinical experience, conducting research, and preparing to serve communities that need compassionate healthcare the most. A concrete rose grows where people least expect it to. It pushes through impossible conditions and still blooms. I think that's the best way to describe my journey. I haven't had a perfect path, but every obstacle has strengthened my purpose. My goal isn't simply to earn a medical degree. It's to become the kind of physician who reminds every patient, especially young women of color, that where you start never determines how far you can go.

At twelve years old, I couldn't picture myself living to sixteen. At sixteen, I couldn't picture myself applying to college. At eighteen, I couldn't believe I was unpacking boxes into my Penn State dorm. Those birthdays never felt real because, for years, I truly didn't think I would live long enough to see them. Middle school was the darkest period of my life. I was bullied relentlessly because of the way I looked, especially my nose. The comments weren't occasional; they became part of my everyday life. Eventually, I stopped hearing other people's opinions and started believing them as my own. I dreaded going to school. I avoided mirrors. I convinced myself that if I looked different, maybe people would finally treat me differently. By the time I was twelve, I was struggling with suicidal thoughts. While other kids were thinking about high school or what they wanted to be when they grew up, I couldn't imagine having a future at all. Every milestone felt impossible because I honestly didn't believe I would be alive to reach it. At fourteen, I had a rhinoplasty. People often assume it was cosmetic, but to me, it felt like survival. I wasn't trying to become someone else. I was trying to escape the version of myself that had become the target of constant cruelty. Looking back now, I realize surgery couldn't erase what bullying had already done to my mental health. Changing my appearance didn't automatically change the way I saw myself. Healing took much longer than that. Little by little, I began rebuilding my confidence. Therapy, my family, my faith, and finding purpose all played a role. I slowly stopped measuring my worth by what other people thought of me. Instead, I started focusing on the person I wanted to become. Ironically, some of the experiences that caused me the most pain also led me toward medicine. Growing up with severe allergies meant I spent countless hours in doctors' offices. Later, after surviving my own mental health struggles, I realized that healing isn't always visible. Some wounds don't show up on an X-ray or a blood test. They exist quietly, hidden behind smiles, good grades, and "I'm fine." That's one of the reasons I want to become a physician. Today, I'm a first-generation college student studying neurobiology. I've become a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, shadowed physicians, and continue searching for opportunities to serve others. Every patient reminds me that you never truly know what someone is carrying. The kindest thing we can do is choose compassion before judgment. When I hear about Elijah and students whose battles ended too soon, I think about the version of myself who never believed she'd make it to adulthood. I wish I could tell that twelve-year-old girl that she would one day move into college, study the science she loves, dream about medical school, and wake up excited about the future instead of afraid of it. Mental health didn't just impact my life—it changed the direction of it. If my story can do anything, I hope it reminds someone who feels the way I once did that the future they can't imagine today might become the life they're living tomorrow. I know because I am living proof.

The last thing I do before every exam, every interview, and every big decision is make the sign of the cross. It's a habit I've had for as long as I can remember. I don't do it because I expect life to suddenly become easy. I do it because it reminds me that no matter what happens next, I won't face it alone. I was raised Catholic and attended Catholic school from kindergarten through high school. Faith wasn't just something we practiced on Sundays. It was woven into everyday life. Before class we prayed. Before meals we prayed. When something wonderful happened, we thanked God. When life became difficult, we turned to Him even more. Looking back, I realize my faith has never been about avoiding hardship. It's been about finding the strength to keep going through it. There have been plenty of moments where giving up would've been easier. Growing up with severe food allergies meant hospitals, doctor appointments, and constantly feeling different from everyone else. My older sister passed away after struggling with addiction, leaving behind a young son. During my first year of college, my mom quietly went through a breast cancer scare without telling me because she didn't want me worrying while I was four hours away trying to finish my freshman year. She's a single mother working two jobs to help me stay in school, and watching her continue to choose hope over fear has been one of the greatest lessons of my life. Through every obstacle, God never promised me the road would be easy. Instead, He gave me people to lean on, opportunities I never thought I'd have, and the strength to take one more step when I didn't think I could. That faith is one of the reasons I'm pursuing medicine. When I became a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, started volunteering in a hospital, and shadowed physicians, I realized healthcare is about much more than treating illness. It's about meeting people during some of the hardest days of their lives. I believe every patient deserves to be treated with compassion, dignity, and hope because every person is made in the image of God. Sometimes the greatest thing you can offer isn't a cure. It's making sure someone knows they aren't facing their battle alone. My faith has also inspired me to serve beyond the hospital. My mom and I started Project Cura Cuba after talking about how difficult it is for our family in Cuba to access basic medical supplies. I believe God calls us to love our neighbors not only through words, but through action. If I have the ability to help someone, I have a responsibility to try. As a first-generation college student, there are still days when I wonder how I'll afford another semester or whether I'm doing enough to reach my dream of becoming a physician. Then I remember something I learned in Catholic school that has stayed with me ever since: faith isn't believing that everything will go exactly as planned. Faith is trusting that God will use every challenge for a purpose, even if I can't see it yet. I don't know exactly where my career will take me. I hope it leads me to caring for patients, conducting research, and serving communities that need it most. What I do know is that my faith will go with me wherever I end up. It has carried me through every obstacle I've faced so far, and I believe it will continue guiding the kind of physician—and the kind of person—I become.

The best volunteer work I've ever done didn't start with a sign-up sheet. It started with someone simply needing help. I've realized that most acts of service aren't glamorous. They aren't the moments that end up in newspaper articles or on social media. They're usually quiet. They're the conversations no one else hears, the boxes someone carries without being asked, the child who finally smiles after a hard day, or the patient who feels just a little less nervous because someone took an extra minute to talk to them. That's the kind of service I try to give. One of the most meaningful ways I've served my community was working as a camp counselor for the Elizabeth Board of Education. Many of the children I worked with came from immigrant families, and some spoke very little English. Others had parents working long hours or living in another country. My job wasn't just to supervise activities. It was to create a place where every child felt safe, included, and excited to come back the next day. Whether we were playing sports, making crafts, or just talking, I wanted every child to know they belonged. Watching shy kids slowly come out of their shell was one of the most rewarding experiences I've ever had. My desire to help others also led me into healthcare. I became a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, and shadowed physicians because I wanted to begin serving patients before I ever earned a medical degree. While volunteering, I learned that healthcare isn't only about treating illness. Sometimes it's helping someone find their way through the hospital, bringing supplies to a room, or taking a few extra seconds to reassure someone who's scared. Those small moments reminded me that kindness is part of good medicine. Another project that's especially meaningful to me is Project Cura Cuba. It actually began in my kitchen. My mom and I were talking about our family in Cuba and how difficult it was for them to access basic medical supplies. We kept asking ourselves the same question: how can people have so much while others have so little? Instead of letting the conversation end there, I decided to do something about it. I created Project Cura Cuba to collect usable medical supplies and connect them with people who desperately need them. It's still growing, but it's already taught me that meaningful change often begins with one conversation and one person willing to take the first step. Community has also shaped me in ways I never expected. Growing up in a bilingual household and becoming the first person in my immediate family to attend college has shown me how important it is to create opportunities for others. Because I know what it's like to navigate unfamiliar systems, I hope to become the kind of person who makes those paths easier for someone else. I want to become a physician, but I don't believe service starts after medical school. It starts now. Every child I encouraged, every patient I comforted, every volunteer hour, and every box of medical supplies collected has reinforced the same lesson: changing a community rarely happens through one extraordinary act. It happens through hundreds of ordinary acts of kindness repeated over and over again. If there's one thing I hope people remember about me, it isn't my résumé or my accomplishments. I hope they remember that whenever someone needed help, I tried to be the person who showed up. That's the kind of community I want to help build for the rest of my life.

If determination had a transcript, mine would tell a much bigger story than my GPA ever could. On paper, I'm a first-generation college student studying neurobiology at Penn State. But that only scratches the surface. What gives me an advantage over everyone else isn't that I'm the smartest person in the room. Honestly, I'm probably not. My advantage is that I refuse to stay the same person for very long. Every few months, I ask myself, "What can I learn next?" Then I go do it. That's how I became a nationally certified phlebotomy technician before most students my age have even stepped into a hospital. It's why I earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, shadowed physicians, pursued aerospace aviation alongside neurobiology, and added a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I know language should never be the reason a patient feels misunderstood. I don't wait for opportunities to come to me. I build them. I also know what it's like to have obstacles that can't be solved overnight. As an out-of-state student, there have been semesters where I worried about tuition almost as much as my exams. My mom is a single mother working two jobs to help keep me in school, and every bill reminds me that college isn't something my family can take for granted. That pressure could have convinced me to lower my goals. Instead, it made me work harder. Outside of school, I started Project Cura Cuba after my mom and I talked about how difficult it was for our family in Cuba to access basic medical supplies. I realized that healthcare doesn't only happen inside hospitals. Sometimes it starts with one conversation around a kitchen table and one person deciding to do something about it. That project continues to remind me that leadership isn't about titles. It's about action. I think one of my biggest strengths is curiosity. A book about breathing changed the direction of my career. Living with severe food allergies made me fall in love with immunology. Instead of seeing problems as inconveniences, I usually end up seeing them as questions I want to answer. That's exactly why I know medicine is where I belong. One day, I hope to become a physician specializing in immunology or aerospace medicine. I want to care for patients, contribute to research, and make healthcare more accessible for communities that often feel overlooked. More than anything, I want my career to reflect the sacrifices my family made to help me get here. I don't deserve this scholarship because I've had an easy path. I deserve it because every challenge I've faced has become fuel instead of an excuse. If you invest in me, you're not investing in someone who's finished accomplishing great things. You're investing in someone who's just getting started.

