For a long time, I was good at hiding. From the outside, I looked like I had my life together. On the inside, I was using alcohol to get through almost everything. At first it felt harmless. It helped me relax, it quieted my anxiety, and it made the pressure I put on myself feel a little lighter. Over time, it stopped being something I chose and started being something I needed. I drank when I was stressed, when I was sad, and eventually when nothing was wrong at all. I told myself I was fine because I was still getting by. But I wasn't really living. I felt tired all the time, not just in my body but in who I was. I was pulling away from the people who cared about me, and I didn't know how to stop. My turning point came when I finally stopped pretending. I realized that the person I was becoming was not the person I wanted to be, and that if I kept going, I would lose things I could never get back. I remember feeling scared, ashamed, and honestly relieved all at once. I reached out for help and told the truth about what was going on. Saying the words out loud was one of the hardest things I've ever done. I had always believed I should handle things on my own. Recovery taught me that asking for help isn't weakness. It was the first brave thing I had done in a long time. The early days were hard. I had to learn how to sit with feelings I had been avoiding for years. I had to face stress, loneliness, and boredom without anything to numb them. Some days I only got through by taking it one hour at a time. But slowly, I started to feel like myself again, or maybe for the first time. The biggest change in me is that I don't need to be perfect anymore. I used to think I had to earn my worth by never struggling. Now I know that being honest about my struggles is what makes me strong. I've started rebuilding trust with the people I love, and I've learned to be kinder to myself when I mess up. I wake up clear headed, and I actually remember my life. Getting sober also gave me a future I care about. I am working toward a degree in economics and plan to transfer to a four-year university. School feels different now. I'm not just trying to get through it. I'm curious, focused, and excited to learn. I want to use my education to help people who are struggling the way I was, and to show them that change is possible. I know recovery is something I will keep working on for the rest of my life, so I have a plan. I stay connected to the support that got me here, and I treat that time as non-negotiable, no matter how busy life gets. I keep a steady routine with good sleep, movement, and quiet time to check in with myself. I stay close to the people I trust, and I tell them the truth when I'm having a hard day. I've learned to notice my warning signs early, like stress building up or wanting to isolate, and to reach out before those feelings take over. When big changes come, like moving or starting at a new school, I plan ahead and find support before I get there so I'm never on my own. I'm not proud of every part of my past, but I'm proud of the person I am becoming. Recovery gave me my life back, and I don't plan on wasting it.

Calculus has a reputation for being the class everyone dreads, but the truth is it teaches you how to think about change, and almost every STEM field runs on understanding change. Once you get past the formulas, calculus is really about answering one question: how does one thing affect another when both are constantly moving. That question shows up everywhere in STEM, whether you're building software, designing a bridge, or reading a stock chart. I see this firsthand through my work as an equity research analyst. When I look at a company's growth, I'm not just looking at a single number. I'm looking at the rate at which revenue is growing or shrinking, and whether that rate is speeding up or slowing down. That is derivative thinking, even if nobody in finance calls it that out loud. Calculus gives you the tools to notice that a number isn't just going up, it's going up faster than it was last quarter, and that difference can completely change a decision. Civil engineers use the same kind of thinking when they calculate stress on a bridge or figure out how materials will hold up under changing weight and pressure. Computer scientists use it to optimize algorithms and understand how systems behave as they scale. Information security professionals use it in encryption methods that rely on complex mathematical functions. None of these careers ask you to sit down and solve integrals by hand every day, but they all depend on the way of thinking calculus builds, breaking down something that looks complicated into smaller, understandable pieces, and understanding how those pieces change together. That is really the core skill calculus teaches. It's not just about finding an answer. It's about understanding motion, growth, and change in a way that basic algebra can't capture. Algebra can tell you where something is. Calculus tells you how fast it's getting there and whether that speed is changing too. In a world where almost everything in STEM involves systems that shift over time, whether that's markets, populations, climate, or technology, that skill becomes essential. Calculus also teaches patience and persistence in a way that carries over into any STEM career. It's a subject that punishes shortcuts. You have to build understanding step by step, and that habit of working through something difficult instead of avoiding it is exactly what STEM careers demand. The same STEM jobs growing the fastest right now, computer support, information security, civil engineering, all require people who can sit with a hard problem long enough to actually solve it, not just find a quick answer. I think that's why calculus matters so much, even for students who never plan to use it in the exact form they learned it in school. It's not really about the formulas. It's about training your brain to notice change, question it, and understand it well enough to predict what happens next. That kind of thinking is the foundation almost every STEM career is built on, and it's a skill that sticks with you long after the class is over.

I was still a kid when my father died, too young to fully understand what we had lost, but old enough to feel the ground shift under our house. After that, it was just me and my mother. She worked hard to hold everything together on one income, and I watched her carry a weight that no one should have to carry alone. There were nights I saw her worry over bills at the kitchen table, trying to make numbers stretch further than they could go. I didn't have the words for it then, but I understood that we were on our own, and that if things were going to get better, it would take everything we had. That struggle never really left me. It shaped the way I see the world and the way I see other people who are struggling too. My grandmother was one of those people. She managed her health with almost nothing, no real guidance, no resources built for someone like her, just love and determination stretched thin. I watched her fight through it the same way my mother fought to raise me, quietly and without complaint, and it broke my heart that so many people are left to face hard things completely alone. That is why I started Sweet Balance & CareLink, a social enterprise that creates health kits for seniors and caregivers, built around their real lives and real limitations. For every kit purchased, we give one to a senior who could not otherwise afford it. It was never just a project to me. It felt like showing up for my grandmother, and for every family living the way mine did. Growing up without much money teaches you things you cannot learn any other way. It teaches you to keep going even when you are scared, to ask for help without shame, and to turn pain into purpose instead of letting it break you. Losing my father so early taught me that nothing is guaranteed, so you have to build something worth holding onto yourself. That mindset is what pushed me to build something bigger than my own circumstances instead of waiting for someone else to fix the gaps I saw. This scholarship would mean more to me than words can really capture. It would let me keep building on what started with my mother's strength and my grandmother's struggle, and turn it into something that reaches more families who need it. I am not asking because life has been easy. I am asking because life has been hard, and I have never once stopped showing up. I hope you will give me the chance to keep showing up, for my family and for everyone I set out to help.

The more I learned about Thomas Griffin Wilson, the more I recognized something in him that I have tried to build my whole life around. The way his family described him as someone who built real, lasting bonds and showed up for people with intention reminded me of the lesson I had to learn the hard way: that connection is not a luxury. For some of us, it is what keeps us standing. There was a stretch of high school where I was entirely on my own. My single mother could not afford to keep me and there was no safety net to catch me. I was waiting tables while trying to stay enrolled and keep the lights on. What got me through was people. A coworker who saved me a meal every closing shift without making it a big deal. A regular customer who came in every Friday, noticed when I looked tired, and always said something kind before she left. Those small acts of showing up, I have never forgotten what they meant to me. That understanding is what led me to found Sweet Balance & CareLink, a non profit based in my hometown of San Carlos that creates culturally tailored health management kits for seniors and family caregivers. For every kit purchased, we distribute one to a partner clinic serving low-income patients across the Bay Area (sweetbalancelink.com). I built it because I know what it feels like to move through systems not designed with you in mind, and I wanted to change that for someone else. Alongside Sweet Balance, I am the co-president of my local Key Club, where we organize food drives, collect clothing for families in need, clean up local parks, and tutor low-income students. Compassion without action has never been enough for me. Thomas had a half-sister who experienced life in the foster system, and he loved her without hesitation. That detail stayed with me. It takes a certain kind of person to reach across different lived experiences and say, you matter to me regardless. That is the kind of care I try to bring into every relationship I build, whether it is with a caregiver learning to manage a loved one's illness or my 10 year old cousin who just needs someone to show up. What drives me is not the desire to fix everything. It is the belief that one person feeling less alone is worth the effort. Thomas lived that out. His family is living it out now by creating something in his name that will carry those same values forward. This scholarship would give me the stability to keep doing this work without choosing between paying rent and showing up for the people who need me. I have been building toward something for years. I just want to keep going.

I never expected a single hospital visit to change the trajectory of my life, but when my grandmother was diagnosed with diabetes, everything shifted. Watching her struggle, not just with her health, but with navigating a system that felt foreign, cold, and disconnected from her culture and her needs, I felt something ignite in me. I didn't just want to help her. I wanted to help every person sitting in that same overwhelming silence, unsure of where to turn. That experience became the seed of Sweet Balance & CareLink, a community health initiative I founded to address food deserts, care deserts, and the cultural gaps that leave vulnerable people behind. Through Sweet Balance & CareLink, I work to bring health literacy, caregiver support networks, and advocacy into communities that have been systemically underserved. I've learned that love isn't just a feeling. It's a structure. It's building something that catches people when they fall. My faith has been the foundation of everything I build. At Menlo Church, I found a community that models exactly what Rev. Ethel K. Grinkley devoted her life to: radical inclusion, unconditional love, and service that asks nothing in return. Each week, I volunteer at our church serving elderly members of our congregation, helping them with everyday needs, sitting with them, listening. Many of them are isolated, their voices quieted by age and circumstance. I've come to understand that one of the most sacred acts a person can perform is simply showing up for someone and making them feel seen. My faith doesn't live only in Sunday services. It lives in those moments. It was through caring for the elderly at Menlo Church that I began to see the same pattern I had witnessed with my grandmother: the intersection of health vulnerability, social isolation, and lack of accessible resources. That recognition deepened my commitment to Sweet Balance & CareLink and gave it urgency. Real service doesn't start with a program. It starts with presence. Now, as I prepare to study biotechnology in college, I see a powerful convergence ahead. Biotech is one of the most transformative fields of our time, capable of rewriting how diseases like diabetes are treated, how communities access care, and how equity is built into medicine itself. I want to stand at that intersection. I want to use the tools of biotechnology to serve the people I've been serving on the ground: the elderly woman who can't afford insulin, the family in a food desert managing a chronic illness with no support system, the caregiver burning out in silence. Rev. Ethel K. Grinkley's legacy speaks to me deeply because it reflects what I already know to be true: that love is a life's work. It is not enough to care privately. We are called to build, to create structures of love that outlast us and reach people we may never meet. That is what I am committed to. Through biotechnology, through Sweet Balance & CareLink, through every elderly hand I hold at Menlo Church, I am working toward a world where no one has to face illness, isolation, or inequity alone. I am a first-generation college student, and I carry that identity with both humility and fire. I know what it means to build something from nothing. I know what it means to have faith when the road ahead is uncertain. And I know, with every part of who I am, that the world becomes better when we pour ourselves into it without reservation. That is how I plan to impact the world: one life, one community, one breakthrough at a time.

The performance of Taylor Swift's that has stayed with me longest is her rendition of "The Best Day" during the Eras Tour. It is not the most technically spectacular moment of the show. There are no pyrotechnics or elaborate staging. It is just Taylor, a song she wrote as a teenager about her mother, and 70,000 people who understand exactly why that song matters. I first heard "The Best Day" at a point in my life when my relationship with the concept of a parent was complicated. I lost my biological father when I was five, and growing up without him meant that songs about parental love hit differently for me than they might for someone with a more straightforward family story. When I heard this song, I did not think about what I had lost. I thought about my mother. I thought about every sacrifice she made raising me alone, every morning she showed up for me when she had every reason to be depleted, every moment she chose to stay present and steady when our circumstances made that incredibly hard. Taylor wrote that song when she was a teenager, which means she understood something at seventeen that took me much longer to articulate: that the most important love in your life does not always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it shows up in the ordinary moments, the drives to school, the late nights, the quiet reassurance that someone has your back no matter what. Watching Taylor perform it on the Eras Tour, visibly emotional, in the middle of a production that is otherwise enormous in scale, felt like a deliberate act of vulnerability. She could have cut it. She chose not to. She chose to stand in front of stadiums full of people and sing about her mom, and every time she did, you could feel the crowd responding not just to her but to their own version of that feeling. That is what makes Taylor's performances moving to me beyond the craft and the spectacle. She has spent her entire career writing songs that give people language for their own experiences, and when she performs them live, she creates a space where thousands of strangers are feeling the same thing at the same time. That is not a small thing. That is actually extraordinary. "The Best Day" live on the Eras Tour is the performance I keep returning to because it reminded me to be grateful for the parent I do have, the one who stayed, the one who gave me everything she had. In the middle of a billion-dollar tour, that quiet song felt like the most honest thing in the room.

