I don’t remember the first time I tried pancit or halo-halo. Or the first time I danced to Sinulog songs—probably tripping over my dress half the time and pretending I meant to. I don’t remember when I started preferring the stories of elderly lolos and lolas over playground games or being surrounded by uncles and aunties belting “My Way” on a karaoke machine so loudly that the neighbors probably thought Sinatra had moved in. But I do remember how it all made me feel: seen, connected, and rooted in something bigger than myself. Over time, I’ve come to realize that my greatest skill is creating a sense of belonging through celebrating my culture and embracing the diverse experiences of others. Through this exchange, I build spaces where everyone feels seen and valued. In Orlando, I was surrounded by a vibrant Filipino community. The smell of adobo in the kitchen, the sound of Tagalog and Cebuano bouncing off each other, the karaoke ballads—it was all part of me. I didn’t have to seek out community; it existed all around me. Then the pandemic hit, and my family moved to Fresno. Suddenly, the gatherings were gone. The familiar voices faded. At my new school, hardly anyone looked like me. I stopped bringing Filipino food for lunch – too many stares, too many questions. For the first time, I felt invisible. I missed feeling known. I carried my culture quietly, folding it into myself, afraid it might set me apart in ways I didn’t yet know how to explain. Eventually, I decided to rebuild. I volunteered at a Filipino-run food distribution site, where I connected with elders who reminded me of home. I joined a Filipino church choir as a violist, as I missed being surrounded by language, music and a community that felt familiar. Most significantly, I became president of my school’s Filipino Club. When I joined, it was a quiet, almost forgotten group. But I saw potential. Our small group turned into a cultural hub—we hosted potlucks, sang around campus on Valentine’s Day, played Filipino games during lunch, and taught classmates how to say “kumusta ka?” We didn’t just celebrate our culture; we created community. We even planned and participated in our school’s first cultural fashion show. Students wore their barongs and Filipiniana costumes and other students from other backgrounds participated as well. For many, it was the first time they had celebrated their identities at school. What I’ve learned is that cultural identity isn’t fixed to a place. It’s something we can carry, shape, and share. My skill lies in my empathy, initiative, and ability to create bridges for others to feel at home. With this scholarship, I hope to foster these bridges, through culture, conversation, and shared stories, especially when I go to medical school. My classmates will see how identity can be personal and collective, both fluid and grounding. I may not remember every detail of my childhood. But I remember the warmth of belonging—and now, I’ve learned how to offer that to others.

Bringing Silence to Light: Mental Health and Disability Advocacy in the Asian American Community I didn’t grow up hearing the words “mental health.” Not in Tagalog. Not in English. In my family, emotions were tucked neatly under politeness. Pain was something you outlasted, not something you named. But silence, I’ve learned, is not the same as healing. And breaking that silence—especially in the Asian American community—is where advocacy begins. Mental health and disability advocacy are especially vital in our community because silence often masquerades as strength. The model minority myth tells us to succeed quietly, to endure without complaint. But this myth has a cost. It teaches us to dismiss mental illness as weakness, to downplay disability as failure, and to bear burdens alone. For too many Asian Americans, seeking help still feels like betrayal—of family, of culture, of expectation. I’ve felt that tension firsthand. As a Filipino American, I grew up with stories of sacrifice—of my parents’ immigration, my grandparents’ hard-won survival. Their resilience shaped me, but so did the pressure to uphold it. When I began struggling with anxiety, I didn’t know how to explain it. I only knew how to hide it. That’s why I am so passionate about mental health—not just as a personal journey, but as a collective responsibility. No one should feel ashamed of their pain. No one should feel invisible in their need. Through my volunteer work as a researcher at the VA, I’ve seen how unaddressed mental health and disability issues affect real lives. Veterans—many of whom are people of color—navigate PTSD, depression, physical disabilities, and systemic barriers to care. Working with them has deepened my understanding of how culture, trauma, and access intersect. It has also affirmed my belief: research isn’t just about data. It’s about dignity. It’s about creating systems that see the whole person—not just their symptoms. This scholarship would help me continue that work. Personally, it would give me the means to pursue a path that my family once only dreamed of: higher education grounded in purpose. Academically, it would support my goal of integrating neuroscience with culturally competent care—studying how the brain processes trauma while never losing sight of the lived experiences behind the science. Advocacy-wise, it would amplify my voice, allowing me to push for mental health equity in spaces that have historically left our communities out. I want to create spaces where young Asian Americans don’t have to choose between being understood and being successful. Where mental health is honored, not hidden. Where disabilities aren’t pitied, but supported. Where care is not a privilege, but a right. We carry so much—our histories, our hopes, our hurts. But we don’t have to carry them alone. I want to be part of a movement that makes sure of that. Because healing isn’t just about treatment. It’s about community. It’s about visibility. It’s about rewriting silence into something powerful—something shared. And with this scholarship, I hope to do exactly that.