My grandmother has never walked across a college graduation stage, but she is one of the smartest people I know. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting with her in the kitchen while she cooked, hearing stories about our family, our culture, and the sacrifices people made so the next generation could have more opportunities. She never measured success by money or titles. She measured it by kindness, hard work, and whether you left people better than you found them. Alongside my mom, my grandmother helped raise me. Having another parent figure in my life meant I was surrounded by constant encouragement, but it also meant I saw firsthand what sacrifice looked like. My grandmother gave her time, her energy, and her love without ever expecting anything in return. She celebrated every good grade, every tennis match, every acceptance letter, and every accomplishment as if it were her own. Growing up in a multigenerational home also gave me something many people don't experience anymore. I learned patience by listening to stories that happened decades before I was born. I learned resilience from watching my grandmother face challenges without complaining. Most importantly, I learned that caring for others isn't something you do when it's convenient. It's simply part of who you are. Those lessons shaped the person I'm becoming. Today, I'm a first-generation college student pursuing neurobiology with plans to become a physician. I've become a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, and shadowed physicians because I want to start serving others long before I earn a medical degree. I'm also pursuing a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I hope to care for patients in both English and Spanish, making them feel understood during some of the hardest moments of their lives. My family has always believed education was the path to a better future, even though none of us knew exactly how to navigate college. As the first person in my immediate family to take this path, I've had to figure out financial aid, course planning, scholarships, and preparing for medical school largely on my own. It hasn't always been easy, especially as an out-of-state student balancing the financial realities of college. There have been moments when I wondered how I would afford another semester, but every time I thought about giving up, I remembered the people who never gave up on me. I want my future to reflect everything my grandmother taught me. One day, when a patient walks into my exam room feeling scared or uncertain, I hope they feel the same sense of comfort I always felt walking into her home. Medicine is about science, but healing often begins with compassion, patience, and making someone feel like they matter. My grandmother may not have raised me with wealth or a step-by-step guide to college, but she gave me something much more valuable. She taught me how to work hard without expecting recognition, how to care deeply for other people, and how to stay humble no matter how far I go. Every degree I earn, every patient I help, and every goal I accomplish will be a reflection of the foundation she helped build. Long before I dreamed of becoming a doctor, she was quietly teaching me what it meant to care for people. Looking back, I think that was the greatest lesson of all.

The first time my mom saw me putting tape over my mouth before bed, she thought I'd completely lost it. I remember trying to explain that I wasn't doing it because of some random internet trend. I had just finished reading Breath by James Nestor, and for the first time, I realized something as ordinary as breathing could influence almost every part of our health. Sleep, anxiety, concentration, athletic performance, even the structure of our faces—it all traced back to something I'd done every second of my life without ever thinking about it. The reason I picked up Breath in the first place was because I was desperate for answers. Growing up, I dealt with severe allergies, constant anxiety, and terrible sleep. I was a mouth breather who woke up exhausted no matter how long I slept. I wanted to understand what was happening to my body instead of just accepting it. When someone recommended Breath, I figured I had nothing to lose. I never expected one book to completely change the direction of my life. Before reading Breath, I thought medicine was mostly about diagnosing diseases and prescribing treatments. James Nestor introduced me to a different perspective. He explored how modern lifestyles have changed the way humans breathe, why many people have become chronic mouth breathers, and how small changes in our breathing habits may affect overall health. What fascinated me wasn't just the science. It was the idea that something so simple and overlooked could have such a profound impact on the human body. I became obsessed with learning more. Instead of closing the book and moving on, I started reading research articles, watching lectures, paying attention to my own breathing habits, and asking questions at every doctor's appointment. Why do some people naturally breathe through their nose while others don't? How does breathing affect the brain? Could improving something as basic as breathing prevent disease instead of only treating it later? The more I learned, the more I realized I wasn't just interested in medicine—I genuinely loved understanding how the human body works. That curiosity has shaped almost every decision I've made since. Today, I'm pursuing neurobiology while also studying aerospace aviation because I'm fascinated by how the human body responds to different environments. I've become a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, and shadowed physicians because I wanted to keep asking questions outside of the classroom. What I appreciate most about Breath is that it reminded me science doesn't always begin with billion-dollar technology or groundbreaking discoveries. Sometimes it begins by paying closer attention to something we've ignored our entire lives. That idea changed how I approach learning. I don't read just to memorize information anymore. I read because I know one sentence or one idea can completely change the way I see the world. Books don't just give you answers—they change the questions you ask afterward. Breath didn't tell me what career to choose. It simply made me curious enough to keep searching. That curiosity eventually led me toward medicine and gave me a reason to turn my own health struggles into something meaningful. Looking back, it's funny that one book convinced me to sleep with tape over my mouth. But it also convinced me of something much more important: curiosity can change a life. Mine certainly did.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like Olivia Rodrigo?" I've lost count of how many times I've heard that question. At first, I'd laugh, say thank you, and move on. But after hearing it over and over again, I figured I should probably listen to the artist everyone kept comparing me to. I didn't expect that a comment about my appearance would introduce me to someone whose music I'd end up connecting with so much. One lyric that has stayed with me is, "They all say that it gets better, it gets better the more you grow." (teenage dream). I think that's one of the most honest lines she's ever written because growing up isn't some magical switch where everything suddenly makes sense. Sometimes it just means learning how to keep moving even when you're unsure of what's next. As a first-generation college student, I've felt that uncertainty a lot. I'm building a future no one in my immediate family has experienced before. Some days I'm studying neurobiology for hours, applying for scholarships late into the night, worrying about tuition, volunteering at the hospital, or trying to figure out my next step toward medical school. I don't always know if I'm doing everything right, but I keep reminding myself that you don't have to have every answer at nineteen. That's something I love about Olivia's music. She doesn't pretend to have life figured out. She writes about insecurity, change, and trying to become the person you're supposed to be, and somehow she makes those feelings sound normal instead of embarrassing. I also connect with how she's never been afraid to evolve. She went from Disney Channel to becoming one of the biggest artists in the world, and she did it by staying true to herself instead of trying to become someone people expected. I think that's something a lot of young people, including me, can relate to. There are always opinions about what you should study, who you should become, or how you should live your life. Olivia reminds me that it's okay to write your own story. Ironically, the thing that first connected me to Olivia wasn't her music at all—it was people saying I looked like her. But after listening to her albums, I realized the resemblance people noticed on the outside wasn't what kept me listening. It was the honesty. Whenever I'm driving home after volunteering, studying for another exam, or feeling overwhelmed by everything on my plate, Olivia's music reminds me that growing up is messy for everyone. Nobody has it all together, even if it looks like they do. Maybe one day people will stop telling me I look like Olivia Rodrigo. That's okay. I'd rather have them say I have the same determination to keep growing, keep learning, and keep becoming the person I'm meant to be. To me, that's a much better comparison.

The phone call I never got is the one I'll remember forever. While I was four hours away finishing my first year of college, studying for finals, stressing over chemistry exams, and trying to adjust to college life, my mom was quietly carrying one of the scariest years of her life. She never wanted me to know just how much she was going through because she didn't want me to lose focus or worry about her from so far away. I found out later that while I was building my future, she was wondering what hers would look like. My mom is a single mother who works two jobs just so I can stay in college. She has always been the kind of person who puts everyone else first, even when she has nothing left to give herself. Looking back now, it doesn't surprise me that she hid everything from me. She wanted me focused on my education, not sitting in my dorm four hours away wondering if my mom was okay. It started with a breast cancer scare that turned into months of appointments, imaging, waiting, and eventually a biopsy. Anyone who has lived through that process knows the waiting can be just as painful as the procedure itself. Every phone call feels like it could change your life. Every appointment comes with another unknown. Somehow, through all of that, she still called me to ask how my classes were going, reminded me to eat, and celebrated every little accomplishment I shared with her. She carried her fear so I wouldn't have to carry it too. As if that wasn't enough, she's also allergic to general anesthesia. Before her biopsy, the hospital had to order a special anesthetic that was safe for her. When it finally arrived, it had been damaged during shipping. I honestly couldn't believe it. Something as simple as a broken shipment delayed an already terrifying process. It made me realize that healthcare isn't just about doctors and diagnoses. Sometimes access, communication, and even logistics can completely change a patient's experience. Thankfully, my mom's biopsy came back benign, and I don't think I've ever felt relief like that. But even with a positive outcome, the experience changed me forever. Before all of this, breast health wasn't something I thought about often. Now I understand that education is one of the most powerful forms of prevention. It's about helping women recognize changes early, encouraging them to advocate for themselves, and making sure they never feel embarrassed or afraid to ask questions. Too many women spend their lives taking care of everyone else before taking care of themselves. As someone pursuing a career in medicine, I've become fascinated by how much compassion can change a patient's experience. Through my work as a certified phlebotomy technician, my hospital volunteering, and physician shadowing, I've learned that patients don't always remember every medical detail. They remember the nurse who made them laugh before a procedure. The healthcare worker who explained things one more time without making them feel rushed. The person who sat with them during the hardest part. One day, I hope to be that person. I want every patient who walks into my exam room to feel informed instead of overwhelmed and supported instead of scared. Medicine is about treating disease, but caring for people is something entirely different. My mom never wanted me to know what she was carrying because she thought protecting me was more important than sharing her fear. Now it's my turn to carry something for her. I carry the lesson that early detection matters, that education saves lives, and that one compassionate healthcare professional can completely change someone's darkest day. That's why breast health education matters to me. Because behind every biopsy, every mammogram, and every diagnosis is someone like my mom—quietly carrying more than anyone else realizes. As someone pursuing a career in medicine, I've become fascinated by how much compassion can change a patient's experience. Through my work as a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, my hospital volunteering, and physician shadowing, I've learned that patients don't always remember every medical detail. I became a certified phlebotomy technician because I wanted to begin caring for patients before medical school. I earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, and sought out physician shadowing because I wanted to understand what compassionate healthcare looks like outside of a textbook. At Penn State, I'm also pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I know that something as simple as speaking a patient's language can make them feel safer during one of the most vulnerable moments of their life. Outside of the hospital, I started Project Cura Cuba after my mom and I talked about how difficult it is for families in Cuba to access even basic medical supplies. That conversation reminded me that healthcare extends far beyond the walls of a clinic. Whether it's collecting medical supplies, volunteering in my community, or one day caring for patients as a physician, my goal has always been the same: to leave people feeling better than I found them. My mom never wanted me to know what she was carrying because she thought protecting me was more important than sharing her fear. Now it's my turn to carry something for her. I carry the lesson that early detection matters, that education saves lives, and that one compassionate healthcare professional can completely change someone's darkest day. That's why breast health education matters to me. Because behind every biopsy, every mammogram, and every diagnosis is someone like my mom—a woman quietly carrying more than anyone else realizes. And behind every patient is a future healthcare professional like me, hoping to make those moments a little less frightening, one conversation at a time.

