I just finished assembling the IKEA bed when a woman I had never met before suddenly hugged me. "Thank you so much!" She was a single mother who faced years of domestic abuse before finding Asiyah Women’s Center. Now, she finally got an apartment of her own—the one I was helping clean and organize with other volunteers. One year later, I still remember her gratitude. But I was actually just as grateful to her because, for the first time in years, I did something not for my resume but simply to help someone else. That moment was so profound to me because I was in a very transitional period. But to truly describe my story, I need to rewind nearly two decades to when my parents immigrated to the US from Bangladesh. My dad worked tirelessly as a taxi driver, and my mom raised me and took care of the house, all while adapting to a new country. Thus, my education quickly became their biggest hope. Encouragement, however, often turned into pressure to get the highest grades and ultimately, become a doctor because, to my family, medicine was the only safe path for their daughter, an immigrant woman of color, who they were certain would face discrimination in any other field. But by high school, I stopped learning out of passion and started performing. Every class and extracurricular was chosen with only one goal in mind: medical school. My breaking point began when I didn’t know how to write my medical school personal statement. For years, I exaggerated my passion for medicine, but when met with a disappointing MCAT score simultaneously, I snapped. I felt like I had failed everyone. No longer able to justify a dream that clearly wasn't mine, I made the difficult decision to not apply. This was liberating yet terrifying. I finally put my mental health first, but I also didn’t know who I was without the 'premed' label. Fortunately, that turning point also began my recovery. I had long overdue conversations with my parents and for the first time pursued volunteer work that truly mattered to me. At Asiyah Women’s Center, I helped maintain safe spaces to support survivors of domestic and gender-based violence who were rebuilding their lives. Volunteering grounded me, reminding me that real impact comes not from titles but from empathy and service. This shift carried into my academics. I stopped chasing grades and learned what I genuinely enjoyed—hands-on, problem-solving projects in engineering. Around the same time, I was told by my doctor that I might have PCOS, which led me into a rabbit hole of researching women’s health. I learned how women were excluded from clinical trials until recently, and how common conditions like PCOS and endometriosis and even the impact of women’s hormones on our daily lives remain poorly understood. I realized how much opportunity there is for biomedical engineers like me to address this gap and decided I want to dedicate my career to women’s health innovation. For me, this means ensuring women are always included in research and encouraging engineers to step outside the lab to engage with the communities their work is meant to serve. Technology without this grounding too often reaches only the privileged, widening gaps it was meant to close. Overall, my journey has taught me to value empathy, resilience, and impact over superficial measures of success. Now I aspire to advance women’s health by developing medical devices that address long-overlooked needs, and every challenge I’ve faced has built my resolve to pursue work that is truly transformative for the communities I hope to serve.

I just finished assembling the IKEA bed and was about to move to the living room to take a break when I suddenly got pulled in for a hug by a random lady I had never met before. "Thank you so much! This looks great!" "S-sure, no problem," I responded, kind of blankly, not really understanding the situation. Turns out she was the single mother of a toddler who had suffered from years of domestic abuse before finding Asiyah's Women's Center. And she finally found a new apartment for herself and her baby—the apartment I was helping clean and organize with a few other volunteers. This happened a little over a year ago, but I can still very vividly feel the woman's genuine gratitude. She doesn’t know it, but I had more than enough reason to be just as grateful to her because for the first time in years, I felt what it was like to do something not for a grade, prestige, or to pad my resume but purely for its positive impact on another person. That moment had such a profound effect on me because at that time I was in a very transitional period. But to truly describe my story, I’ll need to rewind nearly two decades earlier. My parents immigrated from Bangladesh with little more than determination. My dad started as a street vendor selling fruits before becoming a taxi driver, while my mom raised me and took care of the house, all while trying to make sense of a whole new country. Since they had sacrificed so much, education quickly became the only currency of hope in our household. But encouragement to excel often turned into pressure: to be the kid with the highest grades, to get into the most competitive schools, and ultimately, to become a doctor. Because to my family, medicine seemed like the only safe path for their daughter, an immigrant woman of color, who they were certain would face discrimination in any other field. But by the time I reached high school and college, I was no longer learning out of genuine curiosity and passion but performing. I chose every class, internship, and volunteer experience with one goal in mind: to get into medical school, whether or not I truly enjoyed what I was doing. My breaking point began when I sat down to write my medical school personal statement. For years, I exaggerated my passion for hospital and clinic work on applications and was prepared to do the same with my personal statement. However, around the same time, I received a rather disappointing MCAT score, and I snapped. I felt like I had failed both myself and my family's sacrifices. No longer able to justify a dream that I knew very clearly wasn't mine, I made the difficult decision to not apply. This was liberating yet terrifying. For the first time, I put my mental and emotional health before expectations, but I was also anxious about not knowing who I was without the 'premed' label and extremely uncertain about my future. Fortunately, however, that turning point also began my recovery. I reconnected with my faith, had long overdue conversations with my parents, and for the first time pursued volunteer work that truly mattered to me. At Asiyah Women's Center, a nonprofit that provides safe spaces and resources to survivors of domestic and gender-based violence, I helped maintain welcoming shelter spaces for women who had escaped abusive situations. Staying connected with these women grounded me, reminding me that true impact comes not from titles but from empathy and service. And as a woman myself, I recognized how deeply cultural expectations and systemic inequities shape women’s opportunities—from my own family’s insistence, though well intentioned, on medicine as the only viable path for me to the barriers survivors face when rebuilding their lives. This shift in perspective carried into my academics. I stopped chasing grades and started learning more about myself and leaning into what I genuinely enjoyed—hands-on, problem-solving projects in biomedical engineering. In my recent Computer Aided Design (CAD) course, for example, I discovered not only how much I loved building and iterating on prototypes, but