1. Every night when my dad comes home from work, the smell of oil clings to his clothes. He has spent years working long shifts as a cook while my mom has been unable to work. Growing up in a low-income immigrant family, I never saw education as something I could take for granted. I knew how much my parents were giving up so I could have opportunities they never had. My grandmother’s Alzheimer’s disease and my grandfather’s ALS also left me with questions I hated not being able to answer. How can we understand what a disease is doing and still have so few ways to stop it? Why do treatments that look promising in a lab fail in real patients? I started chasing those questions through research. I have studied neuroimmune signaling, protein aggregation, liver disease, and RNA drug delivery. What I like most is having a question I genuinely do not know the answer to and getting to put on my detective glasses to work toward one. Sometimes an experiment works exactly as expected. Other times, I get the opposite result and spend the next few days trying to figure out the missing puzzle piece. I want to keep seeing patients while I do research because I want their experiences to shape the questions I ask in the lab. Understanding what symptoms disrupt their daily lives, where current treatments fall short, and what they wish medicine could do better would help me focus my research on problems that actually matter to the people living with these diseases. There are still families who reach a point where the question becomes, “Is there anything else we can try?” I want to spend my career building medicine so I have more to offer them. 2. What excites me most about STEM is figuring out why something did not work the way I expected. This summer, I studied a gene involved in fat accumulation in liver cells. In one model, changing the gene produced one result. Then we tested it in a human liver model and saw the opposite. I was frustrated. I wanted one clear result I could put on a slide and explain. Instead, I had to ask what was different between the models, whether the cells behaved differently, and which result better reflected human disease. I ran into the same problem while working on RNA delivery to liver tumors. Our lab had screened hundreds of lipid nanoparticle formulations, but some tumors still took up the treatment poorly. I analyzed RNA-sequencing data from tumors and healthy liver tissue to look for differences that might explain why. With thousands of genes to sort through, there was no way to make sense of everything manually. Computational analysis let me narrow the data down into patterns and questions we could actually investigate. That is why I want information technology to be part of my work in medicine. At Stanford, I plan to study bioengineering while learning more computer science, bioinformatics, and machine learning. I want to use those tools to analyze biological data, compare disease models, identify possible drug targets, and help decide which treatments are worth testing. The uncertainty and messiness of STEM is what draws me in. When the biology does not make sense, I want to look at the data, try another explanation, and keep digging until I understand why. 3. For a long time, I thought being capable meant figuring things out quietly so no one would realize when I didn't know something. My parents immigrated to the United States without experience navigating the American education system. They supported everything I wanted to pursue, but they could not tell me how students found research internships, which summer programs were worth applying to, how financial aid worked, or even where people learned about these opportunities in the first place. So I tried to figure everything out myself. I would spend hours searching online rather than ask a question that might make me sound clueless. I assumed other students already knew things that I somehow should have known too. Eventually, I knew I had to get over my fear of looking clueless and start asking. I emailed professors I had never met because their work interested me. I asked teachers and mentors questions even when I worried they sounded obvious. Since my family could not afford expensive summer programs, I searched specifically for free and funded opportunities. I applied for scholarships because paying for college was something my family and I had to think about from the beginning. A lot of emails received no response. Plenty of applications ended in rejection. But some people answered. Some programs said yes. Each time, I got a little more comfortable putting myself out there. I still like figuring things out on my own. I just no longer think I have to already know everything to deserve an opportunity. If I am confused, I ask. If I cannot afford something, I look for another route. If someone says no, I try somewhere else. I was never handed a roadmap. But I have gotten pretty good at building one as I go.