The first thing I pack before I leave the house isn't my phone, my wallet, or even my keys. It's my EpiPen. For as long as I can remember, that's just been my normal. Birthday parties meant asking what was in the cake before I could ask whose birthday it was. School celebrations meant politely turning down cupcakes while everyone else dug in. Restaurants weren't just places to eat, they were places where I had to trust complete strangers with my safety. Growing up with severe food allergies taught me something I don't think most people learn until much later in life: health is something you rarely think about until you don't have it. At first, I hated feeling different. Eventually, though, those moments stopped making me feel embarrassed and started making me curious. Why would my immune system see milk or peanuts as something dangerous? Why could one person's body react so differently from another's? The more questions I asked, the more fascinated I became with medicine. Somewhere between reading ingredient labels and asking my allergist a hundred questions every appointment, I realized I wanted to spend my life understanding the human body and helping the people living inside it. That curiosity is what has shaped every decision I've made since. Today, I'm pursuing a career in medicine because I genuinely can't imagine doing anything else. I've become a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, and spent countless hours shadowing physicians because I didn't want to wait until medical school to start learning how to care for people. Every patient interaction reminds me that medicine isn't just about diagnosing illnesses or performing procedures. It's about making people feel safe, especially when they're scared. One thing that surprised me while volunteering was how much the smallest interactions mattered. I watched healthcare workers remember a patient's favorite blanket, joke with someone before a procedure, or simply sit down for an extra minute because they could tell someone needed it. Those moments weren't written in a job description, but they were often what patients remembered most. That's the kind of healthcare professional I hope to become. Someone whose patients remember not only because I treated them well, but because I treated them kindly. Outside of medicine, the project closest to my heart is Project Cura Cuba. It actually started in my kitchen. My mom and I were talking about our family in Cuba and how difficult it was for them to get even basic medical supplies. We looked around our own home and realized how many unopened supplies probably sit forgotten in medicine cabinets across the United States while families just ninety miles away struggle to find necessities. That conversation turned into an effort to collect usable medical supplies for people in Cuba. It reminded me that helping others doesn't always start with a medical degree. Sometimes it starts with noticing a problem and refusing to ignore it. I'm also happiest when I'm moving. I spent four years playing varsity tennis, and I still love being active because it's one of the few places where my mind completely slows down. Tennis taught me resilience in a way no classroom could. You can't change the point you just lost. You focus on the next one. I've carried that mindset into college, clinical experiences, and every challenge I've faced as a first-generation student trying to build a future that often feels bigger than myself. There are still nights when I worry about how I'm going to pay for another semester or whether I'll be able to keep chasing my dream. But then I remember the little girl who carried an EpiPen everywhere she went and still refused to let her allergies define her. She learned that obstacles don't have to become limits. Sometimes they become your purpose. Medicine first caught my attention because of my own health. I stayed because of the people. Every patient has a story, every family carries something invisible, and every act of compassion matters. That's the kind of life I want to spend my career living.

"What's happening to the human body right now?" Every time I watch a plane disappear into the clouds, that's the question that pops into my head. Most people are probably thinking about where it's going or how high it's flying. I'm thinking about the pilot's body, the passengers, the oxygen levels, the pressure changes, how their brains are processing everything. I honestly think that's way cooler than the plane itself. That's exactly why I'm pursuing both neurobiology and aerospace aviation. To me, aviation isn't just about flying. It's one of the most overlooked areas of medicine, and I think people don't talk about that enough. Everyone gets excited about the newest aircraft or the possibility of traveling farther into space, but I rarely hear people ask, "Are our bodies actually ready for it?" The issue in aviation that frustrates me the most is that technology is advancing faster than our understanding of how those advancements affect people. We can build incredible aircraft and dream about commercial space travel, but the human body still has limits. Pilots deal with fatigue, hypoxia, stress, and long hours. Astronauts experience bone loss, muscle loss, radiation exposure, and changes in vision. Eventually, regular people are going to start traveling to space too, and I think we should be investing just as much into protecting them as we do into building the spacecraft. Honestly, I think that's where the future is. I've always been fascinated by medicine because of my own life. Growing up with severe food allergies meant I was constantly asking questions. Why does my immune system react this way? Why can someone else eat something that could send me to the hospital? Instead of getting frustrated, I became curious. That curiosity eventually turned into something much bigger. Since then, I've become a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, and shadowed physicians. Every patient I've met has reminded me that medicine isn't just memorizing facts. It's listening, solving problems, and understanding that every person is different. I love science because there's always another question waiting to be answered. Being a first-generation college student has also pushed me in ways I never expected. Nobody at home could tell me how to register for classes, prepare for medical school, or figure out financial aid. A lot of it has been learning as I go. There have definitely been nights where I worried more about tuition than my exams, which probably isn't how college is supposed to be, but that's the reality for a lot of students. Even so, I've kept chasing opportunities because I know where I want to end up. One day I hope to work in aerospace medicine, studying how flight and space travel affect the human body while caring for pilots and astronauts. I also hope commercial spaceflight becomes more accessible in my lifetime, because if it does, the need for physicians in this field is only going to grow. I want to be part of that. Not because it's the easiest path, honestly it's probably one of the hardest, but because it's one of the few careers where I can combine everything I love into one. People say the sky is the limit. I don't really agree anymore. I think the real challenge starts after we leave it. And I want to spend my career helping make sure the people brave enough to explore beyond it can come home healthy.

The moment I realized science could save lives wasn't in a classroom—it was during a conversation in my kitchen. My mom and I were talking about our family in Cuba when she casually mentioned that someone was saving gloves to wash and reuse because they couldn't get new ones. I remember looking around our kitchen and thinking about how many unopened medical supplies sit forgotten in homes across the United States while people just ninety miles away struggle to access basic healthcare. That conversation stayed with me long after dinner ended. Instead of asking, "Why is this happening?" I started asking, "What can I do about it?" That question became Project Cura Cuba, an initiative I started to collect usable medical supplies and connect them with people in Cuba who need them most. While the project is still growing, it changed the way I view STEM. Science isn't just research papers, equations, or laboratory experiments. STEM is the bridge between discovery and humanity. It has the power to improve lives, but only if those innovations reach the people who need them. As a first-generation Cuban and Puerto Rican college student, I am pursuing a degree in Neurobiology at Penn State University because I want to become a physician who combines science with service. My interests in immunology and anesthesiology stem from personal experiences living with food allergies and seeing how compassionate healthcare can transform someone's life. Those experiences motivated me to become a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earn my BLS certification, volunteer in a hospital, and shadow physicians before even applying to medical school. Every opportunity has strengthened my belief that science is most meaningful when it directly benefits another person. The biggest challenge I have faced has not been academics—it has been uncertainty. As a first-generation student, I have had to navigate college largely on my own while facing significant financial barriers as an out-of-state student. There have been moments when I worried that tuition, not my ability, would determine whether I could continue pursuing my dream. Instead of allowing those obstacles to discourage me, I searched for opportunities. I applied for scholarships, pursued clinical certifications, sought mentors, and continued building experiences that would make me a better future physician. I also know what it feels like to live with a medical condition that requires constant vigilance. Growing up with food allergies meant carrying emergency medication, reading every ingredient label, and often feeling different from everyone around me. Rather than letting those experiences frustrate me, they sparked my curiosity about the immune system. The same condition that once made me feel isolated became the reason I fell in love with science. My long-term goal extends beyond becoming a doctor. I want to help improve access to healthcare for underserved communities, strengthen medical outreach initiatives like Project Cura Cuba, and inspire other first-generation students to believe that they belong in STEM. Representation matters, and I hope to show students from backgrounds like mine that curiosity, determination, and compassion are just as important as talent. When I think about the future, I don't picture awards or titles. I picture a patient receiving care they never thought was possible, a child with allergies feeling understood, or a family finally accessing medical supplies they desperately need. If STEM has taught me anything, it's that the smallest idea—one that begins with a conversation in a kitchen—can grow into something capable of changing lives. That's the kind of impact I hope to spend my career making.

If there's one thing Love Island has taught us, it's that everyone says they're "here for the right reasons." My challenge would finally put that to the test. Challenge Name: "Receipts or Regrets." The Islanders gather around the fire pit and are each handed a locked box with their name on it. Inside every box are five statements about that Islander's time in the villa. Some are completely true, while others are completely false. The twist? The producers create the statements using real villa moments, unseen conversations, and public opinions—but the Islanders don't know which are which. Examples could be: "You told another Islander you would recouple if a bombshell walked in." "You said your current partner gives you the 'ick.'" "You ranked someone else as the most attractive person in the villa." "You secretly defended your partner during a conversation they never heard." "You said you could see yourself leaving the villa with your current partner." Each Islander reads one statement aloud. Before it's revealed, everyone else must vote by holding up one of two paddles: Receipts (they think it's true) or Regrets (they think it's false). After everyone votes, the real answer is revealed on the villa screen with unseen footage or audio clips to prove it. Here's where the challenge gets even better. Every correct guess earns that Islander a "Receipt Token." At the end of the game, whoever has the most tokens earns a private sunset date with the person of their choice—even if they're not currently coupled up. That choice is announced immediately in front of the entire villa. But if an Islander gets fewer than two statements correct about themselves, they're declared the Least Self-Aware Islander and must spend the next 24 hours wearing a sash with that title. It's harmless, funny, and guaranteed to become a meme online. This challenge would create the perfect balance of drama, comedy, and genuine relationship growth. Strong couples would have the chance to prove they really know each other, while weaker couples would quickly realize they've been missing important conversations. Viewers would also get to see never-before-aired clips, making them feel like they're getting exclusive behind-the-scenes content instead of another recycled game. The best Love Island challenges don't just stir up drama—they reveal the truth. Receipts or Regrets would do exactly that, while giving fans the plot twists, reactions, and viral moments they'll be talking about long after the episode ends.

"If you know every word to All Too Well (10 Minute Version), you're either healing... or you're a Swiftie." For me, the most moving Taylor Swift performance wasn't the biggest or the loudest—it was her performance of "All Too Well (10 Minute Version)" at the 2024 Grammy Awards. There was something captivating about watching an entire arena become completely silent for a ten-minute song. In an industry where attention spans are short, Taylor proved that honest storytelling will always hold people's attention. What I admire most about that performance is how fearless she was. Standing alone with nothing but a microphone and a song that tells such a personal story takes confidence. She didn't rely on elaborate choreography or special effects. Instead, she trusted the power of her words, and millions of people connected with them. As someone who spends most of my time studying science and preparing for a career in medicine, I probably don't fit the stereotype of a Swiftie. My playlists switch between anatomy podcasts, study playlists, and Taylor Swift without warning. During stressful weeks of exams, volunteering, or worrying about how I'll afford another semester of college, her music has been my escape. It reminds me that it's okay to feel everything deeply while still moving forward. I also admire how Taylor has reinvented herself throughout her career without losing who she is. Every era feels different, yet they all still sound unmistakably like Taylor Swift. Watching her evolve has reminded me that growth doesn't mean leaving your past behind—it means building on it. As a first-generation college student, that's something I think about often. Every new opportunity feels like stepping into unfamiliar territory, but I don't have to become someone else to succeed. That performance of All Too Well represents something bigger than music. It represents having the courage to tell your story exactly as it is, even when it's vulnerable. Whether Taylor is standing on a stage in front of thousands or I'm working toward becoming a physician one patient at a time, I hope to approach my goals with that same authenticity. The performance moved me because it wasn't perfect—it was real. And sometimes the most memorable performances aren't the ones with the biggest production. They're the ones that make millions of people feel like they're the only person in the room.