also how much stronger projects became when collaboration was genuine. I worked closely with a visiting undergraduate from Abu Dhabi who was new both to NYU and to engineering projects. While we each had our own responsibilities, I often helped her refine design decisions, showed her around campus, and supported her with class assignments when she needed it. That experience greatly influenced how I think about leadership as not about hoarding knowledge or proving individual talent, but about sharing skills and creating space for others to grow so that together, you can arrive at the best possible solutions. Around the same time, I also began grappling with my own health. After being told by my primary care doctor that I might have PCOS, I fell into a rabbit hole of researching women’s health. I learned how the impact of women’s hormones on daily life is still understudied, how women were excluded from clinical trials until recently, and how conditions like PCOS and endometriosis remain poorly understood despite affecting millions. If I had the power to make change in this area, I would ensure women are always included in the research and testing process for every device and innovation I work on. I would also encourage engineers to step outside the lab and get involved with the communities their work is meant to serve. Far too often, technology is designed without this grounding, and it ends up accessible only to the privileged, unintentionally widening the very opportunity gaps it was supposed to close. My vision is to build technology that not only advances women’s health but also advances equity by making sure the people who need it most are part of the process from the very beginning. These realizations showed me just how far behind women’s health research remains and how much opportunity there is for biomedical engineers like me to help close that gap. Thus, I decided what I truly wanted to do was dedicate my career to women’s health innovation, developing medical devices and technologies that directly address women’s needs—a field still lagging behind in research and innovation. Overall, my journey has taught me to value empathy, resilience, and impact over superficial measures of success. I now carry this perspective into my future, where I hope to advance women’s health innovation by developing medical devices and technologies that address long-overlooked needs. Specifically, over the next five years, my goal is to build a meaningful career in women’s health innovation within medical devices. I’m currently deepening my biomedical engineering skills, particularly in CAD, coding, and data analysis, through my master’s research on developing an improved traumatic brain injury (TBI) surrogate head model. Simultaneously, I’m applying for internships at NYC-based health-tech startups like Lilu, which designs tech-enabled wearable solutions to ease postpartum care, including a breast-massage pumping bra that helps new mothers pump up to 55% more milk, as well as companies such as Pharyvac Surgical Technology and Ergami Endoscopy that specialize in innovative medical device development. These experiences would help me translate my technical capabilities into tangible products that serve women’s needs. Looking further ahead, I may even launch my own startup focused on tackling critical challenges such as PCOS or endometriosis—conditions plaguing many women around the world and in urgent need of better solutions. If awarded this scholarship, I would devote the funds entirely toward my tuition, allowing me to focus fully on my research and internships. Without the financial burden, I would also have the bandwidth to continue volunteering at Asiyah's Women’s Center—keeping me grounded in the communities I hope to serve and ensuring that my future innovation remains human-centered and empathetic. Ultimately, this scholarship would help me become the kind of visionary builder who bridges engineering and equity, using science to create a world where women’s needs are no longer an afterthought.

When I think back to the hardest choice I've ever made for my mental health, it was the day I decided not to apply to medical school. For most of my life, becoming a doctor wasn't just encouraged. It was expected. My parents, immigrants from Bangladesh, believed medicine was the only stable career path in a world where discrimination and financial insecurity were daily realities. Initially, their sacrifices fueled my drive, but over time encouragement turned into pressure. By the time I reached high school and college, I was no longer learning out of genuine curiosity and passion but performing. I chose every class, internship, and volunteer experience with one goal in mind: to get into medical school, whether or not I truly enjoyed what I was doing. My breaking point began when I sat down to write my medical school personal statement. For years, I exaggerated my passion for hospital and clinic work on applications and was prepared to do the same with my personal statement. However, around the same time, I received a rather disappointing MCAT score, and I snapped. I felt like I had failed both myself and my family's sacrifices. No longer able to justify a dream that I knew very clearly wasn't mine, I made the difficult decision to not apply. This was liberating yet terrifying. For the first time, I put my mental and emotional health before expectations, but I was also anxious about not knowing who I was without the 'premed' label and extremely uncertain about my future. Fortunately, however, that turning point also began my recovery. I reconnected with my faith, had long overdue conversations with my parents, and for the first time pursued volunteer work that truly mattered to me. At Asiyah Women's Center, a nonprofit that provides safe spaces and resources to survivors of domestic and gender-based violence, I helped maintain welcoming shelter spaces for women who had escaped abusive situations. Staying connected with these women grounded me, reminding me that true impact comes not from titles but from empathy and service. This shift in perspective carried into my academics. I stopped chasing grades and started learning what I genuinely enjoyed—hands-on, problem-solving projects in biomedical engineering. In designing prototypes and collaborating with peers, I discovered how much I loved building, tinkering, and creating. Eventually, I realized I wanted to dedicate my career to women’s health innovation, developing medical devices and technologies that directly address women’s needs, a field still lagging behind in research. It has been just over two years since I decided not to pursue medical school, but nearly a decade since I began struggling to understand and accept myself. The habits I developed during that time—chronic procrastination, perfectionism, and intense anxiety stemming from a constant fear of failure—have not disappeared completely, but I am far better than I was two years ago. Without the expectations I once carried, these habits no longer define me, and I am steadily unlearning thanks in part to my therapist, whom I’ve been meeting weekly for almost three months now. Overall, my journey has taught me to value empathy, resilience, and impact over superficial measures of success. I now carry this perspective into my future, where I hope to advance women’s health innovation by developing medical devices and technologies that address long-overlooked needs. Every challenge I’ve faced has strengthened my resolve to pursue work that is not only meaningful to me but also transformative for the communities I serve.