I want to build a life where the opportunities I have been given do not stop with me. Growing up, I watched my parents work incredibly hard without ever having the same access to education that I have now. My dad has spent years working long night shifts as a cook, and my family has always treated college as something worth sacrificing for, even when we did not fully understand how to navigate it. As a first-generation college student, I have spent a lot of time figuring things out on my own: how to find research opportunities, how to apply for scholarships, how to ask for help, and how to enter spaces where I often felt like everyone else already knew the rules. Over time, I realized I do not just want to succeed within those spaces. I want to make them easier for other people to enter. That is what I hope to build. In my own community, I have already started in small ways. I have taught English to immigrant students, helped Mandarin-speaking patients communicate at a community clinic, and worked with younger students who were curious about science but did not know where to begin. None of those moments felt dramatic. Usually, it was just answering a question, explaining something in a different way, or helping someone feel a little less lost. But I know how much that can matter because I have needed the same thing. As I begin college, I want to keep building that kind of support around me. I hope to become a physician-scientist, but I also want to be the person who reaches back. I want to mentor students who have never met a researcher, help immigrant families feel more comfortable navigating healthcare, and eventually use my education to improve the care available to communities that are too often overlooked. For me, “aiming higher” does not mean chasing the most impressive title possible. It means taking every opportunity I receive and turning it into something useful for more than just myself. My parents worked hard so that I could have choices they did not have. I want to build a future that makes that sacrifice count, not only for my family, but for the people I will be able to help because of it.

I want to build a healthcare system where fewer people get lost between what medicine can do and what they can actually access. I first understood that gap while volunteering at a community clinic. I would sit beside Mandarin-speaking patients as they tried to explain symptoms, understand instructions, or navigate follow-up care in a language that was not their own. Sometimes the problem was not that a treatment did not exist. It was that a patient could not understand the paperwork, afford another appointment, or know where to go next. I began helping translate, scheduling follow-ups, and connecting patients with resources. Those small tasks showed me something I have carried into every part of my work since: a medical breakthrough means little if it never reaches the person who needs it. That is what I want to build toward through my education. At Stanford, I hope to study bioengineering and eventually become a physician-scientist, developing technologies that make diagnosis and treatment more precise while keeping accessibility at the center of their design. My research has already shown me what that process can look like. I have worked with liver-on-a-chip models that recreate human disease in the laboratory and lipid nanoparticles designed to deliver genetic therapies directly to tumors. I love the technical challenge of asking why a treatment fails, changing one variable, and testing again. But I am equally interested in the question that comes afterward: who will ultimately benefit from what we create? My long-term goal is to build translational tools and systems that shorten the distance between discovery and care, especially for patients who are overlooked because of language, income, geography, or limited access to specialists. That could mean engineering more affordable disease models that accelerate drug development, designing targeted therapies with fewer side effects, or creating clinical programs that help underserved patients participate in and benefit from new medical advances. I also want to build something less tangible: a culture in which scientific ambition and service are inseparable. I hope to mentor younger students who, like me, may enter research without family connections or a roadmap, and help them see that they belong in the rooms where medicine's future is being created. To me, aiming higher does not mean building the most impressive technology. It means building something powerful enough to advance medicine and practical enough to reach the people medicine has too often left behind.

At the community clinic where I volunteer, I have learned that access to healthcare does not end when a patient gets through the door. Many of the patients we serve are uninsured, speak limited English, or are unfamiliar with the healthcare system. As a medical scribe, I have watched patients struggle to explain symptoms, understand a treatment plan, or figure out what they were supposed to do after leaving the clinic. For Mandarin-speaking patients, I often translate between them and the physician. Sometimes the difference is immediate. A patient who had been quiet begins asking questions. Someone who seemed confused starts explaining what they are actually worried about. Those experiences showed me how easily a language barrier can become a health barrier. I also began noticing another problem: follow-up. A physician can recommend another appointment, a medication, or additional testing, but that plan only works if the patient understands it and has the resources to carry it out. At our clinic, I helped develop a monthly follow-up system so patients would be less likely to disappear from care simply because no one checked back in. What has stayed with me is how ordinary these barriers can look. They are not always dramatic emergencies. Sometimes it is a patient who cannot find the right English word. Sometimes it is someone who does not know who to call next. Sometimes cost makes the recommended option impossible. Yet small gaps like these can determine whether someone receives care early or waits until a problem becomes much more serious. I want to become a physician-scientist because I am interested in both sides of that problem: developing better medicine and making sure patients can actually benefit from it. At Stanford, I plan to study bioengineering while preparing for medical school. My research experiences have already introduced me to areas such as drug delivery, disease modeling, and therapeutic development. I am fascinated by the possibility of engineering better treatments for diseases that remain difficult to treat. But working in a laboratory and working in a community clinic have taught me that innovation alone is not enough. A treatment cannot improve someone's life if language, cost, or an unfamiliar healthcare system keeps it out of reach. As a physician, I hope to care for patients from immigrant and underserved communities while continuing research on new therapies. I also want to build systems that make care easier to navigate, including multilingual health education, stronger follow-up programs, and partnerships that connect patients with affordable services. The clinic has taught me that improving community health does not always begin with a breakthrough. Sometimes it begins by noticing where someone is getting lost and making sure they do not have to find their way alone.