My Spotify Wrapped has two personalities. One minute it's a podcast about the immune system or medical school, and the next it's Sabrina Carpenter at full volume. Somehow, that combination makes perfect sense. I've been a fan since Girl Meets World. Back then, I loved Maya Hart because she was sarcastic, confident, and never apologized for being herself. I don't think I realized it then, but I wasn't just watching a character, I was watching someone who made being different look like a strength instead of something to hide. As I've gotten older, I've found myself admiring Sabrina even more. Most celebrities become known for one thing, but she's never been afraid to evolve. She went from Disney Channel to selling out arenas, and she did it while everyone had an opinion about who she should be. Instead of shrinking herself to fit those expectations, she kept growing. I think that's what inspires me the most. As a first-generation college student, there are days when I feel like I'm figuring out life as I go. I'm balancing a demanding science major, working toward medical school, volunteering, earning certifications, applying for scholarships, and constantly worrying about how I'll pay for the next semester. Sometimes the pressure feels overwhelming. On those days, I get in my car, turn on Sabrina, and for twenty minutes my brain gets a break. It's a small thing, but those little moments matter. I also love that she doesn't take herself too seriously. Whether it's her interviews, her sense of humor, or the confidence she brings to everything she does, she reminds me that success doesn't have to mean losing your personality. You can work incredibly hard and still laugh at yourself along the way. One thing people probably don't expect about me is that while I spend hours studying neurobiology and dreaming about becoming a physician, I also know almost every Sabrina Carpenter lyric. I can go from memorizing the coagulation cascade to screaming "Espresso" in my BMW with the windows down five minutes later. That's just who I am. I love science, but I also think life is supposed to be fun. Sabrina's career has reminded me that there isn't one right path to success. You don't have to stay in the box people put you in. You can reinvent yourself, take risks, and keep chasing bigger goals without forgetting who you are. Hopefully one day I'll be introducing myself as Dr. Arzuaga. Until then, I'll keep studying, volunteering, chasing scholarships, and probably listening to Sabrina Carpenter the entire way there.

The acceptance letter was the easy part. Figuring out how to afford college, navigate it, and succeed without anyone in my family having done it before, that was the real challenge. Being a first-generation college student means constantly stepping into the unknown. There was no one at home who could explain financial aid, course registration, office hours, research opportunities, or what medical schools expect from applicants. Every decision came with uncertainty, and almost everything I have learned about college has come from asking questions, seeking mentors, and teaching myself along the way. Despite those challenges, I never let uncertainty become an excuse. I chose to embrace it. Today, I am a Neurobiology major at Penn State University with the goal of becoming a physician. Alongside my major, I am pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I hope to care for patients in both English and Spanish. I have become a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, and shadowed physicians to gain clinical experience long before medical school. Every opportunity I pursue is another step toward the future I have imagined for years. Being first-generation has also meant carrying financial challenges that often feel overwhelming. As an out-of-state student, I know how quickly tuition, housing, books, and other expenses add up. There have been moments when I worried that finances, not my grades or determination, might become the biggest obstacle between me and my dream. That fear has motivated me to apply for scholarships, seek employment, and make the most of every opportunity available because I refuse to let financial hardship determine my future. What drives me is the belief that education has the power to change not only one life, but an entire family. My success will not end with earning a degree. I hope it becomes proof for younger students in my community that where you come from does not limit where you can go. I also hope to become the person my family never had—someone who can guide future generations through college, graduate school, and beyond. Receiving the Bick First Generation Scholarship would do far more than help pay for my education. It would give me the security to continue focusing on becoming the best student, future physician, and leader I can be instead of constantly worrying about the financial barriers ahead. More importantly, it would represent something every first-generation student hopes to find: someone who believes in our potential before we've had the chance to fully prove it ourselves. Being first-generation is not just part of my story, it is the reason I work as hard as I do. I am determined to turn every opportunity into something meaningful, not only for myself but for everyone who will come after me. My dream is to become a physician, but my greatest accomplishment will be opening doors that my family never had the chance to walk through.

Growing up, my "awkward thing" wasn't something you could see, it was what I couldn't eat. Birthday parties, classroom celebrations, sleepovers, team dinners, and holidays all came with the same routine. Before I could enjoy anything, I had to ask, "What's in it?" More often than not, the answer meant I couldn't have it. While everyone else grabbed pizza, cupcakes, cookies, or ice cream without a second thought, I sat with the "safe" snack my mom had packed or simply went without. As a kid, there is nothing more awkward than having your teacher announce, "This one is for you because of your allergies," while everyone else eats together. At the time, I hated feeling different. I hated reading ingredient labels while everyone else was already eating. I hated explaining my allergies over and over again. I hated worrying that one mistake could send me to the emergency room. Most of all, I hated feeling like the difficult kid, even though I never wanted special treatment. As I got older, something unexpected happened. Instead of asking, "Why me?" I started asking, "Why does this happen?" I became fascinated by allergies and the immune system. I wanted to understand why my own body reacted to foods that were perfectly safe for other people. The more I learned, the more I realized that what had always embarrassed me was also introducing me to a field I genuinely loved. That curiosity eventually became a passion. Today, I am a Neurobiology major at Penn State University with plans to become a physician. I'm especially interested in immunology because I know firsthand what it feels like to live with allergies every single day. I understand the anxiety of carrying emergency medication, reading every food label, asking restaurant staff endless questions, and wondering whether something is truly safe. Those experiences have given me empathy that can't be learned from a textbook. My allergies also taught me resilience. They forced me to advocate for myself from a young age, speak up when I felt uncomfortable, and never be afraid to ask questions, even when I worried about standing out. Those are skills that I now carry into college, volunteering, shadowing physicians, and preparing for a career in medicine. Looking back, I no longer wish I had been the kid who could eat the classroom cupcake. Of course, it would have been easier, but it also might have meant never discovering the field that inspires me every day. The thing that once made me feel awkward has become one of my greatest strengths. It shaped my perspective, fueled my curiosity, and gave me a purpose. Sometimes the qualities that make us feel different as children become the very things that define us as adults. My food allergies may have made me stand out growing up, but they also led me toward the career I hope to dedicate my life to. One day, I hope to help children with allergies feel less afraid, less different, and more understood than I did. If I can do that, then every awkward birthday party and every missed cupcake will have been worth it.

The hardest part about losing someone isn't the funeral—it's all the ordinary days afterward when your mind still forgets they're gone. More often than I'd like to admit, I still catch myself expecting my sister, Nicole Arzuaga, to call me, walk through the front door, or laugh at something only we would understand. Then reality returns, and I remember she's gone. Nicole was so much more than the way she died. She was a daughter, a sister, a mother, and someone who loved deeply despite the battles she faced. Addiction took so much from her, but it never took away her heart. She wanted to be there for her son, who lives with epilepsy, and she loved him more than anything. When she passed away, she didn't just leave behind grieving family members—she left behind a little boy who would have to grow up without his mother. Her death was sudden and devastating. After injecting fentanyl, she developed sepsis, and despite every effort to save her, she passed away. My father was in another state at the time and never got the chance to see his oldest daughter or tell her goodbye. That is a pain I wouldn't wish on anyone. Watching my family experience that kind of heartbreak changed me forever. For a long time, I found myself asking questions that had no answers. I wondered if things could have been different, if someone could have reached her sooner, or if one more conversation could have changed everything. While I know I can't rewrite the past, I have realized that I can choose what I do with the future. Nicole's story is one of the biggest reasons I want to become a physician. Her life taught me that every patient has a story that extends far beyond a diagnosis. Addiction is often met with judgment, but behind every struggle is a human being who deserves compassion, dignity, and the opportunity to heal. I want to be the kind of doctor who never loses sight of that. Whether I am caring for someone battling addiction, comforting a worried parent, or treating a patient during one of the hardest moments of their life, I want them to know they are seen as a person first. Since losing Nicole, I have committed myself to preparing for a career where I can make a meaningful difference. I became a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, and shadowed physicians to better understand what compassionate care looks like. Every experience has reinforced my desire to dedicate my life to medicine. Although Nicole will never get to see the physician I hope to become, I carry her with me every day. She is present in every late night of studying, every patient I hope to help, and every goal I continue to chase. I cannot change how her story ended, but I can make sure her life continues to inspire hope, compassion, and healing through mine. In that way, a part of my sister's legacy will live on in every life I have the privilege to touch.

The tennis court taught me something long before any classroom ever could: success isn't measured by how many times you win, it's measured by how many times you choose to keep showing up. I am a first-generation college student and Neurobiology major at Penn State University with the dream of becoming a physician. Before college, I spent four years as a varsity tennis player, where I learned discipline, resilience, and how to stay focused even when life became overwhelming. Those lessons have carried into every part of my life, from my education to my commitment to serving others. My family has always worked hard to create opportunities for me. As a first-generation college student, I have seen the sacrifices that come with pursuing a better future. Watching my mom put my dreams before her own has motivated me to make the most of every opportunity I've been given. I know my education is about more than earning a degree, it's about creating a future that can change my family's story. One of the experiences that impacted me the most was working as a camp counselor for the Elizabeth Board of Education. Many of the children I worked with came from immigrant families, and some spoke very little English. Others missed parents who were working long hours or living in another country. Sports became more than just games, they became a universal language. Whether we were playing tennis, basketball, soccer, or simply running relay races, I watched shy children gain confidence, make friends, and forget about their worries, even if it was only for a few hours. Seeing them smile reminded me that sometimes the greatest impact comes from simply showing up for someone. That experience strengthened my desire to work in medicine. I have since become a nationally certified phlebotomy technician, earned my BLS certification, volunteered in a hospital, and shadowed physicians. I'm also pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I want every patient to feel understood, regardless of the language they speak. I hope to become a physician who combines medical knowledge with empathy, treating every patient with the same compassion and respect they deserve. Sports have shaped who I am, but they have also shown me the importance of lifting others up. The teamwork, perseverance, and leadership I developed as a student-athlete continue to guide me as I work toward a career dedicated to helping people during some of the most difficult moments of their lives. Stephan Wolley's story is a reminder that the impact someone leaves behind is measured not only by their accomplishments but by the lives they touch. I hope to honor that legacy by continuing to serve my community, encouraging young people to dream beyond their circumstances, and using my future career in medicine to create opportunities and hope for others. If I can make even one person's path a little easier, then I will know I have succeeded.