Challenge Name: "Read the Room" Love Island is at its best when it forces islanders to truly reckon with how well they know their partners and themselves. "Read the Room" is a challenge designed to do exactly that, by testing emotional intelligence, compatibility, and the ability to see your partner clearly rather than just the version of them you want to see. Here is how it works. Before the challenge begins, each islander privately answers a series of ten questions about their partner. The questions range from lighthearted to genuinely revealing: What is your partner's biggest insecurity? What would they do if they caught you flirting with someone else? What do they want most out of this experience? What are they most afraid of? The answers are recorded and sealed. During the challenge, islanders stand across from each other in pairs. The host reads each question aloud, and each islander has to hold up one of two paddles: "I know the answer" or "I have no idea." If they say they know it, they have to say it out loud. Their partner then reveals what they actually wrote. Points are awarded for correct matches, but here is the twist: the audience at home has also been voting in real time on which couple they think knows each other best. If the couple with the most correct answers is also the couple the public voted for, they win a private date and immunity from the next recoupling. If the public and the points diverge, it sparks exactly the kind of conversation the villa lives for. What makes "Read the Room" special is that it does not reward performance. You cannot charm your way through it. You either know your partner or you do not, and the gap between what you think you know and what is actually true is where all the drama lives. Couples who have been coasting on surface-level connection will be exposed. Couples who have been genuinely investing in each other will shine. There is also a secondary layer: after the challenge, each islander must answer one final question publicly, the one they were most afraid to answer correctly. This moment, vulnerable and unscripted, is where the real connections either deepen or fracture. "Read the Room" would add something Love Island occasionally needs more of: a challenge that slows down the chaos and asks everyone to be honest, not just entertaining. The best moments on the show have always come from real emotion breaking through, and this challenge is designed to make that happen.

I was five years old when I lost my biological father. Grief at that age does not come with instructions. It just settles into you, heavy and confusing, and you find whatever you can to feel less alone in it. For me, that was Girl Meets World. I discovered the show a few years after my father passed, at an age when I was old enough to start feeling the full weight of his absence but not yet old enough to know what to do with it. Sabrina Carpenter's character, Maya Hart, was the one I kept coming back to. Maya grew up with a father who was not there, who had left a gap in her life that no one else could fill, and she carried that pain while still showing up every day with humor, loyalty, and heart. She was not defined by what she had lost. She was shaped by it, but not destroyed by it. Watching Maya navigate that felt like permission. Permission to feel the loss without letting it become the only thing I was. Permission to be funny and sad at the same time. Permission to keep going even when the absence felt loudest. Sabrina brought something real to that role. The warmth and the ache in her performance were not accidental. She made Maya feel like a person rather than a plot device, and for a kid who needed to see her own experience reflected back at her, that mattered more than I can fully explain. I am a fan of Sabrina Carpenter because at one of the hardest points in my childhood, her work made me feel less alone. That is the highest thing I can say about any artist.

I was five years old when my biological father died. He had been incarcerated and struggled with alcohol for most of his life, and when he passed, I did not fully understand what had happened. I only knew that someone who was supposed to be there was gone, and that the world felt less stable than it had the day before. Growing up with that loss meant growing up with emotions I did not have names for yet. There was grief, but it was complicated by the fact that he had not truly been present even before he died. There was anger, at the addiction that took him, at the system that had failed him, at the absence of a relationship I deserved to have. There was confusion, and underneath all of it, a quiet question I carried for years: if my own father could not stay, what did that say about me? What I learned, slowly and through a lot of hard work, is that it said nothing about me. His story was his own, shaped by struggles that began long before I arrived. Separating his choices from my worth was one of the most important things I have ever done for myself, and it did not happen overnight. Journaling was one of the first tools that helped me begin that process. I started keeping a journal in middle school, initially just to process the chaos of daily life, but it became the place where I could put down the weight I was carrying and look at it honestly. Writing forced me to slow down, to name what I was actually feeling instead of burying it beneath achievement and busyness. It showed me patterns in my thinking, the moments when old grief was coloring present situations, the times when I was being harder on myself than the circumstances warranted. Meditation came later, and it taught me something different: how to sit with discomfort without immediately trying to fix it. Together, these practices gave me a relationship with my inner life that I did not have before. I want to continue my education because I refuse to let my beginnings be the limit of my story. I am pursuing a degree in biotechnology with a focus on health equity, driven in part by what I have witnessed in communities shaped by addiction, incarceration, and compounded loss. These communities deserve better health resources, better mental health support, and tools built with their actual experiences in mind. The biggest influence in my life is my mother. She raised me alone, absorbed every gap my father's absence left, and worked without rest to give me opportunities she never had. She never once let her own hardship become a reason to withhold love. Everything I am building, including Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), a community health initiative connecting underserved families to culturally grounded health support, is an extension of what she modeled for me every day. My grandfather has also been a steadying presence, pushing me toward speech and debate and teaching me that my voice is worth using. My father's death taught me that unaddressed pain has consequences. My own healing has taught me that addressed pain becomes purpose. That is the story I am still writing.

What I love most about math is that it does not care about your circumstances. It does not know where you grew up, what your family looks like, or what obstacles you are carrying. A proof is either sound or it is not. An equation either balances or it does not. In a life that has had a lot of uncertainty in it, that consistency has always felt like something I could hold onto. I grew up tutoring younger students in math through after-school programs in underserved neighborhoods, and what I noticed every time was that the students who struggled most were not lacking ability. They were lacking confidence and access. Math had been presented to them as something gatekept by talent rather than unlocked by practice. Watching a student go from dreading a problem set to working through it with genuine momentum reminded me why I love the subject: because it is learnable, and because learning it changes how you think about everything else. Math is the language underneath the things I care most about. As someone pursuing a degree in biotechnology, I rely on mathematical thinking constantly, in understanding statistical models behind clinical research, in the computational biology tools used to analyze genetic data, in the quantitative reasoning required to design systems that actually work at scale. Math is not separate from the human problems I want to solve. It is the tool I will use to solve them. There is also something deeply satisfying about the process of mathematical thinking that I have never found elsewhere. The moment when a complex problem suddenly resolves, when the structure becomes clear and the solution follows logically, feels like a reward that is entirely proportional to the work put in. No shortcuts, no luck, just rigorous thinking arriving at a true answer. I find that honest. I find it beautiful. And I find it endlessly motivating to keep going deeper.

My biological father was incarcerated for most of my childhood. He was not there when I was five and needed someone to explain why the world had suddenly felt smaller. He was not there for birthdays, school events, or the quiet everyday moments that add up to a childhood. He never paid child support, which meant my mother carried the full financial weight of raising me alone, working constantly to make sure I had what I needed while he remained absent in every sense of the word. Growing up with an incarcerated parent creates a particular kind of loss that is hard to name because it is not clean. It is not like death, where the absence is final and acknowledged. It is ambiguous. There is a person out there who is supposed to be part of your life and simply is not, by circumstance and by choice. I spent years sorting through complicated feelings about that, grief and anger and eventually something closer to acceptance, not of what he did, but of the reality that I could not build my future on waiting for something that was never coming. What incarceration taught me is that the circumstances you are born into are not the ceiling of what you can become. My mother modeled that truth every day. She showed me that one committed, present parent is more powerful than two absent ones, and that financial hardship, real and grinding as it was, did not have to determine my trajectory. I internalized that lesson and let it drive me. It has also shaped my career aspirations in direct ways. I am pursuing a degree in biotechnology focused on health equity, and I am drawn specifically to communities that face compounding disadvantages, including families affected by incarceration. Children of incarcerated parents are among the most overlooked populations in conversations about health, education, and opportunity. They carry stigma they did not earn, financial instability they did not choose, and emotional burdens that rarely get addressed. I want to build systems and tools that reach those families, because I know from the inside what it means to need support that the system was not designed to provide. Through Girls Who Build and my work with Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), I have already begun working toward that vision. My father's incarceration did not define me. But it did clarify me. It showed me exactly what kind of gaps exist in the world and exactly why I want to spend my life helping to close them.

I lost my biological father when I was five years old. What came after that loss was a childhood shaped by the single person who refused to let that absence define me: my mother, who raised me alone with a fierce and quiet determination that I carry with me every single day. Growing up in a single-parent household means growing up watching one person do the work of two. It means understanding early that nothing is handed to you, that love and provision come at a cost, and that the person giving both to you is doing so while carrying their own grief and their own weight. My mother never complained. She worked, she showed up, she made sure I had what I needed, and she told me, consistently and without exception, that my future was worth fighting for. Her support has shaped me in ways I am still discovering. Because of her, I do not wait for conditions to be perfect before I begin. I learned from watching her that everything is figureoutable, that the obstacle in front of you is not a stop sign but a problem waiting for a solution. That belief is woven into how I approach my academics, my community work, and the goals I am building toward every day. I honor her by refusing to waste what she gave me. I maintain strong grades. I lead. I give back. I co-founded Girls Who Build to create space for young women in STEM who might feel, as I sometimes did, that the room was not built for them. I work with Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com) to serve communities where families like mine, stretched thin and underserved, need health support and someone in their corner. Every hour I put into those efforts is an act of gratitude for everything my mother sacrificed so I could be in a position to do them. Growing up without my father and being raised by a single parent taught me that support is never something to take for granted. When someone believes in you and backs that belief with action, the way my mother has backed me, it becomes the foundation you build everything else on. Her support has been instrumental not just practically, in covering costs and showing up at every important moment, but emotionally, in making me feel seen and worthy of the future I am reaching for. I am pursuing a degree in biotechnology with the goal of building health technologies that serve underresourced communities. I will build on my mother's support by becoming someone who extends that same kind of backing to others, through mentorship, through advocacy, and through work that creates access where it has been lacking. Curtis Holloway sounds like someone who understood what it means to show up completely for the people you love, to be the rock that holds everything else in place. My mother has been that for me. I intend to spend my life honoring both of them by becoming exactly who they believed I could be.

My grandfather has never been a quiet man. Not in the way that matters. He has always believed that a person's voice is one of the most powerful things they own, and he made sure I understood that before I was old enough to fully appreciate it. He would sit across from me at the kitchen table and ask me what I thought about things, not in a casual way, but in a way that expected a real answer. If I shrugged or gave a vague response, he would lean forward and say, "No. Tell me what you actually think." He wanted me to be able to stand behind my words. It was my grandfather who first suggested I join the speech and debate team. He had been a debater in his own youth and spoke about it with a reverence I did not understand at first. He told me that learning to argue a position clearly and honestly, to listen to the other side with genuine attention, and to change your mind when the evidence demands it, was not just an academic exercise. It was a form of citizenship. It was how you showed up for the world. I joined the team, and everything he said proved true. The skills I built through competition changed how I think, how I write, and how I advocate for myself and others. By my junior year I was named team captain, a role I took seriously because I remembered what my grandfather told me: that leadership in debate is not about being the loudest voice in the room. It is about helping everyone in the room find theirs. Captaining the team pushed me to develop not just my own arguments but the confidence and abilities of the people around me. I ran practice sessions, worked with newer members on structure and delivery, and tried to model the same patient, rigorous engagement my grandfather had always shown me. Watching teammates find their footing and walk into a round with real conviction became one of the most rewarding experiences of my high school years. My grandfather also watched me grow up without my father, through my bipolar diagnosis, through every hard season, and he never once suggested that any of it was a reason to shrink. He pushed me toward higher education with the same conviction he brought to everything: that I had something to say and that the world needed to hear it. His belief in the power of a well-constructed argument, and in my ability to make one, has shaped the student and leader I am today. I am pursuing a degree in biotechnology, and I carry my debate training into that path. The ability to think critically, communicate clearly, and advocate persuasively is not separate from the work of building equitable health technologies. It is essential to it. My grandfather taught me that first. Speech and debate showed me how.

There is a particular kind of loneliness that comes from carrying two things you have not yet said out loud. For me, those two things were my sexuality and my mental health. For most of high school, I held both privately, not because I was ashamed exactly, but because I had not yet found the language or the safety to set them down in front of another person. Coming to terms with being part of the LGBTQ+ community happened slowly, the way most real things do. I was not in denial so much as I was in waiting, watching, trying to understand what my identity meant in the context of my family, my faith, my community. The fear was not dramatic. It was quiet and persistent, a low hum underneath everything else. Would I still be accepted? Would the spaces I had built my life inside still have room for me if I was fully myself in them? That fear became harder to carry when I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in high school. Managing a mood disorder while also navigating questions about identity meant that some days the weight felt genuinely impossible. The depressive episodes in particular brought dark thoughts that I am grateful I was never alone with for long. I had people around me who noticed, who checked in, who refused to let me disappear into myself. That network of support is one of the things that kept me here, and I do not say that lightly. What I learned from moving through both of those experiences simultaneously is that silence is not protection. It feels like protection, but it is actually isolation with better branding. The moment I began speaking more honestly, about my diagnosis to people I trusted, about my identity to friends who had already shown me they were safe, something shifted. The weight did not disappear, but I was no longer carrying it alone. And there is an enormous difference between those two things. Elijah's story matters to me because I understand, in a way I wish I didn't, how a person can arrive at a place of complete darkness when they feel unseen and unsupported. The LGBTQ+ community, and particularly non-binary and gender-nonconforming individuals, face disproportionate rates of depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation, not because of who they are, but because of how the world so often responds to who they are. That is a systemic failure, not a personal one. I carry this understanding into everything I do. Through Girls Who Build, I create spaces where young women can show up without performing. Through my work with Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), I engage with communities where mental health is under-resourced and stigmatized. And as I move toward a career in biotechnology focused on health equity, mental health equity sits at the center of that vision. I am still here. I am building something. And I believe that is exactly what Elijah's memory deserves to be honored with: students who made it through their darkness and chose to use it to light the way for someone else.