I founded my school’s K-pop dance club because I genuinely loved dancing, but it quickly became more than learning choreography. Practices gave us a place to take a break from school, laugh at ourselves, and spend time with people who shared the same interest. I saw firsthand how something as simple as dancing together could relieve stress and create a real sense of community. I have also seen how difficult it can be to ask for help. At the community clinic where I volunteer, I translate for Mandarin-speaking patients who sometimes struggle to explain what they need or navigate an unfamiliar healthcare system. Those experiences have made me think about how much harder seeking mental-health care can be when language barriers, cost, and cultural stigma are added on top of everything else. I want to create free K-pop dance programs for immigrant and BIPOC youth that pair an activity they already enjoy with practical mental-health resources. I would host workshops that provide information about affordable counseling, multilingual resources, and local support services so students know where to turn when they need help. Dance cannot replace mental-health care, but I have seen how it can help people feel less stressed, less isolated, and more connected. I want to use the community I have already found through dance to heal, inspire, and unite the youth community.

When my parents immigrated to the United States, education was the one opportunity they believed no one could take away from me. They could not explain how college admissions worked, help me choose advanced classes, or show me what a career in medicine might look like. My father worked long hours as a restaurant cook, while my mother was unable to work. Still, they gave me what they could: the expectation that I would learn seriously, use every opportunity fully, and someday build a life with choices they had never been given. To me, education means gaining those choices, then using them to create choices for others. I first understood this while teaching English to immigrant students. Many were intelligent and curious, but hesitated to participate because they feared using the wrong word. I recognized how easily a language barrier could be mistaken for a lack of ability. As director of a volunteer-led English program, I helped develop lessons, teach weekly classes, and create a space where students could make mistakes without embarrassment. Education gave them more than vocabulary. It gave them the confidence to ask questions, advocate for themselves, and participate in their new communities. I see the same need at the free community clinic where I volunteer. Many patients are uninsured immigrants navigating an unfamiliar healthcare system. I take vital signs, scribe, schedule follow-up appointments, and translate for Mandarin-speaking patients. Sometimes, a patient will pause while trying to describe a symptom, afraid that the physician will not understand. I help clarify what they mean and make sure they understand the plan for their care. In those moments, education becomes deeply practical. The biology I study helps me understand the medicine. My ability to speak Mandarin helps patients access it. The communication skills I have worked to develop allow me to connect the two. These experiences are why I plan to study bioengineering at Stanford and pursue a career as a physician-scientist. I want to investigate diseases, develop better treatments, and help move discoveries from the laboratory into the lives of patients. However, I also want to remain close to the communities those discoveries are intended to serve. A medical breakthrough has limited meaning if patients cannot access it, understand it, or trust the system delivering it. As a first-generation college student and a woman entering STEM, education also means learning to enter spaces my family has never occupied. I know there will be moments when I do not understand an unspoken rule, when others arrive with more preparation, or when I question whether I belong. But being first does not mean moving forward alone. It means learning the path well enough to make it easier for someone else. I hope to mentor younger students, especially girls and first-generation students who may see science as distant or inaccessible. I want them to know that uncertainty does not mean they are unqualified and that their backgrounds can become strengths rather than obstacles. Education is not merely a way for me to leave hardship behind. It is how I plan to return to the people who shaped me with more knowledge, more capacity, and more to give. My parents viewed education as my path toward a life of opportunity. I now see it as something larger: the responsibility to make opportunity more accessible to those who are less privileged than me.