"I Refuse to Accept That a Plane Ticket Can Feel Like a Medical Risk." Most students preparing to study abroad spend their time researching landmarks, restaurants, and places they want to visit. I was researching the nearest hospital. When I was accepted into a study abroad program in Kenya, excitement was quickly replaced by the same question I had asked my entire life. What happens if I have an allergic reaction? Living with severe allergies to milk, peanuts, and tree nuts meant that every opportunity came with a risk assessment. Birthday parties. School trips. Restaurants. Vacations. Before saying yes to anything, I found myself calculating the distance to the nearest emergency room. For years, I accepted that this was simply what life with food allergies looked like. Then I stopped accepting it. As I prepared for Kenya, I made the decision to continue oral immunotherapy because I realized something I had never questioned before: I wasn't afraid of traveling. I was afraid that my immune system would make the decision for me. Recently, I ate cashews for the first time in my life. Most people would see that as a small victory. I saw something much bigger. I saw proof that medicine doesn't have to stop at managing disease. It can redefine what patients believe is possible. That experience completely changed the kind of physician I want to become. Today, I study Neurobiology at Penn State with the goal of specializing in immunology. But I don't simply want to treat allergic reactions after they happen. I want to contribute to research that makes them less likely to happen at all. I refuse to accept that children should grow up believing the world is too dangerous to explore because of their immune system. I refuse to accept that parents should have to choose between giving their child new experiences and keeping them safe. I refuse to accept that carrying epinephrine should be the only answer we can offer millions of patients. Whether that future comes through improved oral immunotherapy protocols, biologic medications, personalized immunology, or entirely new technologies that haven't been invented yet, I want to help build it. My interest extends beyond the laboratory. Through volunteering at Rahway Hospital, creating Project Cura Cuba to improve access to medical supplies, and studying abroad to better understand global healthcare, I've learned that innovation means very little if patients cannot access it. The best medical breakthroughs are the ones that improve everyday life for ordinary people. One day, I hope another thirteen-year-old with food allergies receives different advice than I did. Instead of being told to avoid the world, I hope they're told to go explore it. Because the future of medicine shouldn't simply help people survive. It should give them the freedom to live.

When I committed to Penn State, everyone in my family was excited. Then the questions started. "How do you accept your financial aid?" "What classes do you register for first?" "How do student loans work?" No one knew the answers. Not because they didn't care, but because no one in my family had ever done it before. That is what being first-generation means to me. It doesn't just mean being the first person to earn a college degree. It means becoming the person everyone else looks to while you're still trying to figure it out yourself. Every form I filled out, every scholarship I searched for, every advisor I emailed, and every decision I made about college happened without a roadmap. I learned by asking questions, making mistakes, and refusing to let not knowing become a reason to stop. At times, it felt overwhelming. My mom, a single parent, believed in me more than anyone else, but she couldn't teach me how to navigate a system she had never experienced herself. She gave me something even more valuable: the confidence to believe I belonged there, even when I felt completely out of place. Today, I am studying Neurobiology at Penn State while pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate. My goal is to become a physician specializing in immunology. Living with severe food allergies introduced me to medicine at a young age, but it was oral immunotherapy that transformed my perspective. Recently, I ate a cashew for the first time in my life without experiencing an allergic reaction. That moment wasn't just about food. It showed me how research can give people their freedom back, and it inspired me to dedicate my career to helping others experience that same hope. Outside the classroom, I try to use every opportunity to give back. I spent two summers working at a free summer camp through the Elizabeth Board of Recreation, serving children from low-income families while helping Spanish-speaking parents communicate with staff. I volunteer at Rahway Hospital because I believe compassionate healthcare begins long before a diagnosis. I'm also developing Project Cura Cuba, a nonprofit initiative that will collect medical supplies for underserved communities in Cuba. These experiences have taught me that education has little value unless it is used to improve someone else's life. My long-term goal is not only to become a physician but also to conduct immunology research, mentor first-generation students interested in medicine, and improve healthcare access for underserved communities through bilingual care and global outreach. I want to help patients feel understood regardless of the language they speak or the resources they have. Being first-generation has never been about proving that I belong. It's about making sure the next person in my family never has to wonder if they do. One day, I hope college isn't something extraordinary in my family. I hope it's simply what we do.

1. When did you find TXT? I found TXT around 2021. I was listening to random K-pop playlists while studying and one of their songs came on. I kept going back to it, then started listening to more of their music and watching their content. It kind of happened naturally. 2. What do you think is one of the most important characteristics of a MOA? I think being supportive. Everyone is going through something different, and I like that MOAs celebrate each other's accomplishments just as much as they support each other during hard times. It's a fandom that feels welcoming instead of competitive. 3. Do you have a TXT bias, and if so, why did you choose them? Beomgyu. I like that he's funny without trying too hard, but he also has a more thoughtful side. He just seems like someone who genuinely cares about the people around him. 4. Who is your ult bias, if any, of any group? Probably Beomgyu. I always end up watching the clips he's in because his personality is really entertaining. 5. What is your favorite TXT song, and why? Blue Hour. It's one of those songs that instantly puts me in a good mood no matter what. If I'm stressed with school, I'll throw it on and it honestly helps me reset for a little. 6. Have you had a chance to see TXT live in concert before? Not yet. I've watched so many concert clips online though, and it's definitely something I want to do one day. 7. What was your favorite album concept, and why? The Chaos Chapter: FREEZE. I liked that it felt different and more emotional. The visuals were really cool too. 8. How are you currently paying for school? Honestly... a little bit of everything. Federal financial aid, scholarships, loans, and whatever my mom can help with. I'm a first-generation college student, so figuring out how to pay for college has honestly been one of the hardest parts. 9. How will the scholarship help you? What gaps can it fill? It would honestly take a huge weight off my shoulders. Right now I'm trying to avoid taking out even more loans while paying for tuition and rent. Every scholarship I receive makes it easier to stay focused on school instead of constantly worrying about money. 10. How has TXT influenced you for good? They've reminded me that growth takes time. I think it's easy to compare yourself to everyone else, especially in college, but watching their journey has reminded me that everyone grows at their own pace. Their music has been something I put on whenever I'm overwhelmed studying or stressed about life. 11. How will you use your education to do good in the world? I'm studying Neurobiology at Penn State and I want to become a physician specializing in immunology because I've lived with severe food allergies my whole life. I also want to keep volunteering, grow my nonprofit project that sends medical supplies to Cuba, and eventually make healthcare more accessible for people who face language barriers. At the end of the day, I just want to leave people's lives a little better than I found them.

My mom never protested. She never stood on a stage. She never made headlines. The most rebellious thing she ever did was decide that our family's story was going to end differently. Growing up in a Cuban and Puerto Rican family, I was surrounded by people who believed in working hard. But for many of the women in my family, college wasn't the path that was expected. The goal was to find stable work, stay close to home, and help support the family. Becoming a doctor, studying abroad, or leaving home to attend a university hours away wasn't the norm. My mom quietly challenged every one of those expectations. As a single mother, she carried the weight of our family almost entirely on her own. She worried about rent, bills, groceries, and whether we would have enough for the next month. There wasn't another parent sharing those responsibilities, and there wasn't much of a support system to lean on. When other people questioned why I wanted to pursue medicine or thought college was unrealistic because of the cost, my mom never asked me to dream smaller. She simply asked, "How do we make it happen?" That question became the foundation of my life. She taught me that obstacles weren't signs to quit. They were problems waiting to be solved. Because of her, I became the first person in my family to attend a four-year university. Today, I study Neurobiology at Penn State while pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate with the goal of becoming a physician specializing in immunology. Every scholarship application, every late night studying, and every opportunity I pursue is built on the confidence she gave me long before I had any reason to believe in myself. Her resilience also shaped the way I serve others. I spent two summers working at a free summer camp through the Elizabeth Board of Recreation, where I worked with children from low-income families and often helped Spanish-speaking parents communicate with staff. I volunteer at Rahway Hospital because I want to understand what compassionate healthcare looks like before I become a physician. I'm also developing Project Cura Cuba, a nonprofit initiative focused on collecting medical supplies for underserved communities in Cuba because I believe healthcare should never depend on where someone was born. People often tell me I'm resilient. The truth is, I'm simply the daughter of a woman who never allowed difficult circumstances to become permanent excuses. My mom couldn't give me a college roadmap because she never had one herself. Instead, she gave me something far more valuable. She gave me permission to build one. One day, when I become a physician, earn the degrees she once thought were impossible for our family, and help patients who remind me of the community that raised me, I hope she'll see what I've always seen. She didn't just raise a daughter. She changed the direction of an entire family.

I Almost Failed Calculus. Not because I wasn't trying. Because for the first time in my life, I couldn't solve a problem by simply studying harder. When I took calculus, I remember staring at pages of derivatives and limits wondering how people could possibly understand a language that looked nothing like the math I had learned before. There were moments when I questioned whether I belonged in STEM at all. It was frustrating, humbling, and honestly one of the hardest classes I had ever taken. Looking back, I'm grateful it happened. Calculus taught me something much more valuable than finding the derivative of a function. It taught me how to think. Before calculus, I believed science was about memorizing facts and formulas. Calculus showed me that STEM is really about understanding change. Whether you're measuring the growth of cancer cells, modeling the spread of infectious diseases, designing safer bridges, or predicting the movement of planets, calculus gives us the tools to understand how our world changes over time. As a Neurobiology student at Penn State pursuing a career in immunology, I've begun to appreciate just how interconnected calculus is with medicine. Our bodies are constantly changing. Drug concentrations rise and fall, nerve signals travel at measurable speeds, populations of immune cells expand during infections, and blood flows according to mathematical principles. Behind many of the breakthroughs in modern medicine is mathematics that allows scientists to predict, analyze, and improve treatments. That realization completely changed the way I viewed calculus. It wasn't another difficult class standing between me and medical school. It was one of the foundations that would eventually help me understand the science behind saving lives. Living with severe food allergies has made this especially meaningful to me. After years of oral immunotherapy, I experienced something I once thought was impossible: eating a cashew without having an allergic reaction. That treatment wasn't created through trial and error alone. It was developed through years of research, data analysis, mathematical modeling, and countless scientists asking questions that required both biology and mathematics to answer. Calculus represents that partnership. It reminds us that discoveries don't happen because one field works alone. Biology, chemistry, physics, engineering, computer science, and mathematics all depend on one another to solve the world's biggest challenges. Ironically, the class I feared the most became one of the classes I respect the most. I may not remember every derivative rule years from now. But I'll always remember what calculus taught me: growth rarely happens when everything comes easily. Sometimes the subjects that challenge us the most become the ones that prepare us for the future we're working toward.