I was five years old when I lost my biological father. I did not fully understand what death meant yet, but I understood absence, the chair that stayed empty, the silence where a voice used to be. That loss became the first trial I had to learn to carry, and it shaped everything that came after. Growing up without my father, I leaned on my faith in ways I could not always articulate. Church was not just a Sunday obligation in my household. It was the place where grief had somewhere to go. It was where I first learned that pain does not have to be the end of the story, that God could take what felt like a wound and turn it into a foundation. I held onto that belief even when I did not fully understand it. Then came my diagnosis of bipolar disorder in high school. I remember sitting in the doctor's office feeling like the floor had shifted underneath me. I had already spent years pushing through difficulty, maintaining my grades, showing up for my community through Girls Who Build and my volunteer work with Sweet Balance and CareLink, playing soccer, being present for the people around me. And now I had a name for the invisible weight I had been carrying, and it was heavier than I expected to feel. There were nights I lay awake questioning God the same way I had questioned Him when I was five. Why this? Why again? Why me? Depression crept in. There were stretches where getting through a single day felt like a full-time job. But just as I had seen as a child, the people God placed around me would not let me stay down. Friends checked in. My family prayed with me. And slowly, through prayer, through Scripture, through leaning into the faith I had been building my whole life, I found my footing again. Romans 5:3-4 became something I returned to often: that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance produces character, and character produces hope. I began to see my diagnosis not as something that was happening to me, but as something God was using to shape me. The same way my father's death taught me that time is not guaranteed, my bipolar diagnosis taught me that the mind is something to be tended to with the same care and intention as anything else you value. I became more disciplined, more self-aware, more compassionate toward others who struggle silently. That compassion now lives in everything I do. Through Girls Who Build, I create space for young women who may be carrying things they have not yet named. Through my involvement with Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), I work to serve communities whose mental and physical health burdens often go unaddressed. And as I pursue my degree in biotechnology, I carry the conviction that God has placed me on this path with intention, that every loss, every diagnosis, every hard season has been preparing me for work that matters. Faith has not made my life easier. It has made it purposeful. And purpose, I have learned, is more than enough to keep going.

I grew up in two languages simultaneously, Russian at home and English everywhere else, and for a long time I experienced that divide as a kind of fracture. At school I was trying to master the language of my classmates and teachers. At home I was the one my family turned to when a letter needed to be read, a phone call needed to be made, or a form needed to be filled out. I was a child navigating two worlds and translating between them before I fully understood either. I am a high school senior planning to pursue a degree in biotechnology. My goal is to develop accessible health technologies for underserved communities, with a particular focus on populations that face both medical and linguistic barriers to care. After college, I hope to work at the intersection of biotech, community health, and health equity, building tools that meet people where they are rather than requiring them to adapt to systems that were never designed with them in mind. My first language, Russian, and everything it taught me about navigating difference will be central to that work. The challenges of being bilingual are real and often invisible to people who have only ever lived in one language. As a child, I carried adult responsibilities as a translator long before I had the emotional or cognitive tools to handle what I was translating: medical appointments, legal documents, difficult conversations. There is a particular kind of loneliness that comes with being the linguistic bridge in your family, because you are always partially in both worlds and never fully at rest in either. In school, I worked harder than many of my peers simply to keep up, because processing information in your second language takes more effort than it appears from the outside. I was never just learning the subject. I was learning the subject while also translating it. But the benefits have been equally profound, and I would not trade them. Speaking Russian has given me access to a rich literary and philosophical tradition that I can engage with directly, without the filter of translation. It has shaped how I think, because the two languages do not simply name the same things differently; they structure reality differently, and moving between them has made me more flexible and more precise as a thinker. Research consistently shows that bilingual individuals demonstrate stronger executive function and greater cognitive adaptability, and I have felt that in practice: the ability to hold two frameworks at once, to see a problem from more than one angle, to resist the assumption that the way I first learned to name something is the only way to understand it. Most importantly, growing up bilingual gave me empathy. I know what it means to be in a room where the language spoken is not the one you dream in. That experience lives in the work I do through Girls Who Build and Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), both of which center communities that are often spoken about rather than spoken with. Language, I have learned, is not just communication. It is belonging. And belonging is something everyone deserves.

I was five years old when my father died. I did not have the language for it then, only the feeling: a sudden, permanent absence where something solid used to be. Grief at that age does not announce itself the way it does when you are older. It settles into the body quietly, shaping the way you move through the world before you even understand what has happened. Growing up without my biological father meant growing up with questions that had no answers and a space in my life that nothing quite filled. I watched other kids with their dads at school events and games and graduations, and I learned early to hold two things at once: the ache of what was missing and the determination to keep going anyway. That combination, grief and forward motion existing side by side, became the foundation of who I am. Loss at a young age teaches you things that cannot be taught any other way. It teaches you that life does not pause for your pain, so you have to learn to carry it while continuing to move. It teaches you that the people who stay, who show up consistently and without condition, are the most valuable thing in the world. And it teaches you that time is not guaranteed, which means that what you do with the time you have actually matters. That last lesson has driven everything. I do not have the luxury of waiting until conditions are perfect to start working toward something. My father did not get to see who I would become, and that fact sits with me every day not as a wound but as a responsibility. I owe it to him and to myself to become someone worth becoming. My diagnosis with bipolar disorder in high school added another layer of complexity to a life already shaped by loss. There were moments when managing my mental health while pursuing my goals felt overwhelming. But I kept returning to the same truth I learned at five: the path forward exists even when you cannot see it clearly. You take the next step anyway. That resilience now lives at the center of my ambitions. I am pursuing a degree in biotechnology because I want to build health tools that serve communities like mine, communities where people face layered disadvantages and often grieve alone without adequate support. Through Girls Who Build, I create space for young women who may be carrying invisible weight. Through my work with Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), I work within a model that treats community health as inseparable from emotional and social wellbeing. I applied for this scholarship because Brooks's story and my own are woven from the same thread: loss that comes too soon, and the question of what you build in its aftermath. The answer I have arrived at is this: you build something that honors the people you have lost by making the world a little more worth living in. That is what I intend to do.

"You have power over your mind, not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength. The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way." - Marcus Aurelius, Meditations In this passage from Meditations, Marcus Aurelius argues not merely that obstacles can be endured, but that resistance itself is the generative force behind meaningful action, and that the pursuit of external control is the primary obstacle to inner freedom. The first sentence, "You have power over your mind, not outside events," is deceptively simple. On its surface it reads as a consolation, a reminder that the world is largely beyond our control and that we should not waste energy trying to dominate it. But Aurelius is not writing a resignation letter to fate. He is making a structural claim about where power actually lives. The phrase "you have power" is assertive, not passive. It does not say "you must accept" or "you cannot change." It locates agency firmly within the individual while simultaneously defining the boundary of that agency with precision. The contrast between "your mind" and "outside events" is not a lament about limitation; it is a redirection of attention toward the only domain where mastery is genuinely possible. The instruction that follows, "Realize this, and you will find strength," is worth pausing on. Aurelius does not say "practice this" or "believe this." He says realize it, a word rooted in making something real, in converting an abstract understanding into lived experience. The implication is that most people intellectually accept the idea that they cannot control external events but have not yet made that understanding operational. The strength he promises is not a reward for suffering through difficulty. It is a natural consequence of correctly perceiving reality. Strength, in this framework, is not acquired from outside; it emerges when the mind stops exhausting itself fighting battles it was never equipped to win. The third and fourth sentences form the philosophical core of the passage and the most radical part of Aurelius's argument: "The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way." This is not simply optimism dressed in philosophical language. It is a claim about the mechanics of growth and the nature of the will. The word "impediment" carries its full Latin weight here, something that shackles the feet, that physically prevents forward movement. Aurelius takes this image of total blockage and inverts it. The very thing that stops you is the thing that moves you forward, not despite its resistance, but because of it. This inversion has a specific philosophical logic. For the Stoics, virtue was not something that could be cultivated in the absence of difficulty. Courage requires fear. Patience requires frustration. Justice requires injustice to respond to. The obstacles that feel like interruptions to the good life are, in Stoic thinking, the substance of it. When Aurelius writes that what stands in the way becomes the way, he is not suggesting that we should be grateful for hardship in a sentimental sense. He is pointing out that the self is forged through friction, that character has no raw material except the circumstances life actually provides, not the circumstances we wish it had provided. There is also something quietly subversive in this passage about the relationship between intention and outcome. Modern thinking tends to treat obstacles as problems to be eliminated so that we can arrive at our goals more efficiently. Aurelius proposes something different: that the obstacle and the goal are not separate things. The path is made of the resistance. To remove all friction would not be to liberate the traveler; it would be to dissolve the journey entirely. I find this passage particularly alive when read against the backdrop of Aurelius's own life. He was a Roman emperor who wrote these words not for publication but in private notebooks, as a discipline of self-examination. He governed an empire during plague, military conflict, and political instability. The Meditations are not the writings of someone theorizing about hardship from a comfortable distance. They are the notes of a person actively trying to apply these ideas under conditions of enormous pressure. That context gives the passage weight. When he writes about impediments advancing action, he is not describing a thought experiment. He is describing how he is trying to live. For me, this passage resonates in a way that is both intellectual and personal. Managing bipolar disorder while pursuing ambitious academic and community goals has meant spending a great deal of time confronting exactly the kind of impediments Aurelius describes. There were periods when the disorder itself felt like the obstacle standing between me and everything I was trying to build. What I have come to understand, and what Aurelius articulates with a clarity I have not found elsewhere, is that the experience of navigating that difficulty is not separate from who I am becoming. It is the material I am made of. The self-advocacy, the patience, the honesty I have developed in response to real resistance is not a consolation prize for having a harder path. It is the path. Aurelius closes with an assertion so compressed it almost resists analysis: "What stands in the way becomes the way." The repetition of "way" in a single sentence is not accidental. The first "way" means road, direction, the path toward a goal. The second "way" means method, means, the how of getting there. He is collapsing the obstacle and the method into a single thing. The impediment does not just point toward the way. It is the way. The blockage is the road. This is ancient philosophy at its most practical and its most demanding. It does not ask us to feel better about our difficulties. It asks us to see them clearly, as the only available material for the construction of a meaningful life.

Being diagnosed with bipolar disorder in high school was not the end of my story. But it did change the way I read it. The diagnosis came during one of the most demanding periods of my life, and in some ways it was a relief to finally have a name for what I had been experiencing. The cycles of energy and crash, the stretches of feeling invincible followed by periods where getting out of bed felt genuinely impossible, suddenly had an explanation. But a diagnosis also carries weight. It asks you to rethink how you see yourself, how you move through the world, and what you are capable of. That process of rethinking has shaped me more than almost anything else. As a first-generation college student, I have had to navigate higher education largely without a roadmap, and managing bipolar disorder on top of that has required a level of self-advocacy that most of my peers have never had to develop. There was no one in my family who could tell me how to request accommodations, who to talk to when I was struggling, or how to balance treatment with deadlines. I had to figure it out myself, and doing so taught me that self-knowledge is one of the most powerful tools you can carry into any room. My beliefs have shifted in ways I did not expect. I used to think resilience meant pushing through without showing the seams. Now I understand that real resilience is knowing your limits, asking for help before you hit them, and building a life structured around your actual needs rather than a performance of wellness. I believe deeply in honesty about mental health because silence was never protecting me. It was just protecting the stigma. My relationships have been transformed by this experience. The diagnosis made me a better friend, more attentive to what people are carrying beneath the surface, less quick to judge someone for being inconsistent or withdrawn or hard to reach. I know what it feels like to seem fine and not be fine, and that knowledge has made me more patient, more present, and more willing to check in without waiting for someone to ask. The friendships I have built since my diagnosis are more honest and more durable than any I had before, because they are built on truth rather than performance. As for my career aspirations, my diagnosis pointed me more firmly in the direction I was already heading. I am pursuing a degree in biotechnology with a focus on health equity, and mental health equity is now a central part of that vision. Through Girls Who Build, my STEM mentorship program, I have created spaces where young women can talk openly about the emotional realities of being a student. Through my work with Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), I have seen how deeply mental and physical health are intertwined in communities navigating chronic illness without adequate support. Bipolar disorder is part of my story. It has made me more empathetic, more determined, and more clear about why the work I want to do matters. I would not trade that clarity for anything.