I think Kalia D. Davis and I would have understood each other. We pursued different sports, but I recognize the kind of athlete described in her story: someone who brings the same intensity to practice, school, work, and service. Kalia ran track and cross country. I practice taekwondo. Our sports look different, but they demand many of the same things: discipline when no one is watching, composure under pressure, and the willingness to return after falling short. If I could meet Kalia, I would ask how she accomplished so much while remaining someone her friends could depend on for encouragement and laughter. She earned a full scholarship, worked in her residence hall, served on the executive board of the Black Student Union, and prepared for ROTC training. Yet the details that stayed with me most were that she loved watching sunsets and dancing with her niece, Aubrey. Her life was ambitious, but it was also joyful and full of other people. That balance is something I am still learning. Taekwondo has been part of my life for years and eventually brought me to the AAU National Championships, where I earned gold medals. Still, some of my favorite moments have happened far from a podium. As an assistant instructor, I have watched younger students struggle with the same movements that once frustrated me. When one finally lands a technique after weeks of practice, I am often happier than when I succeed myself. Kalia seems like someone who would have understood that excellence means more when it helps another person recognize what they can become. I also believe Kalia would have felt at home at the free community clinic where I volunteer. Many of our patients are uninsured immigrants navigating an unfamiliar healthcare system. I take vital signs, scribe, schedule appointments, and translate for Mandarin-speaking patients. Because I grew up with a speech impairment, I know what it feels like to have something important to say while worrying that the listener will become impatient. When patients hesitate or cannot find the right English words, I help explain their symptoms, clarify their concerns, and ensure they understand what comes next. I wish I could ask Kalia what service meant to her. From her plans to join the military and her leadership in college, I imagine she saw success as something larger than personal achievement. I feel the same way. I plan to study bioengineering and become a physician-scientist, developing medical treatments while remaining close to the patients they are meant to help. I want to use science in service of people who are too often unheard, underserved, or left behind. This scholarship would help me begin my education at Stanford with less financial pressure on my family. My father works as a restaurant cook, and my mother is unable to work. Although financial aid makes college possible, books, transportation, personal necessities, and preparation for a medical career remain significant expenses. This support would allow me to focus more fully on research, service, and contributing to my campus community. Kalia’s life was far too short, but it was not small. She lived, loved, laughed, learned, and left a legacy in those who knew her and in students who now know her story. I did not know Kalia, but I can carry forward what she represented: work hard, care deeply, find joy, and bring others with you. I think Kalia and I would have understood each other. More importantly, I hope to live in a way that would have made her proud.

Sometimes, I know exactly what I want to say, but the words do not come out the way I intended. Growing up with a speech impairment made ordinary moments feel unusually high-stakes. Reading aloud, introducing myself, or answering a question in class could require more courage than anyone around me realized. I often rehearsed sentences in my head before speaking, worried that I would stumble, be misunderstood, or make the conversation uncomfortable. When people interrupted me or finished my sentences, I began to wonder whether staying quiet was easier. For a while, my speech impairment made me feel as though my voice was less valuable because it took longer to express. Over time, however, I realized that communication is not measured by how quickly or smoothly someone speaks. It is measured by whether another person feels heard. That lesson now shapes the way I serve others. At a free community clinic, I work with patients who often face their own barriers to being understood. Many are uninsured immigrants unfamiliar with the American healthcare system. Now, instead of sinking into silence, when Mandarin-speaking patients struggle to explain their symptoms or understand medical instructions, I translate for them and help communicate and voice their concerns to the physician. I recognize the hesitation in their voices. I know what it feels like to have something important to say while worrying that the person across from you will not have the patience to listen. Because of that, I try not to translate only their words. I advocate for the person behind them. I ask follow-up questions, clarify what they are worried about, and make sure they leave understanding what comes next. In those moments, the part of myself I once viewed as a weakness has made me more attentive to people whose voices are easily overlooked. I chose to pursue bioengineering and medicine because I want to combine scientific discovery with direct care for patients. Through biomedical research, I have learned how life-saving treatments and technologies are developed. Through clinical service, I have learned that even the most advanced treatment is incomplete if patients cannot access it, understand it, or feel respected while receiving it. I hope to become a physician-scientist who develops better medical tools while remaining grounded in the experiences of the people those tools are intended to serve. My disability has also shaped my understanding of independence. To me, independence does not mean never struggling or never receiving support. It means having the confidence to advocate for myself, the ability to make informed decisions, and the financial stability to build a life on my own terms. It means speaking even when my words are imperfect and trusting that they are still worth hearing. A college education will help me sustain that independence by preparing me for a meaningful career in medicine and research. It will give me the knowledge to support myself, contribute to my family, and expand access to care for communities like the one I serve now. This scholarship would reduce the financial burden of pursuing that education and allow me to devote more of my time to research, service, and becoming the physician that listens. My speech impairment once made me afraid that others would not listen to me. Today, it is one reason I listen so carefully. I cannot promise that every sentence will come easily, but I know what I want to use my voice for: advocating for patients, advancing medicine, and helping others feel understood, not overlooked.