The first person who believed I could become a doctor wasn't a teacher, a counselor, or a physician. It was my mom. She believed it long before I did. Growing up in a Cuban and Puerto Rican family, college was never the expectation. It wasn't because my family didn't value hard work. They did. But higher education wasn't something people around me talked about. For many of the women in my family, the expectation was to work, help support the household, and build a life close to home. Dreaming about becoming a physician, studying abroad, or earning multiple degrees felt like something that happened to other families, not mine. Then my mom decided our story didn't have to follow the same path. As a single mother, she carried responsibilities that most people never saw. She worked long hours, worried about bills, and somehow still found a way to remind me that education was the one thing no one could ever take away from me. When other people questioned whether college was realistic, she never did. When there wasn't enough money, she found another way. When our family didn't understand why I wanted to leave home for college, she stood beside me anyway. The truth is, we didn't have much of a support system. We had each other. Today, I am the first person in my family pursuing a four-year degree. I study Neurobiology at Penn State while completing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I hope to become a physician specializing in immunology. Every exam I take, every scholarship I apply for, and every opportunity I pursue carries a little piece of my mom's belief that my future could look different from our past. Her resilience also shaped the way I serve others. I spent two summers working at a free summer camp through the Elizabeth Board of Recreation, serving children from low-income families, many of whom reminded me of my own community. I volunteer at Rahway Hospital, where I continue learning how compassion can make patients feel seen during difficult moments. I'm also building Project Cura Cuba, a nonprofit initiative that will collect medical supplies for underserved communities in Cuba because I believe healthcare should never depend on where someone is born. My goal has never been to be the first in my family simply for the title. I want to be the first domino. I want the younger kids in my family to grow up believing college isn't something extraordinary. I want them to think studying medicine, conducting research, traveling the world, and earning advanced degrees are normal possibilities because someone in our family has already done it. People often say it takes a village to raise a child. My mom didn't have a village. She became one. If I spend the rest of my life helping other families the way she helped ours, then every sacrifice she made will have created something far bigger than a college degree. It will have created a new beginning.

"I Didn't Realize I Was Choosing My Career. I Thought I Was Just Helping." "Can you tell my mom?" It was a question I heard more than once while working at a free summer camp for the Elizabeth Board of Recreation. The child wasn't asking for a translator. They were asking for someone they trusted. Many of the families at our camp spoke primarily Spanish. Some children had one parent at home while the other remained in another country. When a child got hurt, missed the bus, or simply had a difficult day, I often found myself sitting beside a worried parent, explaining everything in Spanish. I never thought much of it. I wasn't wearing scrubs. I wasn't diagnosing illnesses. I wasn't saving lives. I was simply making sure a parent went home with peace of mind. Looking back, I realize those conversations shaped me more than any science class ever could. Growing up in a first-generation Cuban and Puerto Rican family, I understood what it felt like when language became a barrier instead of a bridge. I watched relatives hesitate to ask questions during appointments because they were embarrassed they might not understand the answer. I watched fear grow simply because communication was missing. That is when I realized healthcare begins long before treatment. It begins when someone feels safe enough to ask a question. That realization is what eventually led me to study Neurobiology at Penn State while pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate. My goal is to become a physician specializing in immunology, inspired by my own journey with severe food allergies and oral immunotherapy. Medicine gave me more than better health. It gave me the confidence to say yes to opportunities I once believed were impossible, including studying abroad in Kenya. Today, I continue that same commitment through volunteering at Rahway Hospital, where I've learned that some of the most meaningful moments in healthcare aren't dramatic. Sometimes they're as simple as sitting with a nervous patient, listening before speaking, or taking an extra minute to explain what everyone else assumes they already know. That same belief inspired me to create Project Cura Cuba, a nonprofit initiative dedicated to collecting medical supplies for underserved communities in Cuba. I don't want healthcare to stop at the walls of a hospital. I want it to reach communities where resources are limited but hope shouldn't be. People often think helping the world requires one extraordinary act. I don't. I think it starts with answering one simple question. "Can you tell my mom?" One day, I hope my patients remember me for more than the treatments I prescribed. I hope they remember that before I became their doctor, I became someone who listened. Because I have learned that the most powerful medicine we can offer someone is not always found in a prescription. Sometimes, it's found in making sure they never feel alone.

"I Learned to Measure Money by Utility Bills." Before I understood what a credit score was, I knew what it meant when my mom stared silently at the kitchen table with a stack of envelopes. As a child, I didn't understand why she would spread out bills, cross numbers off on a notepad, and sit there for what felt like hours. I thought she was doing homework. Later, I realized she was deciding which bills could be paid and which ones would have to wait. Growing up in a Cuban and Puerto Rican family, I learned very early that hard work does not always guarantee financial security. My mother worked tirelessly, yet there were months when more than an entire paycheck disappeared into rent alone. After my parents separated, she became the person responsible for holding everything together. There wasn't another income to fall back on, and every unexpected expense felt like a setback we couldn't afford. Watching her carry that responsibility changed me. It taught me to appreciate every opportunity, but it also made me determined to create a different future for my family. Today, I am the first person in my family pursuing a four-year degree. I study Neurobiology at Penn State while also working toward a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I hope to become a physician specializing in immunology. My passion for medicine began through my own experience living with severe food allergies and undergoing oral immunotherapy, but it has grown into something much bigger. I want to help families who, like mine, have spent enough time worrying about circumstances they cannot control. The road to college has not been easy. While many students worried about choosing a roommate or decorating their dorm, I worried about how tuition would be paid. I learned how to complete financial aid forms, search for scholarships, and navigate private loans without having anyone in my family who had done it before. Every answer I found came from asking questions, making mistakes, and refusing to stop looking for solutions. Those experiences have also shaped the way I give back. I spent two summers working at a free summer camp for children from low-income families through the Elizabeth Board of Recreation, volunteered at Rahway Hospital, and recently began developing Project Cura Cuba, a nonprofit initiative focused on collecting medical supplies for underserved communities in Cuba. I believe that when you've experienced hardship yourself, you recognize how meaningful even the smallest act of kindness can be. My background has never made me question whether I belong in higher education. It has only made me question how many doors I can open once I'm there. I hope my future as a physician allows me to provide compassionate care to underserved communities while mentoring first-generation Hispanic students who dream of careers in medicine. More than anything, I want my family's story to end with me. I don't want future generations to inherit financial barriers. I want them to inherit possibilities.

"The First Doctor I Ever Looked Up To Didn't Fit the Mold." Growing up, I didn't realize I was watching someone quietly redefine success. My older cousin, Oreste Montiller, is a physician in Puerto Rico. He has earned three degrees, built a successful career in medicine, has a loving partner, and together they are raising a child. He's also openly gay. To me, he was never introduced as "my gay cousin." He was simply the smartest person in the room. As I got older, I began to understand that the confidence he carried wasn't something everyone was allowed to have. I learned that many LGBTQIA+ people, especially those pursuing careers in medicine and other professional fields, often face assumptions about who they are before anyone takes the time to learn what they're capable of. Watching Oreste refuse to let those assumptions define him changed the way I viewed both success and authenticity. As someone who is bisexual, I know what it feels like to question whether parts of yourself will be accepted by others. Having someone in my own family who never apologized for who he was showed me that success and authenticity are not mutually exclusive. You should never have to choose between being respected for your work and being honest about who you are. His example also influenced the kind of physician I hope to become. Today, I study Neurobiology at Penn State while pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate with the goal of becoming an immunologist. Growing up with severe food allergies introduced me to medicine, but growing up watching my cousin practice medicine showed me the kind of healthcare professional I want to be. Patients deserve physicians who create spaces where every person feels respected regardless of their identity, gender, sexual orientation, language, or background. Healthcare begins with trust, and trust cannot exist if patients feel they must hide parts of themselves. That belief has shaped the way I serve my community. Whether I was working with children from low-income families as a camp counselor, volunteering at Rahway Hospital, or creating Project Cura Cuba to improve access to medical supplies, I have learned that advocacy often begins with something simple: making sure people know they belong. My activism won't always involve standing behind a podium or leading a protest. Instead, I hope it looks like creating environments where no patient hesitates to seek care because they fear judgment. I hope it means mentoring LGBTQIA+ students interested in medicine, advocating for inclusive healthcare, and ensuring that every patient who walks into my office feels safe enough to be completely honest about their health. My cousin taught me that representation isn't just about being seen. It's about quietly showing someone else that they belong there too. That's the kind of example I hope to become for someone else one day.

"She Didn't Need a Translator. She Needed Someone Who Cared." The little boy was fine. He had tripped while playing basketball at the Elizabeth Board of Recreation summer camp where I worked as a counselor. He scraped his knee, cried for a few minutes, and after a bandage and an ice pack, he was back outside playing with his friends. To most people, the situation was over. Then his mom arrived. She spoke very little English. As staff members tried to explain what had happened, I could see the worry on her face growing. She nodded politely, but it was obvious she wasn't fully understanding. Before anyone asked, I stepped in and explained everything to her in Spanish. Immediately, her shoulders relaxed. She stopped looking scared and started asking questions. I explained how he had fallen, what we had done to clean the scrape, and reassured her that he had spent the rest of the day laughing and playing. When we finished talking, she smiled and quietly thanked me. The interaction lasted only a few minutes. It wasn't life-saving. No ambulance arrived. No emergency surgery was performed. But I have never forgotten it. That moment taught me something I now carry into every healthcare experience: sometimes people don't need someone to fix everything. They need someone who makes them feel understood. Growing up in a first-generation Cuban and Puerto Rican family, I often translated for relatives during appointments and everyday conversations. At the time, I thought I was simply helping my family communicate. Looking back, I realize I was learning one of the most important lessons in medicine: communication is a form of care. Today, I volunteer at Rahway Hospital, where I continue to see how much a calm presence, a kind voice, or simply taking an extra minute can change someone's experience. While I am still early in my healthcare journey, those moments have confirmed that the best healthcare professionals don't only treat diseases. They care for people. I am currently studying Neurobiology at Penn State while pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I hope to become a physician specializing in immunology. Living with severe food allergies has shown me what it feels like to be a patient. Experiences like the one at camp have shown me the kind of physician I want to become. Shaunterrio Hudson's story reminds us that the most meaningful acts of care often happen quietly. I hope my career reflects that same belief. Years from now, I don't expect every patient to remember my diagnosis. I hope they remember how I made them feel. Because healing begins long before a prescription is written. Sometimes, it begins with making sure someone truly understands.