Mental health is not a side issue for students. It is the foundation everything else is built on. You cannot absorb a lecture, finish a problem set, show up for your team, or give your best to the people around you when you are barely keeping your head above water emotionally. I know this because I have lived it, and because I have watched it happen to people I care about. There was a stretch of my junior year when anxiety became something I could no longer manage quietly on my own. The pressure of maintaining my GPA, keeping up with extracurriculars, worrying about college costs, and carrying the weight of circumstances at home all converged at once. I was functioning on the outside and struggling on the inside, which is one of the most isolating combinations there is, because from the outside, everything looks fine. No one thinks to check in. You don't feel entitled to struggle because you're "doing well." The silence around it made it worse. What helped me was finally saying something out loud. A teacher I trusted, a friend who had her own experience with anxiety, and eventually a counselor all became part of a support system I had to build deliberately because it didn't just appear. That experience taught me two things: that asking for help is a skill, not a weakness, and that the biggest barrier between students and mental health support is often not access but shame. That is where my advocacy comes in. I try to reduce that shame wherever I can, starting with honesty. I talk openly with friends about stress, anxiety, and the emotional reality of being a high-achieving student from a low-income background. I do not perform wellness. When I am struggling, I say so, because I have seen how much it matters when someone else goes first. Through my Girls Who Build mentorship program, I have intentionally created space for conversations about mental health alongside the technical content. When you gather a group of young women who are navigating predominantly male academic spaces while also managing the usual pressures of adolescence, emotional wellbeing becomes inseparable from the work. I check in at the start of sessions, normalize difficulty, and model the kind of self-compassion I wish someone had modeled for me earlier. I also advocate through the community health work I do with Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), which addresses the intersection of chronic illness, caregiving stress, and underserved communities. Mental health and physical health are not separate systems, and the communities most affected by food and care deserts also carry disproportionate mental health burdens. Advocacy in one area cannot be separated from advocacy in the other. I believe that a culture of mental health awareness has to be built from the inside out, by students who are willing to be honest about their own experiences and committed to making space for others. That is the kind of culture I am trying to build in every room I enter, and it is one of the most important things I will carry with me into college and beyond.

I did not always know that biotechnology was what I wanted to study. What I knew first, and have known for as long as I can remember, is that I wanted to understand how living things work and why they sometimes break down. That curiosity, quiet and persistent, eventually found its name in biotech, a field that sits at the exact intersection of biology, engineering, and human need that has always called to me. Growing up, I watched people I loved navigate a healthcare system that often felt indifferent to them. Chronic illness managed with inadequate resources. Diagnoses delivered without context or cultural sensitivity. Treatments that existed but were priced out of reach. I didn't have the vocabulary for what I was observing then, but I understood instinctively that something was wrong, that the gap between what science could do and what actually reached people in communities like mine was not inevitable. It was a design problem. And design problems can be solved. That insight is what drew me to biotech specifically. It is not enough for me to study biology in the abstract, though I find it endlessly fascinating. What drives me is the application: how do we take what we know about human health and build tools, treatments, and systems that actually work for the people who need them most? Biotechnology is how we answer that question at scale. It is how we develop diagnostics that are affordable and accessible, therapies that account for genetic diversity, and health platforms that speak to people in their own cultural and linguistic contexts. I want to be part of building that future. My passion has not stayed theoretical. During high school I co-founded Girls Who Build, a STEM mentorship program that brings high school girls together with middle school students for hands-on workshops in coding, circuitry, and engineering design. The program grew out of a simple observation: the girls in my school who were most capable of thriving in STEM were often the least likely to believe it was a space for them. What they needed was not more instruction. They needed to see themselves reflected in the room. Girls Who Build was my attempt to create that reflection, and watching middle schoolers light up over a circuit board or a block of code they wrote themselves reminded me every session why this work matters. I have also been involved with Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), a community health initiative that addresses food deserts and care deserts in underserved neighborhoods by combining culturally grounded diabetes education, caregiver support networks, and health policy advocacy. Working within that model showed me in concrete terms what health equity work looks like on the ground: it is slow, it is relational, and it is absolutely necessary. It also deepened my understanding of where biotechnology fits in the larger ecosystem of community health. The most sophisticated treatment in the world means nothing if the people who need it most can't access it, trust it, or afford it. Biotech at its best closes that distance. I think often about the women who have made this path possible for me, teachers who stayed after class, mentors who shared their stories, researchers whose published work I have read and re-read with admiration. Julie Adams was the kind of educator who understood that her job was not just to teach math but to make students believe they were capable of learning it, and of going further than they thought possible. That belief, transmitted from a teacher to a student, is one of the most powerful forces in education. I have been lucky enough to receive it, and I feel a deep responsibility to carry it forward. There is something particular about being a young woman in STEM that is hard to fully explain to someone who hasn't experienced it. The moments of doubt that are slightly louder than they should be. The rooms where you are the only one who looks like you. The subtle and not-so-subtle signals that this space was built by and for someone else. I have felt all of it. What I have learned is that those signals are wrong, and that the best way to prove it is to stay, to excel, and to make room for others who come after you. Biotechnology needs more women. It needs more people from underserved communities. It needs more builders who understand health inequity not as an abstract problem but as a lived reality, because those are the people most likely to design solutions that actually work. I am pursuing this degree because I believe I am one of those people, and because I believe the field will be better for my presence in it. Julie Adams spent her career creating opportunities for her students and was especially devoted to helping young women find their footing in STEM. This scholarship is a continuation of that work, and I am honored to apply. I intend to honor her legacy not just by accepting this support but by doing something meaningful with it, by becoming a scientist and builder who shows up for her community the way Julie showed up for hers.

I plan to study biotech in college, with a long-term goal of developing accessible, culturally informed health technologies for underserved communities. I am drawn to biotechnology because it sits at the intersection of science and human need, and I want to spend my career closing the gap between medical innovation and the communities that rarely benefit from it first. I have already begun working toward that vision through two initiatives I co-founded: Girls Who Build, a STEM mentorship program that connects high school girls with middle school students through hands-on coding and engineering workshops, and my involvement with Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), a community health initiative that combines culturally grounded diabetes education, caregiver support networks, and policy advocacy to address food and care deserts in underserved neighborhoods across the country. These experiences have made my goals feel less like ambitions and more like a direction I am already moving in. Being part of the LGBTQ+ community has shaped who I am in ways I am still discovering. For much of my adolescence, I navigated the particular exhaustion of not fully being myself in spaces where I wasn't sure I'd be safe or accepted. School hallways, team locker rooms, family gatherings: these can be difficult to move through when you're figuring out your identity and unsure of how it will be received. What carried me through was finding small pockets of genuine community, friends who saw me clearly and didn't ask me to be smaller, and slowly learning that authenticity, even when it's risky, is always worth it. That experience has made me deeply committed to giving back. I want to be the kind of presence for younger LGBTQ+ students that I needed when I was coming up: visible, grounded, and honest about both the difficulty and the beauty of living openly. I already try to do this in the spaces I occupy, by speaking up when I hear something harmful, by making room for people who seem isolated, and by being open about my identity so that others who share it know they are not alone. As I move into college and a career in biotech, I intend to formalize that commitment through mentorship and advocacy, and by building spaces where LGBTQ+ people can show up fully. Financially, this scholarship would be genuinely transformative. I come from a low-income household where college has always been more of a hope than a certainty. My family has supported my ambitions with everything they have, but that everything has real limits. The cost of tuition, housing, books, and the countless smaller expenses of college life adds up to a number that creates real stress. Every scholarship I receive is not just money. It is one less hour of worry, one less job I need to work while keeping up with a demanding course load, and one more degree of freedom to focus on what I came to school to do. The Star Farm Scholarship represents exactly the kind of community support that makes a difference. I intend to be the kind of student who receives that support and multiplies it, and eventually, pays it forward.

I am a high school senior who has spent four years learning that excellence is not a destination but a habit. It is the decision you make every morning to show up fully, to do the work even when no one is watching, and to treat every role you hold, whether as a student, a teammate, a volunteer, or a friend, as worthy of your best effort. Reading about Kalia D. Davis, I recognize that spirit immediately. She carried it across every area of her life, and this scholarship is a profound way to keep it alive. I am a student-athlete who runs on the soccer field with the same drive I bring to the classroom. I have maintained a strong GPA while balancing practices, games, and a demanding course load. Outside of school, I volunteer regularly with community nonprofits focused on education and health, work I find just as meaningful as anything I do in a classroom or on a field. I plan to pursue a degree in engineering, with the long-term goal of building technology and infrastructure that serves communities that have historically been underresourced. My ambitions are big, and I am willing to do the work they require. Kalia's story resonates with me because she understood something that I have been learning too: that who you are in the small moments is who you are. She was a straight-A student and a full-ride scholarship recipient, but she was also the person her peers turned to for encouragement and a laugh. She worked the front desk, served on the executive board, and still made time to be present for the people around her. That wholeness is what I strive for. I don't want to succeed in one area at the cost of another. I want to be excellent and kind, ambitious and grounded, driven and still fully present. This scholarship would make a direct and meaningful difference in my ability to pursue my education. My family has faced significant financial hardship, and while I have never let that dim my ambition, the practical realities of college costs are impossible to ignore. Tuition, housing, lab fees, and materials add up quickly, and every dollar of scholarship support reduces the debt I would otherwise carry into a career I am still just beginning. Financial stress has a way of diverting energy from the very focus and excellence this scholarship honors. With this support, I could direct that energy exactly where it belongs: into my studies, my community, and my goals. I am applying because I believe in what this scholarship represents. Kalia lived her motto of living, loving, laughing, learning, and leaving a legacy not as a slogan but as a daily practice. I want to do the same. I want to look back on my college years and know that I gave everything I had, that I lifted people around me while I climbed, and that I built something worth leaving behind. Thank you for keeping her memory alive through opportunities like this one.

Legacy, to me, is not about fame or fortune. It is about what remains after you leave a room, the way people feel, the doors that are now open, the problems that are closer to solved. I think about legacy the way a builder thinks about a structure: what you put into the foundation determines how long it stands and how many people it can hold. My plan to create a legacy begins with education and ends with access. I am pursuing a degree in engineering with an entrepreneurial goal that has been taking shape for years: I want to build a technology company focused on health equity, specifically on bringing affordable, culturally informed health tools to low-income and underserved communities. The inspiration comes from watching people I love navigate a healthcare system that was not designed for them, one that is expensive, difficult to understand, and often indifferent to cultural context. The business I hope to start would develop digital health platforms that connect underserved communities with preventive care resources, health literacy education, and local support networks. Think of it as infrastructure for wellness in communities that have been left out of the health tech boom. The tools would be built with input from community members, not just designed for them from a distance, because I've learned through my volunteer work that the best solutions come from listening first. Revenue would be generated through partnerships with healthcare systems, insurers, and public health agencies, with a sliding-scale or free tier for individual community users. Sustainability and accessibility would not be in tension. They would be the same goal. I shine my light in the small, daily ways that I think matter most. I show up. I tutor students who are struggling in math and science not because it looks good on an application but because I remember what it felt like to need someone to slow down and explain things with patience. I organize, I include, I invite people into spaces where they might not otherwise feel welcome. I try to be the person I needed when I was younger: someone who looked like me and had come from where I came from and was still reaching for something big. Growing up in a low-income household taught me that constraints can sharpen your vision. When you don't have the luxury of wasted effort, you learn to be deliberate. You learn to find the path through, not around, difficulty. Those lessons are the ones I'll carry into entrepreneurship, because starting a business requires exactly that kind of grit and exactly that kind of clarity. The legacy I want to leave is a company that outlasts me, a community of people who had better access to care because of something I helped build, and a generation of young people from underserved backgrounds who saw what I did and believed they could do it too. That is how I intend to shine my light: steadily, purposefully, and for as long as I can.

I am a high school senior who has spent the last four years trying to make the most of every opportunity in front of me, not because it came easily, but because I learned early that opportunity is not guaranteed and that you have to meet it with everything you have. I am involved in robotics, soccer, and peer tutoring at my school, and I have logged hundreds of volunteer hours with local nonprofits focused on education and community health. I carry a strong GPA and plan to pursue a degree in engineering after graduation. But those facts alone don't capture who I am. What defines me more than any list of activities is why I do them: I genuinely believe that people's lives can be better, that communities can be stronger, and that one person, working with purpose, can be part of making that happen. My plan is to use engineering as a form of service. I am drawn to problems involving infrastructure and public health, specifically the ways that communities without political or economic power are left behind by systems that were never designed with them in mind. I want to design solutions alongside those communities, not for them, and to build a career rooted in the understanding that the most important technology is the kind that reaches the people who need it most. The adversity I have had to overcome is not a single dramatic event but something more persistent: growing up in a household with financial instability and learning to pursue ambitious goals without the safety net that many of my peers take for granted. There were years when my family's circumstances made it hard to focus on the future. Stress about money has a way of crowding out everything else, and I watched it take a toll on the people I love. What I learned from that environment is that hardship does not have to become your story's ending. It can become its foundation. I developed a work ethic that I don't think I would have found any other way. I learned to be resourceful, to advocate for myself, and to ask for help without shame because I saw that asking for help, whether from a teacher, a mentor, or a nonprofit program, was not a sign of weakness but a practical and necessary skill. Every time I reached out and someone showed up for me, I filed it away as a reminder of what I want to be for others someday. Valerie Rabb spent her career as an interventionist, which means she dedicated herself to showing up for students at exactly the moments when they needed someone in their corner. That kind of work changes lives in ways that rarely make headlines but ripple outward for decades. I have been the student who needed someone in my corner, and I know what a difference it makes. I hope to honor that legacy by becoming someone who makes a difference not only through my career but through how I show up for the people around me every single day.