"The Day I Ate a Cashew Changed More Than My Diet." For most people, eating a cashew is forgettable. For me, it felt impossible. Growing up with severe allergies to milk, peanuts, and tree nuts meant that food was never just food. Every meal required questions, every restaurant required planning, and every trip outside my hometown required knowing where the nearest hospital was. My life wasn't measured by miles or minutes. It was measured by how quickly emergency medical care could reach me. For years, I accepted that reality. Then I began oral immunotherapy. Recently, after years of treatment, I sat at my kitchen table and ate a cashew for the first time. Nothing happened. No allergic reaction. No ambulance. No emergency room. Only silence. It was in that quiet moment that I realized medicine had done something extraordinary. It hadn't simply prevented an allergic reaction. It had given me back a part of my life that fear had taken away. That experience changed everything. I no longer wanted to admire medicine from the patient's chair. I wanted to help create those moments for someone else. Today, I study Neurobiology at Penn State while pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate. My goal is to become a physician specializing in immunology because I have experienced firsthand how research can transform a patient's future. Medicine is constantly evolving, and I want to contribute to discoveries that allow more people to live with freedom instead of fear. My experiences outside the classroom have only strengthened that passion. As a volunteer at Rahway Hospital, I have watched healthcare professionals treat patients with compassion during some of the most difficult moments of their lives. Working as a camp counselor for the Elizabeth Board of Recreation also taught me that healing often begins with trust. Many of the families I worked with primarily spoke Spanish, and I found myself helping bridge language barriers so parents felt informed and included. Those experiences inspired me to become a bilingual physician who ensures every patient feels heard, regardless of the language they speak. My passion for medicine extends beyond the hospital. I am currently developing Project Cura Cuba, a nonprofit initiative focused on collecting and donating medical supplies to underserved communities in Cuba because I believe quality healthcare should not depend on where someone is born or what resources they have access to. One day, I also hope to contribute to immunology research that expands treatment options for patients living with food allergies and other immune disorders. I want future children to spend less time asking where the nearest hospital is and more time asking where they want to travel, what they want to study, and what dreams they want to pursue. The day I ate a cashew wasn't important because I ate a nut. It was important because, for the first time, I understood what medicine is truly capable of. Not just saving lives. Giving people the freedom to live them.

The Sticker The drink looked perfect. The foam was smooth, the caramel drizzle curved across the top like someone had taken the time to paint it, and my name was spelled correctly for the first time in months. Then I noticed something missing. The sticker. Most people looked for their names. I looked for the tiny white sticker that said "Nut Allergy." It wasn't there. I stood frozen in front of the pickup counter while people behind me grabbed their coffees without thinking. A businessman took two giant gulps before he even reached the door. Someone else complained that there wasn't enough whipped cream. Meanwhile, I was staring at a paper cup. A girl behind me sighed dramatically. "Are you getting it or not?" I picked it up. Then I put it back down. Maybe they remembered. Maybe they forgot. Maybe the cashier had typed it in but the barista never saw it. Maybe... The word has ruined more afternoons than I'd like to admit. A barista walked over. "Is everything okay?" I pointed at the cup. "I ordered it with a tree nut allergy." She smiled. "Oh." Just "oh." Then she turned the cup around. Sure enough. No sticker. She looked at the screen. No allergy note. She looked back at me. "I'm honestly not sure." Most people would have asked for a remake immediately. Instead, I started asking questions. "Did you use the almond milk pitcher?" "...Maybe." "Did the blender touch anything with pistachio?" "I'm not sure." "Could someone check?" People behind me were now openly annoyed. One man checked his watch. Another rolled his eyes. To them, I was holding up the line over a missing sticker. To me, I was deciding whether I trusted a stranger with my heartbeat. Five minutes later, they made a new drink. The barista handed it over with a fresh sticker wrapped around the cup. "NUT ALLERGY." She apologized three different times. I thanked her more than she probably expected. As I walked outside, I realized something strange. The conflict had never been about coffee. Or stickers. Or impatient customers. It was about living in a world where tiny details determine enormous outcomes. Where one missing label can change an ordinary Tuesday. Where asking one extra question isn't paranoia. It's survival. I took a sip. The coffee had gone cold. I smiled anyway. Because sometimes the smallest victories don't taste like caramel. Sometimes they taste like certainty.

"No One in My Family Could Tell Me What Came Next." When I committed to Penn State, everyone congratulated me. Then they asked a question no one in my family knew how to answer. "How are you going to pay for it?" As a first-generation Cuban and Puerto Rican college student, getting accepted into college wasn't the finish line. It was the beginning of navigating a world my family had never experienced before. There was no one to explain FAFSA, private loans, office hours, research opportunities, or what medical school would actually require. Every form I completed, every scholarship I searched for, and every financial decision I made became something I had to learn through trial and error. College didn't make me feel unintelligent. It made me feel like I had been handed a map written in a language no one around me could read. Despite those challenges, I never questioned whether higher education was worth pursuing. I questioned whether I could figure it out. Today, I am a Neurobiology student at Penn State pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate with the goal of becoming a physician specializing in immunology. My interest in medicine grew from living with severe food allergies. Years of allergy appointments and oral immunotherapy showed me how life-changing research can be, but they also showed me how different a patient's experience becomes when they feel understood. Growing up translating for family members taught me that communication is just as important as medicine itself. Being first-generation has shaped every goal I have. Rather than seeing obstacles as reasons to stop, I've learned to see them as problems that can be solved. When I wanted to study abroad in Kenya, my first thought wasn't about the wildlife or the adventure. It was whether my allergies would make the experience impossible. Instead of giving up, I continued oral immunotherapy so I could safely pursue an opportunity that once felt out of reach. That decision reminded me that growth often begins where fear ends. Outside the classroom, I've tried to create opportunities for others as well. I spent two summers working as a camp counselor for children from low-income families in Elizabeth, volunteered at Rahway Hospital, and recently began developing Project Cura Cuba, a nonprofit initiative focused on collecting medical supplies for underserved communities in Cuba. These experiences have reinforced that education has little value unless it is used to improve someone else's life. My greatest hope is not simply to earn a medical degree. It is to become the person I wish my family had when I began this journey. I want to mentor first-generation students who dream of careers in STEM, advocate for patients who face language barriers, and contribute to immunology research that gives families more hope and fewer limitations. I want future students to spend less time wondering how they belong and more time discovering what they can accomplish. Being the first in my family to pursue higher education has never been about being the first. It's about making sure I'm not the last.

"A Bandage Shouldn't Have to Cross an Ocean." The idea for Project Cura Cuba didn't begin in a classroom. It began with a simple realization: something as basic as a box of gloves, a blood pressure cuff, or sterile gauze can be taken for granted in one country and nearly impossible to obtain in another. As the daughter of a Cuban family, I grew up hearing stories about the challenges people face when basic medical supplies are unavailable. While pursuing my dream of becoming a physician, I realized that treating patients one at a time would always be meaningful, but I also wanted to address barriers that exist long before a patient reaches a doctor's office. That realization inspired me to create Project Cura Cuba, a nonprofit initiative dedicated to collecting medical supplies and delivering them to underserved communities in Cuba. For me, nonprofit work isn't separate from medicine. It's an extension of it. I'm currently studying Neurobiology at Penn State while pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I hope to become a physician specializing in immunology. Living with severe food allergies taught me how life-changing access to healthcare can be, but it also showed me that quality care depends on more than knowledgeable physicians. It depends on resources, education, communication, and access. Without those things, even the best medical professionals are limited in what they can do. My volunteer experiences have reinforced that belief. Working as a camp counselor for the Elizabeth Board of Recreation allowed me to support children from low-income families while building relationships with Spanish-speaking parents. Today, volunteering at Rahway Hospital has shown me the compassion and teamwork that exist behind every patient interaction. Both experiences have reminded me that service is rarely about one extraordinary moment. It is about consistently showing up for people who need you. That is the kind of leader I hope to become. In the future, I don't want Project Cura Cuba to simply donate medical supplies. I want it to partner with healthcare professionals, students, and local organizations to improve access to healthcare, promote health education, and build lasting relationships with underserved communities. I also hope to create opportunities for other students interested in medicine to participate in service abroad and better understand the importance of global health. As a first-generation college student, I know how powerful one opportunity can be. Every scholarship, mentor, and volunteer experience has brought me one step closer to becoming the physician I hope to be. My goal is to multiply those opportunities for others. To me, nonprofit work is not about charity. It is about creating systems that allow people to thrive long after the donation has been made. Whether I am caring for a patient in a clinic or expanding Project Cura Cuba beyond what I ever imagined, my mission will remain the same: to remove barriers to healthcare so that where someone is born never determines the quality of care they receive.

"The Best Doctors Don't Just Speak Medicine." The first time I translated during a medical appointment, I wasn't wearing a white coat. I was just a daughter trying to make sure my family understood what the doctor was saying. Growing up in a first-generation Cuban and Puerto Rican household, I quickly learned that healthcare is about much more than diagnoses and prescriptions. Even the best treatment can fail if a patient doesn't understand it. Long before I knew what neurobiology was, I understood the fear and frustration that language barriers create. That realization shaped the person I am today. I am currently studying Neurobiology at Penn State while pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I want to become a physician specializing in immunology. Living with severe food allergies introduced me to medicine at a young age, but it also showed me something even more important: great physicians don't just treat diseases. They help patients feel seen, heard, and understood. As a first-generation college student, every step of this journey has been unfamiliar territory. There wasn't a guidebook explaining financial aid, college applications, or how to navigate higher education. My family taught me the value of hard work, but I have had to learn much of the rest by asking questions, finding mentors, and refusing to give up when things became difficult. Those experiences have strengthened my desire to help others find the guidance I once needed. Outside the classroom, I have continued that mission through service. I spent two summers working as a camp counselor for the Elizabeth Board of Recreation, where I worked with children from low-income families, many of whom came from Spanish-speaking households. I currently volunteer at Rahway Hospital, where I have the privilege of learning from healthcare professionals while interacting with patients during vulnerable moments in their lives. I am also developing Project Cura Cuba, a nonprofit initiative dedicated to collecting medical supplies for underserved communities in Cuba because I believe access to healthcare should never depend on where someone is born. This year, I will also study abroad in Kenya, where I hope to better understand how culture, environment, and healthcare intersect across different communities. Experiences like these remind me that medicine is universal, but every patient has a unique story that deserves to be understood. Throughout my career, I hope to combine medicine, language, and advocacy to improve healthcare access for underserved communities. Whether I am explaining an allergy diagnosis in Spanish, conducting immunology research that expands treatment options, or mentoring first-generation students who dream of becoming physicians, I want my impact to extend far beyond the walls of a hospital. A patient's greatest barrier should never be where they were born, the language they speak, or the family they come from. If I can spend my career removing those barriers one patient at a time, then I will know my education accomplished exactly what it was meant to do.

A healthy planet is the world's first hospital. Long before a patient walks into an emergency room, their health has already been shaped by the air they breathe, the water they drink, the food they eat, and the environment they live in. That realization completely changed the way I viewed both medicine and sustainability. As a Neurobiology student at Penn State, my goal is to become a physician specializing in immunology. For years, I believed my future would exist almost entirely inside hospitals and clinics. Then I began studying how environmental conditions influence human health, and I realized that some of the most important medical interventions happen long before a doctor ever writes a prescription. Growing up with severe food allergies taught me how closely human health is connected to the world around us. Every day I became more curious about the immune system, environmental exposures, and the factors that influence disease. That curiosity eventually led me to medicine, but it also made me realize that protecting people's health requires protecting the environments they depend on. This year, I will have the opportunity to study abroad in Kenya, an experience that I believe will shape the physician I hope to become. While many people think of Kenya for its incredible wildlife, I see something even bigger. I see an opportunity to understand how environmental conservation, biodiversity, clean water, agriculture, and public health are deeply connected. Healthy ecosystems support healthy communities, and healthy communities are better equipped to protect the environments around them. My goal is to use what I learn to become a physician who understands patients beyond their diagnoses. I want to recognize how environmental factors influence allergies, respiratory diseases, infectious illnesses, nutrition, and overall well-being. Medicine should not only focus on treating disease after it appears but also on understanding the conditions that allow people to stay healthy in the first place. Outside the classroom, I already strive to make a difference through service. I volunteer at Rahway Hospital and am creating Project Cura Cuba, a nonprofit initiative focused on collecting medical supplies for underserved communities. While these experiences center on healthcare, they have also taught me that lasting change requires looking beyond immediate problems and addressing the systems that create them. Sustainability follows the same principle. Protecting our planet today protects the health of future generations tomorrow. I hope my career becomes a bridge between medicine and environmental stewardship. Whether I am educating patients about environmental health risks, supporting research on how climate and pollution affect the immune system, or advocating for healthier communities, I want my work to remind people that caring for our planet is also an investment in human health. The future of medicine does not begin in an operating room. It begins with a healthy planet.

The first time I learned CPR, I realized that helping someone doesn't always begin in a hospital. Sometimes it begins long before a physician ever arrives. As a Neurobiology student at Penn State pursuing a career in medicine, I have always admired first responders. Their ability to remain calm, make life-saving decisions within seconds, and serve their communities without hesitation is something I deeply respect. That admiration is one of the reasons I have completed my American Heart Association Basic Life Support certification, became a certified phlebotomist, and plan to pursue EMS training as I continue preparing for a career in healthcare. To me, belonging to the fire service means accepting responsibility for people on what may be the worst day of their lives. It means choosing service over recognition, teamwork over individual success, and preparation over comfort. The fire service is built on trust. Communities trust firefighters and EMS professionals to respond without knowing what they will face, and that level of commitment requires courage, discipline, and compassion. Throughout my own experiences volunteering and working with children, I have learned that serving others is rarely about one heroic moment. During my time as a camp counselor for the Elizabeth Board of Recreation, I worked with children from low-income families and learned how important it is to remain calm, communicate clearly, and create a safe environment for others. Today, I also volunteer at Rahway Hospital, where I continue learning from healthcare professionals who demonstrate those same qualities every day. Although my long-term goal is to become a physician specializing in immunology, I believe the values of the fire service are values that every healthcare professional should carry throughout their career. Whether treating a patient in an ambulance, responding to a fire, or caring for someone in a hospital, every decision should be guided by integrity, empathy, and a commitment to putting others first. As someone who has lived with severe food allergies my entire life, I also understand what it feels like to rely on emergency responders. Knowing that highly trained professionals are prepared to respond during a medical emergency gave me confidence growing up and inspired my desire to enter healthcare myself. I want to be the person who provides that same sense of reassurance to someone else. Brian Chellios dedicated twenty-five years of his life to serving others. His story is a reminder that success in the fire service is not measured by rank alone, but by the lives touched through years of selfless service. That is the kind of career I hope to build in healthcare—one rooted in leadership, compassion, and a lifelong commitment to helping others when they need it most.

When I was younger, I thought education was about getting good grades. Now I know it's about gaining the freedom to change the course of your life. As a first-generation college student, I grew up watching my family work incredibly hard while still facing financial obstacles. There wasn't a roadmap for navigating college applications, financial aid, or higher education. Every decision I make is one my family has never had the opportunity to make before. Because of that, education has never felt like an expectation. It has always felt like an opportunity that I refuse to waste. Today, I am studying Neurobiology at Penn State while pursuing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate. My goal is to become a physician specializing in immunology, inspired by my own experience living with severe food allergies. Years of allergy appointments, oral immunotherapy, and learning how the immune system works transformed what was once a challenge into the reason I fell in love with science. Education has also shown me that knowledge becomes most valuable when it is shared. Growing up in a bilingual Cuban and Puerto Rican household, I often translated for family members during appointments and important conversations. Later, while working as a camp counselor for the Elizabeth Board of Recreation, I found myself helping Spanish-speaking families communicate and better understand information about their children. Those experiences taught me that education isn't only about learning facts. It's about using what you know to make someone else's life a little easier. That lesson continues to shape the way I serve my community today. I volunteer at Rahway Hospital, where I have seen how compassion and communication can make a meaningful difference in patient care. I'm also creating Project Cura Cuba, a nonprofit initiative focused on collecting medical supplies for underserved communities in Cuba. Every experience reminds me that leadership is not measured by titles. It's measured by the willingness to use your knowledge to help others. Education has also given me confidence. As someone who once questioned whether studying abroad was even possible because of my severe food allergies and financial circumstances, I am now preparing to study in Kenya. That opportunity represents much more than traveling overseas. It represents every barrier that education has helped me overcome and every door it has opened. To me, education is more than a degree hanging on a wall. It is independence. It is opportunity. It is the ability to create a future that looks different from the one you were born into. As the first person in my family to take this path, I hope my education becomes more than my own success story. I hope it becomes proof for my family, my community, and future first-generation students that where you begin does not determine where you are capable of going.

The most meaningful community service I've ever done didn't involve building houses or organizing fundraisers. It started with a simple question. "Can you tell my mom?" As a camp counselor for the Elizabeth Board of Recreation, I worked at a free summer camp that served children from low-income families throughout Elizabeth. Many of the children had one or even both parents living in another country, and many of their families primarily spoke Spanish. There were moments when children would ask me to explain something to their guardian because they knew I could communicate in both languages. Whether it was discussing an injury, explaining a schedule change, or simply helping families understand what was happening, I realized how much trust people place in someone who makes them feel understood. Those moments changed the way I view service. Growing up in a first-generation Cuban and Puerto Rican family, I often translated for relatives during appointments, phone calls, and everyday conversations. At the time, I didn't realize I was developing one of the most valuable skills I could ever have. I was learning that serving your community isn't always about having all the answers. Sometimes it's about making sure people have access to the information they need to advocate for themselves and their families. That lesson has shaped the path I am pursuing today. I am currently studying Neurobiology at Penn State while completing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I hope to become a physician specializing in immunology. My goal isn't simply to diagnose illnesses or prescribe treatments. I want to eliminate the fear and confusion that many families experience when they cannot fully communicate with their healthcare providers. Service has also taught me the importance of consistency. During my two summers as a camp counselor, I wasn't changing the world in dramatic ways. I was showing up every morning, making children feel safe, encouraging them, listening to them, and becoming someone they could rely on. Those small interactions reminded me that making a difference rarely happens through one extraordinary act. It happens through hundreds of ordinary ones. That mindset has continued to shape the opportunities I pursue today. I volunteer at Rahway Hospital, where I've seen firsthand how compassion, patience, and communication can make a meaningful difference during some of a person's most vulnerable moments. I'm also creating Project Cura Cuba, a nonprofit initiative focused on collecting and donating medical supplies to underserved communities in Cuba. Whether I'm serving patients in a hospital or organizing ways to help communities beyond my own, my goal has always been the same: to make healthcare more accessible for those who need it most. As someone who has lived with severe food allergies, I also understand what it feels like to depend on compassionate people. My allergists, nurses, teachers, and mentors have all played a role in helping me grow into the person I am today. Their kindness inspired me to become that person for someone else. To me, serving my community means leaving every place a little better than I found it. Whether I'm helping a parent understand medical information in Spanish, mentoring first-generation students interested in healthcare, or caring for future patients as a physician, I want people to leave every interaction feeling heard, respected, and supported. Communities aren't built by one extraordinary person. They're built by ordinary people who choose, every single day, to show up for someone else.

"Translate." It is the word I hear most often in doctor's offices. Growing up, I watched family members struggle to explain symptoms in English while trying to understand complicated medical terminology in return. As the oldest daughter in a first-generation Cuban and Puerto Rican family, I often found myself standing between my family and their healthcare providers, translating conversations that could change someone's health or even their life. That responsibility changed me long before I ever stepped into a college classroom. Today, I am a Neurobiology student at Penn State pursuing a career in medicine. Alongside my major, I am completing a Spanish minor and a Spanish for Healthcare Certificate because I don't just want to treat patients. I want them to feel understood. My goal is to become a physician specializing in immunology or anesthesiology, combining scientific research with compassionate patient care. My passion for medicine is personal. I have lived with severe food allergies to milk, peanuts, and tree nuts my entire life. Years of allergy appointments, emergency preparedness, and oral immunotherapy introduced me to the incredible impact physicians can have on a person's confidence and quality of life. What once felt like a limitation became the reason I fell in love with science. Outside of the classroom, I spent two summers working as a camp counselor for the Elizabeth Board of Recreation, serving children from a community that reflected my own. Many of the families I worked with spoke primarily Spanish, and there were times when I found myself communicating with parents in Spanish to help bridge language barriers. Those moments reminded me that healthcare begins long before a patient walks into an exam room. If families cannot understand important information, they cannot advocate for themselves or their children. Seeing how something as simple as speaking the same language could build trust reinforced my desire to become a bilingual physician who helps patients feel heard, respected, and understood. This year, I will also have the opportunity to study conduct research abroad in Kenya, where I hope to better understand how healthcare, culture, and environmental factors intersect. I believe becoming a great physician means learning from communities that look different from your own and bringing those lessons home. As a first-generation college student from Elizabeth, New Jersey, I know that higher education can open doors that once seemed impossible. I also know that many students with the ability to succeed never receive the same opportunities because of financial barriers. That reality motivates me to work even harder, not only for myself, but for the younger students who deserve to see someone from a background like theirs succeed. In the future, I hope to return to underserved communities where language barriers, limited healthcare access, and food allergy education continue to affect families every day. Whether I'm helping a parent understand an allergy diagnosis in Spanish, mentoring first-generation students interested in medicine, or contributing to research that improves patient care, I want my career to create opportunities for others, not just accomplishments for myself. Science has already changed my life. My goal is to use it to change someone else's.