My best friend called me on a Tuesday night, voice tight with the kind of tension that tells you before the words do that something serious is coming. She had been accepted to a university across the country, her dream school, full scholarship. But her mother had just been diagnosed with a chronic illness, and her family was leaning on her to stay close to home. She asked me what she should do. I didn't answer right away. I've learned that when someone comes to you with a decision that size, the worst thing you can offer is a fast opinion. So I asked her questions instead. Not leading questions designed to steer her toward what I thought was right, but real ones. What did she actually want, underneath the guilt? What did her mother say when my friend asked her directly? What would she regret more, five years from now? What emerged from that conversation was something she hadn't quite said out loud yet: her mother had already told her to go. Her family wasn't actually asking her to stay. She was asking herself to stay, preemptively, out of love and fear. Once she could see that clearly, the decision became less impossible. I told her that caring for someone and pursuing your own future are not always in conflict, that distance doesn't have to mean absence, and that her becoming the person she's working to be is itself a gift to her family. I also told her that whatever she decided, I would support her, and that no scholarship or acceptance letter could make the choice for her. It had to come from her. She went. She calls her mother every day. She is thriving. That conversation stayed with me because it captured something I believe deeply: guidance isn't about giving people your answers. It's about helping them find their own. RJ seemed to understand this intuitively. The way he taught, the way he mentored, the way he showed up for people, it was never about making himself the center of someone else's story. It was about helping others step more fully into theirs. The challenge I've faced in my pursuit of STEM is one that many students from low-income backgrounds will recognize. It's not a single dramatic obstacle but a persistent, grinding one: the feeling that the field wasn't built with you in mind. I grew up in a household where college was not assumed, where the cost of a calculator or a textbook could cause real stress, and where the path into computer science or engineering felt like something that happened to other people in other zip codes. The classrooms I sat in mostly confirmed that feeling. I was often one of very few girls, and almost always one of very few students from my economic background. There were moments when I questioned whether I was smart enough, prepared enough, or simply the right kind of person for this path. What got me through was stubbornness, mostly, but also people. A teacher who stayed after class to work through problems with me. A volunteer mentor I found through a nonprofit program who had grown up in circumstances similar to mine and was now a software engineer. Seeing her made the path feel real in a way that no brochure ever had. She didn't tell me it would be easy. She told me it was possible and that she would help. I started approaching my education the way she approached her career: with curiosity, without apology, and with the understanding that belonging somewhere is often something you build rather than something you're granted. I got involved, I asked questions, I found communities of students who shared my background and my ambitions, and I stopped waiting for permission to take up space in rooms that hadn't always welcomed me. I still face barriers. Financial stress is real and ongoing. But I've learned that navigating STEM as a low-income student from a disadvantaged community doesn't make you less qualified. In many ways, it makes you more prepared for the complexity of the real world, more empathetic toward the people your work will ultimately serve, and more determined to make the path easier for those who come after you. RJ's story resonates with me because he understood that education is most powerful when it is shared. He didn't just learn. He taught. He didn't just succeed. He brought people with him. I want to carry that same spirit forward, into my degree, into my career, and into every room I'm fortunate enough to enter.

I am a high school senior with a deep passion for science, community service, and the belief that education can change the trajectory of a life. Throughout my four years of high school, I have maintained a strong GPA while staying actively involved in robotics, soccer, and peer tutoring. Outside of school, I have volunteered hundreds of hours with local nonprofits, including an after-school tutoring program that serves students in underresourced neighborhoods. These experiences have shaped not only my resume but my sense of purpose. After graduation, I plan to pursue a degree in engineering. My goal is to use that education to design solutions to real-world problems, particularly those that affect communities that have historically lacked access to infrastructure, healthcare, and opportunity. I am drawn to engineering precisely because it sits at the intersection of creativity and service, and because the skills it builds can be applied in the service of people who need them most. If I had the opportunity to start my own charity, I would build on the model pioneered by Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), a community health initiative founded by Nicole Bjornsen that addresses food deserts and care deserts across underserved U.S. neighborhoods. SweetBalance and CareLink combines culturally grounded health education, caregiver support networks, and policy advocacy to serve communities like Birmingham, Chicago, Detroit, and Fresno, where millions of residents lack reliable access to healthy food and adequate care. I would expand that model to include a youth-focused branch that trains high school and college students as community health volunteers. These volunteers would deliver health literacy workshops in schools, assist family caregivers with resources and peer support, and help connect residents to local food programs. The goal would be to build a pipeline of young people who are invested in the health of their own communities and equipped to make a real difference within them. This vision resonates with me personally because I have seen firsthand how deeply health and opportunity are connected. Families navigating food insecurity or caregiving without support have less capacity to focus on education and economic mobility. Addressing those needs isn't separate from the mission of expanding opportunity. It is central to it. The story of Aserina Hill moves me deeply because it mirrors something I have witnessed in my own community: people who have very little choosing to give generously anyway, driven by the conviction that education matters and that supporting others is a form of love. Mrs. Hill never finished school herself, yet she devoted her resources to making sure others could. That kind of quiet, consistent generosity is the most powerful force I know. I hope to carry that same spirit forward, through my education, through my career, and through whatever I am able to build and give back along the way. I am grateful for every opportunity that helps make that future possible.

Kindness in Action During my sophomore year, I noticed a girl in my English class who sat alone every day at lunch. She had transferred mid-semester, and the social landscape of high school being what it is, she had simply never found a way in. I recognized that feeling. I had experienced my own version of it when I moved schools in middle school, and I remembered how heavy it was to carry. I started sitting with her. Not with any grand plan or announcement, just showing up with my lunch and asking her how her day was going. At first she seemed caught off guard, almost suspicious of the gesture. But over a few weeks, something shifted. I introduced her to my friends, invited her to games, and made sure she was included in the small daily moments that make up a sense of belonging. By the end of that school year, she had her own friend group and was one of the most warmly regarded people in our grade. She thanked me once, quietly, in the hallway. She said she hadn't been sure she would survive that year. I didn't feel like a hero. I felt like I had simply done what someone should have done for me, and what we all have the capacity to do if we pay attention. That moment reinforced something I carry with me every day: kindness doesn't have to be extraordinary to be life-changing. It just has to be real. Creating Connection When I joined the varsity soccer team junior year, I walked into a group that had a long history but a quiet tension running through it. Players from different friend groups kept to themselves, and that division showed up on the field in ways that cost us games and dampened morale. I started organizing informal team dinners at my house before home games, nothing elaborate, just food and time together away from the pressure of competition. I also proposed a team ritual we called "shoutouts," where before every practice each player named something they appreciated about a teammate. It felt a little awkward at first. Then it didn't. By the end of the season, the dynamic had genuinely shifted. Players who had barely spoken were covering for each other on the field and cheering loudest from the bench. We finished with our best record in four years, but more than the wins, what I remember is the feeling in that locker room. It felt like a team. I've carried that experience into other parts of my life, including my volunteer work and my schoolwork. I've learned that connection rarely happens on its own. Someone has to create the conditions for it, hold space for it, and keep showing up to tend to it. I want to be that person, not because it earns recognition, but because a community that truly includes everyone is simply better for all of us.

I grew up in a household where money was always tight and uncertainty was always present. My mother worked two jobs for most of my childhood, and conversations about the future often got tangled up in conversations about cost. College felt like a distant dream, something for other people in other circumstances. What kept that dream alive for me was science. My passion for STEM didn't come from a single dramatic moment. It grew slowly, the way most real things do. It started with a secondhand book about the human body that I found at a garage sale when I was nine. I read it cover to cover twice, then started asking questions my teachers had to look up. Why do cells divide the way they do? How does the brain store memory? What happens inside a star before it dies? Science gave me a framework for asking those questions seriously, and it gave me the profound satisfaction of finding real answers. As I got older, my passion became more purposeful. I realized that the questions I cared most about weren't just intellectual exercises. They were connected to real people and real problems. Water contamination. Chronic illness in low-income communities. The growing impact of climate change on families like mine. STEM isn't just a collection of fascinating disciplines. It is the toolkit humanity uses to face its hardest challenges, and I want to be someone who picks up that toolkit and uses it. I am pursuing engineering because I believe in building solutions. Growing up with limited resources taught me to be resourceful, creative, and tenacious. It taught me to look at a problem from every angle before giving up and to find a way forward even when the obvious path is blocked. Those are, I've come to understand, exactly the qualities that make a good engineer. My circumstances didn't hold me back from this path. In many ways, they prepared me for it. The financial barriers to a STEM education are real, and I won't pretend otherwise. Lab fees, textbooks, application costs, and the prospect of tuition have all been sources of stress for my family. There have been moments when I wondered whether someone in my position could really make it to the other side of a four-year degree. But I keep returning to the same conviction: the world needs engineers and scientists who understand what it means to struggle, who design with empathy because they've lived it. Dr. Lomask dedicated her life to science and to helping students reach their potential. I feel a deep connection to that mission. Education is not a luxury. It is a lifeline, and for students like me, financial support is what makes the difference between a dream deferred and a dream realized.

The moment that changed everything for me was surprisingly small. I was in seventh grade, sitting beside my grandfather as he tried to figure out why his laptop kept freezing. I watched him grow frustrated, clicking the same buttons repeatedly and getting nowhere. On a whim, I opened the task manager, identified a runaway background process, ended it, and the computer hummed back to life. My grandfather looked at me like I had performed magic. I didn't feel like I had done anything remarkable, but in that moment I realized I wanted to understand technology deeply enough to solve problems other people couldn't. That curiosity grew into something much larger. I started teaching myself to code through online tutorials, then enrolled in every computer science course my school offered. I became fascinated not just with how technology works, but with how it can be designed to work better for more people. When I joined my school's robotics team and later co-founded a peer tutoring program to help other students learn coding, I began to see technology as a language, and I wanted to help as many people as possible become fluent in it. My goals now center on pursuing a degree in computer science with a focus on software development and human-computer interaction. I want to build technology that is intuitive, accessible, and genuinely useful to people who have historically been overlooked in product design, including elderly users, people with disabilities, and communities with limited digital literacy. My grandfather's confusion with his laptop wasn't a personal failing. It was a design failure, and I believe the tech industry can and should do better. The challenges I've faced along the way have shaped me just as much as my successes. Being one of very few girls in my computer science classes meant navigating spaces where I sometimes felt like an outsider. There were moments when my ideas were dismissed or my knowledge was second-guessed in ways I don't think my male peers experienced. Rather than push me out, those experiences pushed me further in. They made me more determined to belong and to make room for others like me once I do. What excites me most about the future of the field is the sheer scale of what's possible. Artificial intelligence, accessibility technology, and civic tech are all moving at a pace that would have seemed impossible a decade ago. I'm especially energized by the growing recognition within the industry that diversity isn't just a moral imperative but a design imperative. The best technology is built by people with different backgrounds, different needs, and different ways of seeing problems. I want to be part of building that kind of team and that kind of future. Technology gave me a way to understand the world and a way to contribute to it. I am determined to use that gift thoughtfully, to build tools that serve people with the same care and clarity that a good solution should, and to open doors in this field for the girls who come after me.

From the time I first joined my school's robotics club as a freshman, I noticed something that I couldn't ignore: I was one of only three girls in a room of twenty students. Rather than let that discourage me, it motivated me. By my junior year, I had taken on a leadership role as team captain, not just to help us compete, but to actively work toward changing that imbalance in our school community. One of my most meaningful contributions has been founding a STEM mentorship program at my school called "Girls Who Build." Working with a local nonprofit, I organized monthly Saturday workshops where high school girls introduced middle school students to coding, circuitry, and basic engineering design. I recruited volunteers, coordinated with school administrators to secure space and materials, and personally led several sessions myself. Over the course of a year, we worked with more than 60 middle school students. Several of the girls who attended told me it was the first time they had ever touched a circuit board or written a line of code, and that they felt like they belonged in that room. Beyond the workshops, I have spent over 200 hours volunteering with a community nonprofit that provides after-school tutoring in underserved neighborhoods. I served as a math and science tutor for students in grades 6 through 8, many of whom had fallen behind due to limited resources at home. I watched students go from dreading math homework to confidently tackling algebra problems, and that transformation reminded me every week why education and access matter so deeply. These experiences taught me that leadership isn't about having all the answers. It's about creating space where others can find their own. I've learned to listen, to adapt, and to inspire, and I carry those lessons with me as I look toward a future in engineering. My goal is to pursue environmental or civil engineering, with a specific focus on water infrastructure in underserved communities. Access to clean water is one of the most urgent and inequitable challenges of our time, and I believe engineering is one of the most powerful tools we have to address it. In the United States alone, millions of people, disproportionately in low-income communities and communities of color, still live without reliable access to safe drinking water. I want to be part of the generation of engineers that changes that. I envision a career where I work directly with communities to design sustainable, affordable water systems, not imposing solutions from the outside, but collaborating with residents to build infrastructure that truly serves their needs. My volunteer experience has already shaped how I think about this: the best solutions come from listening first. Engineering, to me, is not just a technical discipline. It is a form of service. Every bridge built, every pipeline designed, every system engineered is ultimately for people. I want to use my skills to serve communities that have too often been left behind, and to mentor the next generation of girls who, like me, are just waiting for someone to tell them they belong in the room.

Money was never something my family talked about openly, but its presence or absence shaped almost everything. Growing up, financial hardship was a quiet but constant reality. There were times when bills were uncertain, when sacrifices were made without explanation, and when the stress of making ends meet hung over our household in ways I did not fully understand until I was older. What I did understand, even then, was that financial instability has a way of limiting your options before you even know what your options are. What made it harder was the absence of guidance. Financial education was not something that made its way into my schooling in any meaningful way. Nobody sat me down and explained credit, interest, budgeting, or how to build a foundation for long-term stability. I was left to piece it together on my own, learning mostly through trial and error and the hard lessons that come with that process. That gap between what I needed to know and what I was taught is something I carry with me, because I know I am far from alone in that experience. That gap became even more visible when I founded Sweet Balance & CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), a community health initiative focused on food access, caregiver support, and health equity in underserved communities. Running an initiative of this scale requires more than passion. It requires understanding budgets, funding structures, grant management, and how to make resources stretch without compromising impact. I have had to learn much of this on the fly, and while those lessons have been valuable, I have often felt the weight of not having a stronger foundation to stand on. Receiving this $7,500 scholarship would open a door that financial hardship has kept just out of reach. The support it provides would allow me to invest in the kind of financial education and coursework that I have never had consistent access to, giving me the tools to not only manage my own future more confidently but to build something sustainable for the communities I serve. Understanding finance is not separate from my mission. It is central to it. Every health initiative, every community program, every research effort depends on people who understand how to resource and sustain it. Looking forward, I plan to use what I learn to strengthen Sweet Balance & CareLink's (Sweetbalancelink.com) long-term model, pursue funding opportunities more strategically, and eventually support the development of biotech solutions that serve underserved populations. I want to be someone who can sit at the table where health and funding decisions are made and speak both languages fluently. Financial literacy has the power to change the trajectory of a life. I know this personally, because the lack of it shaped mine in ways I am still working to overcome. This scholarship represents more than financial support. It represents the chance to rewrite that story, for myself and for the communities counting on me to get it right.

Community Giving and Educational Goals Giving back has never felt like an obligation to me. It has felt like a calling born from personal experience. When I became a caregiver for my grandmother, who immigrated from Ukraine and was managing diabetes, I quickly realized that the healthcare system was not built for people like her. She needed guidance that honored her cultural food traditions, not pamphlets that told her to stop eating the meals that connected her to home. She needed community, not isolation. That experience revealed a gap that I knew someone had to fill. That realization led me to found Sweet Balance & CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), a community health initiative built around three pillars: culturally grounded health education, caregiver support networks, and advocacy for policy change. One of the communities I am most committed to serving is Riverside, California, a city where food access and health equity remain serious challenges, particularly in lower-income neighborhoods where fresh, affordable food is scarce and chronic diseases like diabetes are disproportionately common. Getting to know the people of Riverside has reinforced everything I believe about why this work matters. Sweet Balance & CareLink is designed to serve communities living in food deserts and care deserts, where millions of Americans lack access to both healthy food and quality caregiving support. Over 19 million Americans live in food deserts, and in cities across the country, the human cost is a two-year life expectancy gap in affected communities, a gap I believe we can close. Building this initiative has shaped who I am in ways I never anticipated. It taught me to listen before I act and to recognize that true community health cannot be a one-size-fits-all solution. The most meaningful change happens when you stand alongside the people you serve. Most importantly, it deepened my sense of purpose: if I can see the problem clearly, I have a responsibility to be part of the solution. That same sense of purpose drives my educational goals. I plan to pursue a degree in biotechnology, a field I believe holds the key to transforming not just individual health outcomes, but entire communities. My goal is to develop expertise in genomics, biomedical research, and health technology, with a focus on making these innovations accessible to underserved populations. I am especially interested in how biotech can support chronic disease management, including diabetes, through more accessible diagnostics and culturally informed treatment tools. My educational goals and my community work are not separate. They are one and the same. Every course I take and every lab I work in will be informed by the real stories I have encountered through Sweet Balance & CareLink and in communities like Riverside. I am not just studying biotech to build a career. I am studying it to build a better system for the people I have committed my life to serving.

Growing up, I watched my mother do everything alone. She worked long hours, stretched every dollar, and still made time to take my grandmother to doctor's appointments, translate medical instructions, and manage her diabetes care with almost no support. There was no caregiver network. There was no culturally familiar guidance. There was just her, a single mother doing what needed to be done. That experience planted something in me that I did not fully understand until much later: a deep awareness of how broken the systems around health and caregiving truly are, and a drive to fix them. That awareness is what led me to biotech and, ultimately, to founding Sweet Balance & CareLink, a community health initiative focused on improving food access and caregiver support in underserved U.S. neighborhoods. You can learn more about the project at sweetbalancelink.com. It was born directly from my experience caring for my own grandmother, who immigrated from Ukraine. Managing her diabetes while honoring her cultural food traditions made clear to me that health education without cultural grounding is not really education at all. It is noise that people cannot use. Telling someone to "eat healthy" means nothing if the nearest grocery store is miles away, if the educational materials do not reflect how their family cooks, or if the caregiver holding everything together has no support of her own. Sweet Balance & CareLink addresses all three of these gaps through a model built on three pillars: culturally familiar health education, peer caregiver networks, and policy advocacy for caregiving labor standards. We are currently targeting Birmingham, Chicago, Detroit, and Fresno, four cities where food deserts and care deserts overlap in ways that compound health disparities, particularly in Black and immigrant communities. In Birmingham alone, nearly 70 percent of the population is affected by food desert conditions. In communities like these, the absence of access is not an accident. It is the result of decades of disinvestment, and reversing it requires more than good intentions. It requires a scalable, community-rooted model. Pursuing a degree in healthcare is not separate from this work. It is essential to it. I want to understand the science behind the conditions I am trying to prevent and the systems I am trying to reform. Biotech gives me tools to think rigorously about disease, intervention, and health equity at a population level. It also gives me credibility to work alongside policymakers, clinicians, and researchers who need to see the evidence, not just the story, behind community health approaches. But the story matters too. My mother's story, my grandmother's story, and the stories of every caregiver who has gone unseen and unsupported in this country matter deeply. Women have historically held health systems together from the margins, as caregivers, community health workers, and patient advocates, without recognition or resources. I want to change that. Not just by building a program, but by pursuing an education that allows me to advocate from a place of knowledge, publish research that validates community-based interventions, and train the next generation of healthcare professionals to see food access and caregiver support as clinical concerns, not afterthoughts. This scholarship would allow me to continue that path. It would mean I can stay focused on both my studies and the initiative I am building without the constant pressure of financial uncertainty. More than that, it would represent exactly the kind of investment in women in healthcare that I believe in, because when women like me are supported in completing our education, entire communities benefit.

My Why Is a Person My why has a name. Her name is my grandmother, and she immigrated from Ukraine carrying a lifetime of tradition, memory, and a diabetes diagnosis that the American healthcare system had no idea how to honor. When I became her primary caregiver as a high school student, I did not think of it as remarkable. I thought of it as necessary. She needed someone who would sit with her doctors and translate not just the language but the entire cultural context they were missing. She needed someone to learn how to adapt her beloved Ukrainian recipes to reduce their glycemic impact without erasing the meaning behind them. She needed someone who understood that health is not just a clinical condition. It is wrapped up in identity, food, love, and belonging. I became that person for her, and the experience permanently changed how I see the world. I am uniquely deserving of this award because my path to higher education was built entirely on necessity and service. I did not have a parent who had navigated the college system before me. My mother raised three children alone after our father left, working jobs that were hard on her body while stretching every dollar to keep us stable. She could not guide me through applications or financial aid forms because she had never done any of it herself. What she gave me instead was her example: show up, do the work, and never stop moving forward. I took that lesson and ran with it. While caring for my grandmother and watching the healthcare system fail her in consistent and preventable ways, I founded Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), a community health initiative that combines culturally grounded diabetes education, caregiver support networks, and policy advocacy for communities in food and care deserts. I built it as a high school student with no roadmap, no institutional backing, and no blueprint. I built it because I saw a problem I could not walk away from. My why for pursuing higher education is exactly this: I want the tools to make this work bigger, deeper, and more lasting. I am pursuing biotechnology because I believe the most transformative work of the next generation will happen at the intersection of science and equity. I want to develop health interventions that are not just clinically sound but culturally informed and genuinely accessible to the communities that need them most. I want to take what I started at Sweet Balance and CareLink and build it into something that changes how the entire country thinks about chronic illness, food access, and caregiving. I am a first-generation college student from a single-parent household who founded a nonprofit as a teenager because I watched my grandmother navigate a broken system without enough support. I am pursuing higher education not to escape where I came from but to build something worthy of it. Every person with diabetes who cannot access culturally appropriate care, every family caregiver burning out in silence, every community living in a food desert without resources is part of my why. Higher education is the bridge between the problem I have always seen and the solutions I intend to spend my life building. This scholarship would support that journey in a way that is more than financial. It would be a confirmation that the path I am on, built from love and urgency and stubborn belief that things can be better, is worth investing in. I believe it is. I hope you will too.

Service Is Not What I Do. It Is Who I Am. From the time I was old enough to understand what it meant to care for someone, service became the organizing principle of my life. I did not choose it so much as it chose me, arriving in the form of my grandmother's diabetes diagnosis and a healthcare system that had no idea how to meet her where she was. My grandmother immigrated from Ukraine, carrying with her decades of tradition, identity, and a set of recipes that were as much a part of who she was as anything else. When she was diagnosed with diabetes, the guidance she received from doctors was technically correct but humanly incomplete. It did not account for her culture, her language, or the deep connection between her food and her sense of self. I became her advocate, her interpreter, and her caregiver. I researched glycemic indexes, adapted Ukrainian recipes, and learned to navigate a medical system that had not been built with her in mind. That season of my life taught me that service is not about doing tasks for people. It is about seeing them fully and refusing to let the systems around them reduce them to a diagnosis or a demographic. That experience led me to found Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), a community health initiative built on three pillars: culturally grounded health education, caregiver support networks, and policy advocacy for communities living in food and care deserts. We are expanding our model to cities including Birmingham, Chicago, Detroit, and Fresno, places where people are managing chronic illness without access to fresh food, culturally appropriate care, or the basic support structures that make health possible. Every piece of this work is service. And every piece of it comes from something I learned at my grandmother's kitchen table. I also serve because of what I watched my mother do for us. She raised three children alone after our father left, working jobs that were hard on her body and never complaining about the weight she carried. She gave us everything she had, and she did it without asking for anything in return. That is the model of service I grew up with, not as martyrdom but as love made visible through action. My education in biotechnology is the next expression of this calling. I am drawn specifically to the gap between cutting-edge science and the communities that never receive its benefits. I want to develop health tools that are equitable and culturally informed, interventions that reach the people who need them most rather than the people who can afford the most. I want to use what I learn in classrooms and laboratories to do what my grandmother needed someone to do for her years ago: show up with knowledge and with care, and refuse to leave until the problem is actually solved. Service, for me, is not a line on a resume or an activity I participate in occasionally. It is the reason I get up in the morning. It is the reason I founded an organization as a high school student, the reason I stayed up late learning nutrition science for someone I loved, and the reason I am pursuing a future in biotechnology and public health. I want to spend my life building things that make other lives easier, healthier, and more fully seen. That is my service. That is my education. That is who I am.

What Resilience Actually Looks Like I grew up watching resilience in real time, and it did not look like a motivational quote. It looked like my mother at the end of a long day, still asking about our homework. It looked like a refrigerator that was always full even when I found out years later that money was almost never enough. It looked like a woman who raised three children alone after our father left and never once let us feel the full weight of what that cost her. My mother did not have a college degree. She did not have a co-parent or a safety net or much of anything that makes single parenthood easier. What she had was will, and the quiet, relentless determination to make sure her children had something better than what she had. I grew up in that household shaped by her example, absorbing lessons she never sat me down to teach me directly. I learned that showing up, even when it is hard, is the only option. I learned that other people's needs are real and worth taking seriously. I learned that love is not just a feeling. It is a choice you make over and over again, even when you are exhausted. The moment that led to the deepest shift in my understanding of myself came when I became my grandmother's caregiver after she immigrated from Ukraine. She had been diagnosed with diabetes, and the healthcare system she encountered was not built to accommodate who she was. It did not speak her language. It did not understand her food, her culture, or the relationship between the two. I stepped in to fill that gap. That season of my life changed me completely. I had grown up in a household where stepping up was simply what you did, so I understood the mechanics of caregiving. But caring for my grandmother taught me something my mother's example had only hinted at: that the systems meant to support people often fail the people who need support most. My grandmother was not lacking in strength or will. She was lacking in resources, in cultural competency from her care team, and in a support network that understood both her medical needs and her identity. I was one person trying to fill a gap that should have been filled by a whole system. That realization became the foundation for everything I have built since. I founded Sweet Balance and CareLink (sweetbalancelink.com), a community health initiative focused on diabetes education, caregiver support, and food access for communities in food and care deserts. I did not start it because I had all the answers. I started it because I had lived the question long enough to know it mattered. Growing up in a single parent household taught me to see clearly, to act without waiting for permission, and to care for others as though their lives depend on it because, sometimes, they actually do. My mother made me resilient not by protecting me from hard things but by showing me what it looks like to face them with integrity. That is the understanding I carry into college and into every room I walk into: that difficulty is not the end of the story. It is often just the beginning. My grandmother needed more than the system gave her. I intend to spend my future making sure fewer people have to say the same thing.

She Did It Alone There is a particular kind of strength that does not announce itself. It shows up quietly, in the form of a mother who works a full day and still has dinner on the table, who holds three children together after their father leaves, who never lets her kids see how hard she is working to keep everything from falling apart. That is the strength I grew up watching. And it is the strength that shaped everything I am. My mother raised my two siblings and me on her own after our father left. She did not have a college degree to fall back on, and she did not have a partner to share the weight. What she had was will, and an unshakeable belief that her children deserved more than the circumstances they were born into. She worked jobs that were hard on her body and asked more than they gave back. She stretched every dollar and never once made us feel like we were missing anything that mattered. What she gave us instead of ease was example. I watched her navigate a world that was not designed to support her, and I watched her do it with quiet dignity. She never asked for sympathy. She just kept moving. Growing up in that house, I absorbed something I could not name at the time but understand clearly now: that hardship is not the end of a story. It is often where the story actually begins. Being raised by a single mother also meant stepping up early. I took on responsibility because I saw what it cost her when things did not get done. I learned to be resourceful, to think ahead, and to treat the people around me with care because I had seen how much it mattered when someone actually showed up. Those early lessons shaped how I move through the world, and they are woven into every part of the work I do today. When I founded Sweet Balance and CareLink, a community health initiative focused on diabetes education, food access, and caregiver support, I was drawing directly from what my upbringing taught me. My grandmother's diabetes diagnosis brought the failures of our healthcare system close to home, but my mother's life had already shown me what it looked like when people fall through the cracks of systems that were never built with them in mind. I knew how to see that gap because I had grown up next to it. The organization I am building is for families like mine. It is for the single mothers who are also the primary caregivers, the ones who are managing a sick parent while working and raising children, with no support network and no roadmap. It is for the communities where fresh food is scarce and health education does not account for who people actually are or where they actually come from. My mother's life taught me that these communities are not lacking in strength. They are lacking in resources. Those are two very different things, and the difference matters enormously. I carry my mother with me into every room I walk into. Her resilience is not a story I tell about the past. It is a standard I hold myself to every single day. She raised me to understand that doing things the hard way, when it is the right way, is always worth it. I intend to spend my future proving she was right. Sweetbalancelink.com

Where Science Meets the Kitchen Table I did not fall in love with STEM in a classroom. I fell in love with it in my grandmother's kitchen, watching her try to manage her diabetes while holding onto the Ukrainian food traditions that had defined her entire life. She had immigrated from Ukraine, bringing with her decades of cultural memory wrapped in borscht, varenyky, and honey cakes. Her doctors gave her clinical guidelines. What they could not give her was someone who understood how to honor both her health and her heritage at the same time. I became that person for her, and in doing so, I discovered exactly what I want to do with my life. Caring for my grandmother taught me that science and medicine, for all their power, often fail the people who need them most. The interventions that exist for managing diabetes are clinically sound but culturally blind. The nutritional tools available rarely account for the lived realities of immigrant communities, food desert residents, or people whose relationship with food is tied to identity and belonging rather than just calories. I wanted to understand not just the biology of chronic disease, but the systems that determine whether lifesaving knowledge actually reaches the people who need it. That curiosity led me to biotechnology. Biotechnology sits at the intersection of science, innovation, and human impact. It is where I believe the most transformative work of the next generation will happen, and it is where I intend to make my contribution. I am particularly drawn to the potential of personalized medicine, nutrigenomics, and accessible diagnostic technologies to close the gap between cutting-edge research and under-resourced communities. The tools to better manage diseases like diabetes already exist in many forms. What is missing is the commitment to making them equitable and culturally informed. I want to be part of building that bridge. I have already begun. I founded Sweet Balance and CareLink, a community health initiative that combines culturally grounded health education, caregiver support networks, and policy advocacy to serve communities living in food and care deserts. We are building our model across four cities, including Birmingham, Chicago, Detroit, and Fresno, each facing severe health disparities rooted in unequal access to food, care, and knowledge. Every part of this work has deepened my understanding of what STEM can do when it is designed with communities at the center rather than as an afterthought. As a woman in STEM, I also carry the responsibility of representation. The fields that shape healthcare, policy, and technology still underrepresent women, and they dramatically underrepresent women whose work is motivated by caregiving, community, and cultural experience. I want to be visible in those spaces precisely because that visibility matters. When young women see someone whose path began not in a lab but at a grandmother's bedside, they learn that STEM is wide enough to hold all kinds of origin stories. My goal is to use my education in biotechnology to develop health tools that work for communities like the ones I grew up in, ones where innovation rarely arrives and where the people managing chronic illness do so with far too little support. I want to bring Sweet Balance and CareLink to national scale and embed evidence-based, biotech-informed solutions into its model. Science gave me language for what I had always witnessed. Now I intend to use it to change what I have always seen. Sweetbalancelink.com

What She Carried So I Could Fly My mother never went to college. She never had the chance. By the time she might have, she was raising three children alone, working jobs that asked everything of her body and gave very little back. Our father left, and she did not fall apart. She just kept going, quietly and without complaint, making sure we had what we needed even when she did not have what she needed. She never talked much about her own dreams. But she talked constantly about ours. Education, she told us, was the one thing no one could ever take away. She said it the way people say things they have learned through loss rather than through books. I grew up understanding that a degree was not just a piece of paper. It was protection. It was possibility. It was the difference between having options and not having them. She planted that belief in me so deeply that it became less of a lesson and more of a part of who I am. Being a first-generation college student means carrying more than a backpack to campus. It means carrying the weight of everyone who came before you and never got the chance, and the hope of everyone who will come after you and might. There is no parent who has been through the application process to call when you are confused. There is no family map of what college actually looks like from the inside. You figure it out as you go, and you do it knowing that figuring it out matters beyond just yourself. For me, that weight has never felt like a burden. It has felt like fuel. My mother's sacrifice did not make me feel guilty for wanting more. It made me want to build something worthy of what she gave. And the experience of caring for my grandmother, navigating her diabetes diagnosis, adapting her Ukrainian food traditions to meet her medical needs, and watching the healthcare system fail her in quiet and consistent ways, showed me exactly what I wanted to build toward. I founded Sweet Balance and CareLink because I saw a gap between the care people need and the care they actually receive, and I could not walk past it. Education is how I close that gap. Studying biotechnology will give me the scientific tools to develop health interventions that are not just effective but equitable, designed with communities like the ones my family comes from in mind. Every lecture, every research paper, every late night studying is a step toward a model of community health that reaches the people most often left out. My mother worked hard so I could walk through doors she never had access to. I intend to prop those doors open behind me. The legacy I hope to leave is not a title or a salary. It is a system that works better for the next grandmother managing diabetes in a food desert, for the next single mother who needs support she cannot afford, for the next first-generation student who needs to see that someone who looked like her made it through and built something that mattered. I want the path I walk to become a road that others can follow. My mother gave me the belief that education could change a life. I am going to spend mine proving she was right.

The Education That Found Me in a Kitchen I did not choose education so much as education chose me, arriving not in a classroom but in my grandmother's kitchen, in the middle of a crisis I did not know how to solve. When my grandmother immigrated from Ukraine, she brought with her a lifetime of knowledge, tradition, and recipes passed down through generations. She also arrived with type 2 diabetes, a disease that demands constant management and leaves very little room for the unexpected. As her primary caregiver, I quickly realized that the healthcare system she was navigating was not built for someone like her. The dietary guidance she received was generic. The educational materials were not translated. The doctors, well-meaning as they were, had no framework for understanding how her cultural relationship with food intersected with her medical needs. I was a high school student trying to fill that gap with whatever I could find, reading research papers late at night, calling pharmacists with questions, and adapting traditional Ukrainian recipes to reduce glycemic impact without erasing the meaning behind them. That experience was the hardest thing I have ever done. Caregiving while keeping up with school, while managing my own emotions, while watching someone I love struggle, taught me what I was made of. But it also taught me something else: that the problems I was encountering were not unique to my grandmother. They were systemic. Millions of people with diabetes live in food deserts, without access to fresh or culturally appropriate food, without caregivers who have the training or support they need, without health education that actually meets them where they are. I could not stop thinking about the people navigating all of this entirely alone. That realization gave birth to Sweet Balance and CareLink, the organization I founded to address exactly this intersection of chronic disease management, food access, and culturally grounded care. Building it as a high school student was its own education. I learned how to research policy, how to speak to community stakeholders, how to translate a personal experience into a scalable model. I made mistakes and revised them. I asked for help and learned from everyone who gave it. The process demanded creativity, persistence, and a willingness to sit with problems long enough to actually understand them before reaching for solutions. Now, as I prepare to study biotechnology in college, I carry all of that with me. Biotech is not an obvious path for someone whose origin story lives in caregiving and community health. But to me, it is the most natural next step. The work I have done with Sweet Balance and CareLink has shown me that the gap between cutting-edge science and the communities that need it most is enormous and largely unnecessary. Biotechnology has the potential to transform how we understand, prevent, and manage diseases like diabetes, but only if it is developed with equity in mind. I want to be the person who helps close that gap. My goal is to combine my training in biotechnology with my background in community health to develop tools and interventions that are not just scientifically sound but culturally accessible. I am particularly interested in how continuous glucose monitoring technology, nutrigenomics research, and personalized medicine can be adapted for use in under-resourced communities. Right now, the most promising innovations in diabetes care are almost entirely out of reach for the populations who need them most. That is a scientific failure, yes, but it is also a failure of imagination about who science is for. Education has given me the language to name what I have always seen. Growing up, I watched my grandmother manage a disease that the medical world understood in one way while she experienced it in another. I did not have the vocabulary then to explain why the two worlds were not talking to each other. Now I do. And the more I learn, the more clearly I can see the specific places where knowledge, access, and culture fail to connect, and the more equipped I become to do something about it. The challenges I have faced have not just built resilience in me. They have built direction. Every late night spent researching glucose indexes, every conversation I navigated between my grandmother and her care team, every community in a food desert that I have studied while building Sweet Balance and CareLink, has pointed me toward the same truth: that health is not a privilege, and science should not behave as though it is. I am not going to college to escape where I came from. I am going to college to build something worthy of it. I want to use my education in biotechnology to develop interventions that actually reach people, that account for culture and community and the realities of life in under-resourced neighborhoods. I want to bring Sweet Balance and CareLink to scale and eventually integrate evidence-based, biotech-informed tools into the community health model we are building. I want to sit at the intersection of the laboratory and the kitchen table and refuse to let the two worlds stay separate. My grandmother managed her diabetes with grace, with stubbornness, and with the help of someone who loved her enough to learn everything she needed to know. Not everyone has that. My education is my commitment to changing that reality, one community, one innovation, one student, one grandmother at a time. Sweetbalancelink.com

Building What the World Is Missing I have always believed that the most important problems to solve are the ones hiding in plain sight. When I became my grandmother's primary caregiver after she immigrated from Ukraine, I did not set out to become a founder. I set out to help her manage her diabetes without losing the culture that gave her life meaning. What I discovered along the way was a problem far bigger than one kitchen table. My grandmother's diabetes required careful attention to diet, medication, and routine. But the guidance she received from doctors rarely accounted for who she actually was. Her traditional Ukrainian foods, the ones tied to memory and identity and love, were treated as obstacles rather than opportunities. I spent months researching how to adapt her recipes, reduce glycemic impact without erasing flavor, and communicate her needs to a healthcare system not built with her in mind. The process was exhausting and isolating, and I kept thinking: what do people do when they do not have someone doing this for them? That question became Sweet Balance and CareLink, the organization I founded to close the gap between diabetes management and cultural identity. Our model brings together health education rooted in community food traditions, peer caregiver networks that reduce burnout and isolation, and policy advocacy that fights for fair recognition of community health workers. We are building this program across four cities, including Birmingham, Chicago, Detroit, and Fresno, each of which faces severe food and care desert challenges. Sweet Balance and CareLink is my answer to a problem I lived firsthand, and it is already taking shape. But if I had the full resources to go further, I would build something I call the National Diabetes Food Access Program. The core of the problem is this: millions of Americans managing diabetes live in communities without reliable access to fresh, affordable, culturally appropriate food. Managing blood sugar without access to the right food is not just difficult. It is nearly impossible. The program I envision would operate in three phases. First, it would establish community food hubs in food desert zip codes, stocked not with generic "healthy" options but with ingredients that reflect the actual dietary traditions of each neighborhood, from West African staples to Latin American produce to Eastern European pantry items. Second, it would partner with local dietitians and community health workers trained in cultural competency to offer free, individualized meal planning for diabetic patients. Third, it would create a mobile delivery network for homebound patients and elderly caregivers who cannot travel to access these resources. Sweetbalancelink.com The goal would not be to tell communities how to eat. It would be to meet them where they already are, with the foods they already know, and build health from that foundation outward. Policy advocacy would run alongside every phase, pushing for subsidies, insurance coverage for nutrition counseling, and recognition of food access as a healthcare issue rather than a lifestyle preference. I know this model works because I have already seen a version of it work in my grandmother's kitchen. Scale is simply a matter of resources, will, and the belief that every person with diabetes deserves care that sees all of who they are.

Balancing More Than Blood Sugar The first time I truly understood what it meant to live with diabetes, I was not the one being diagnosed. I was standing in my grandmother's kitchen, watching her try to hold on to the foods that had shaped her entire life. She had immigrated from Ukraine, carrying with her decades of tradition wrapped in borscht, varenyky, and honey cakes. Diabetes, it seemed, was asking her to let all of that go. As her primary caregiver, I quickly learned that managing this disease is far more than counting carbohydrates or checking blood sugar levels. It is emotional. It is cultural. It reaches into the most personal corners of a person's identity. My grandmother did not simply need medication. She needed someone who understood that her relationship with food was also a relationship with home, with memory, and with belonging. I became that person for her, learning to adapt recipes, research the glycemic impact of traditional ingredients, and advocate for her in medical spaces that rarely made room for her background or her story. Caregiving changed me in ways I did not expect. It gave me patience I did not know I had. It gave me a deep respect for the quiet, exhausting labor that so many family caregivers perform without recognition or support. And it opened my eyes to something larger: the reality that millions of people living with diabetes do not have anyone to help them navigate the gap between their culture and their care plan. I learned that over 19 million Americans live in food deserts, that in cities like Birmingham nearly 70% of the population is affected, and that the life expectancy gap in these communities can reach two years or more. These were not abstract numbers to me. They were my grandmother's story, told over and over again across the country. That understanding became the foundation of Sweet Balance and CareLink, the organization I founded to address this intersection of diabetes, food access, and caregiver support. Our work is built around three commitments: health education that respects and incorporates the cultural traditions communities already hold, caregiver networks that reduce isolation and provide real support to families doing this work alone, and policy advocacy that pushes for fair recognition of community health workers. We are beginning in four cities, including Birmingham, Chicago, Detroit, and Fresno, each facing severe food and care desert challenges that demand urgent, community-centered solutions. What my grandmother's illness taught me is that healing cannot happen in isolation from culture. When people feel seen in their care, they engage with it. When caregivers feel supported, they sustain it. And when policy catches up to the reality of what communities actually need, lasting change becomes possible. I am heading into college with a clear sense of purpose. I want to study public health and policy so that I can grow Sweet Balance and CareLink into a model that reaches every community where someone is trying to manage a chronic illness without the resources or support they deserve. My grandmother showed me that balance, even in the hardest circumstances, is always worth reaching for. I intend to spend my future making it more reachable for others. sweetbalancelink.com

The Equation Mrs. C Taught Me There is a particular kind of teacher who does not simply teach a subject: they teach you something about yourself. For me, that teacher was Mrs. C, my high school math teacher, who showed me that the most important equation in life has nothing to do with numbers: it is the balance between discipline and joy. I walked into Mrs. C's classroom the way most students walk into a math class with a quiet dread. Math felt cold and unforgiving, a subject where one wrong step could unravel everything. But Mrs. C's room felt different from the start. There were plants on the windowsill, music playing softly before the bell rang, and the smell of something sweet, she had a habit of keeping a small jar of candy on her desk, available to anyone who needed it. It seemed like a small thing, but it said something: that learning did not have to be a grim, joyless grind. What struck me most about Mrs. C was how she held two things at once without letting either one win. She was exacting: she expected us to show our work, to think carefully, to not take shortcuts. She would pause mid-lesson and ask, "Why does that work?" not just "What is the answer?" She demanded rigor. But she also laughed easily. She celebrated small wins. When a student finally grasped a concept they had been struggling with, she made it feel like a genuine occasion. Her class had structure and warmth in equal measure, and I began to understand that those two things were not opposites. They were partners. One afternoon, I stayed late after class, frustrated with a problem set I could not crack. I expected Mrs. C to walk me through the steps mechanically. Instead, she sat down beside me and said something I have never forgotten: "Math is patient. You can be too." Then she handed me a piece of candy from the jar and told me to start again, slowly. We worked through it together, and when I finally got it right, the relief I felt was sweeter than anything. That moment planted something in me. I started to see that the pressure I put on myself, the belief that I had to push hard and suffer through difficulty to earn success, was only half of the equation. The other half was grace. Patience. The ability to step back, breathe, and find some sweetness in the process, even when it was hard. Mrs. C taught me that balance is not a reward you get after you've worked hard enough, it is a tool you bring with you into the work. I carry that lesson into every challenge I face now. When I feel overwhelmed, I remember to be patient with myself. When I am tempted to burn out chasing a goal, I remember the jar of candy on her desk, that small, deliberate reminder that the journey matters too. She did not just teach me math. She taught me how to live with both ambition and grace. And I am still solving for that balance every day.

Built Under Pressure There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from splitting yourself in two. For the past three years, I have spent more than three hours every day caring for my grandmother, a Ukrainian immigrant living with type 2 diabetes. I monitored her blood sugar, prepared her meals, attended her appointments, and translated for her when doctors spoke too quickly in a language she was still learning. I did all of this while attending school full time, maintaining above a 3.0 GPA, and building a community health initiative from the ground up. The hardest period came during my junior year. My grandmother's condition became more unpredictable. There were days I arrived at school having already been awake for hours managing a health episode at home. I would sit in class running calculations in my head, not about algebra, but about whether I had given her the right meal before I left, whether someone would check on her by noon. The mental load was constant and invisible. None of my teachers could see it. I could barely name it myself. But I made a decision during that time that changed everything. I stopped waiting for the pressure to ease before I started working toward my goals. I accepted that hard conditions were not temporary. They were my reality, and I had to build within them. I got ruthlessly organized. I mapped out every hour of my week and identified pockets of time I had been losing to exhaustion or distraction. I started doing homework during my grandmother's afternoon rest, treating that hour as non-negotiable study time. I communicated with teachers when I needed extensions, something that did not come naturally to me, but that I forced myself to do because protecting my GPA mattered. I asked for help, from classmates, from my parents, from community members, and I learned that asking is not weakness. It is strategy. During this same period, I began researching the gaps my grandmother was falling into. She was not alone. Millions of people in the United States live without access to culturally appropriate health education or caregiver support networks. That research became the foundation of Sweet Balance & CareLink, a community health initiative I founded to address food deserts and care deserts in underserved neighborhoods. Building it required every skill I had developed under pressure: time management, research, communication, persistence, and the ability to hold a long-term vision while handling immediate demands. Launching Sweet Balance & CareLink while maintaining my academics taught me that achievement under hardship is not about doing less. It is about becoming sharper, more intentional, and more clear about what you are working toward and why. My why has always been my grandmother, and the countless people like her who deserve better systems. I am a first-generation college student from Berkeley, the daughter of immigrants who built their lives from nothing. I have learned that obstacles do not disqualify you from your goals. They clarify them. Pursuing a STEAM degree is my next step toward building health solutions that are grounded in both science and lived experience, and I am ready.

Fitness as a Lifeline Caregiving is not something most teenagers think about when they picture high school. But for the past three years, I have spent more than three hours every day caring for my grandmother, a Ukrainian immigrant managing type 2 diabetes. It has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life, and also one of the hardest. In the middle of that weight, soccer became my lifeline. I started playing soccer as a kid, but it took on a different meaning once caregiving became a central part of my daily life. When you are responsible for someone else's health and wellbeing, it is easy to lose yourself. The stress accumulates quietly. You skip rest, you skip joy, you keep going because someone needs you. Soccer gave me back something that was slipping away: time that belonged entirely to me. On the field, I was not a caregiver. I was a teammate, a player, someone working toward a shared goal with people who pushed me and had my back. That sense of community, the encouragement of teammates and coaches, reminded me of something important: you cannot pour from an empty cup. Taking care of my own body and mental health was not selfish. It was necessary. Soccer taught me that physical movement is not separate from emotional wellbeing. They are the same thing. The mental health benefits were real and immediate. After practice, the weight of the week felt lighter. My focus sharpened. I slept better. I showed up for my grandmother with more patience and more energy because I had given myself an outlet. Fitness did not just improve my health. It made me a better caregiver. That lesson shaped the way I think about health more broadly, and it influenced the work I do through my initiative, Sweet Balance & CareLink. The initiative focuses on food access, diabetes education, and caregiver support in underserved communities. At its core, it is built on the same belief that soccer reinforced in me: that health is holistic, that communities deserve support systems that address the whole person, and that encouragement and connection are just as powerful as any medical intervention. When I think about the people Sweet Balance & CareLink is designed to serve, I think about caregivers like me who need permission to also take care of themselves. Jason Choi's story resonates with me deeply. He did not let health challenges define the boundaries of his life. Instead, he leaned into fitness as a form of commitment to himself and to the people who loved him. That is exactly what soccer has been for me. Not a distraction from hard things, but a practice of showing up for myself so I could keep showing up for others. I am a first-generation college student from Berkeley, the daughter of Ukrainian immigrants who built a life from nothing. I have learned that resilience is not about never struggling. It is about finding what keeps you grounded when everything feels heavy. For me, that has been fitness, community, and the belief that taking care of yourself is an act of strength. This scholarship would support my next steps in biotechnology and allow me to keep building toward a future where health, in every form, is accessible to everyone who needs it.

The Future I Am Building I was born in Berkeley, California, to Ukrainian parents who fled war to give me a life they could only imagine for themselves. They arrived with nothing but resilience, and that resilience became the foundation of everything I know. Growing up first-generation, I understood early that the future is not something that simply happens to you. It is something you build, often with your hands already full. For the past three years, I have spent more than three hours each day caring for my grandmother. She came here carrying the weight of displacement and the burden of type 2 diabetes. Watching her struggle, not just with her health, but with navigating a system that did not account for her language, her food traditions, or her story, changed the direction of my life. I did not just want to help her. I wanted to understand why so many people like her fall through the cracks, and what it would take to fix it. That question led me to biotechnology. I am drawn to the science of how the body works, how disease progresses at the cellular level, and how innovations in biotech can translate into real treatments and tools for real people. I want to work at the intersection of research and community health, developing solutions that are not just scientifically sound, but culturally grounded and accessible to the people who need them most. Growing up in the Bay Area, surrounded by some of the most advanced biotech and life sciences institutions in the world, I have seen what is possible. I want to be part of that future. But I did not want to wait to start contributing. That is why I founded Sweet Balance & CareLink, a community health initiative built around the exact gaps I witnessed caring for my grandmother. The model combines culturally familiar health education, caregiver peer networks, and policy advocacy to address what I call "care deserts," communities where both healthy food and caregiving support are absent. The initiative reflects everything that motivates me: the belief that science and systems should serve people, not the other way around. What fills me with purpose is imagining a future where a grandmother like mine receives diabetes education in her own language, with foods she recognizes, supported by a caregiver network that does not leave her family exhausted and alone. That future is possible. I can see it clearly, and I am working toward it every day. This scholarship would make an enormous difference. Higher education in biotechnology is expensive, and my family does not have the resources to bridge that gap. Support from this scholarship would allow me to focus fully on my studies, continue developing Sweet Balance & CareLink, and pursue research opportunities that align with my goals. It would mean that the future I am building, one shaped by my community, my grandmother, and my own conviction, is within reach. I am not just the daughter of people who survived. I am someone building something worth surviving for.

I plan to use my college education to build solutions that don’t just support communities, but transform the systems that have historically failed them. Rather than approaching service as temporary aid, I want to create scalable, sustainable models that redefine how people access healthcare, education, and support. My drive comes from helping care for my grandmother after she immigrated from Ukraine. Managing her diabetes revealed how inaccessible and culturally disconnected many health resources are. It became clear to me that the issue is not a lack of effort from individuals, but a lack of systems designed to meet people where they are. In college, I plan to deepen my understanding of business, healthcare, and technology so I can expand my project, Sweet Balance & CareLink, (Sweetbalancelink.com) into a platform that delivers culturally relevant health education, connects caregivers to support networks, and improves access to practical resources in underserved communities. My goal is to grow this into a scalable initiative that can be implemented across different regions and populations. Long-term, I aim to build ventures that challenge outdated models of care and replace them with systems that are inclusive, efficient, and designed for real people. Giving back to my community, to me, means creating lasting change: so that access to quality care is not a privilege, but a standard.