The Mandarin-speaking patient kept looking at the doctor, then back at me. She knew what she wanted to say, but she could not find the English words for it. I translated the doctor’s questions, listened as she described her symptoms, and explained her answers. As the conversation continued, her shoulders relaxed. By the end of the appointment, she was asking questions of her own. I understood her discomfort because I had seen it in my own family. After immigrating to the United States, I grew up moving between two languages and two worlds. At home, I spoke Mandarin with my parents. Outside, I learned how to navigate school, paperwork, appointments, and expectations that were unfamiliar to all of us. I often helped explain letters or forms, even when I did not completely understand them myself. I became comfortable searching for answers because there was rarely someone in my family who already knew what to do. My parents came to the United States hoping their children would have a better future. My father worked long hours as a cook, and my mother could not work because of health problems. I knew that every class, competition, and opportunity I pursued was made possible by sacrifices they rarely talked about. When I began applying to college, they could encourage me, but they could not tell me how financial aid worked, how to contact a research lab, or what it meant to pursue medicine. As a first-generation student, I learned much of it by making mistakes, asking questions, and trying again. My immigrant experience became especially meaningful when I began working as a medical scribe and Mandarin translator at a community clinic. Many of our patients are uninsured or have difficulty navigating the healthcare system. I have watched people hesitate before admitting that they do not understand a medical term. I have seen how easily a patient can leave an appointment confused about a medication or a follow-up plan. When I translate, I am not doing anything extraordinary. I am simply helping someone feel less lost. That work has shaped the kind of physician I hope to become. My interest in medicine is also deeply connected to my family. My grandmother’s Alzheimer’s disease showed me how a neurological illness can slowly change someone while affecting everyone who loves them. My father’s ALS diagnosis made the limits of medicine feel even closer. There are still diseases for which physicians can explain what is happening but cannot offer the cure a family is waiting for. I want to help change that. At Stanford, I plan to study bioengineering and explore neuroscience, computation, and medical technology. My goal is to become a physician-scientist who treats patients while also developing better ways to understand and treat neurological disease. I want my research to remain connected to the people it is meant to serve, including immigrant families who may be left out of clinical research or struggle to access care. Being an immigrant taught me how it feels to enter a system without knowing its language or rules. It taught me to ask for help without being ashamed and to notice when someone else is afraid to do the same. One day, I hope to give patients and families the sense of relief I saw on that woman’s face when she realized she was finally understood.

I want to work in the nonprofit sector because I have seen how hard it can be for people to get help when they do not know where to start. I first saw this in my own family. When neurological disease affected someone I loved, we left doctor’s appointments with papers in our hands and more questions in our heads. The doctor had explained what was happening, but at home the words felt harder to understand. We wanted to know what the diagnosis meant for tomorrow morning, for meals, for safety, for the small changes no one prepares you for. I remember searching online and clicking through pages that sounded like they were written for doctors, not families. That feeling stayed with me. I kept thinking that health information should not feel so far away from the people who need it. At a senior center, I volunteered with rehabilitation and memory care residents. One resident would take a long time to answer where she wanted to go, and I had to learn not to rush her. I would ask before pushing her wheelchair, then wait. Sometimes the answer came slowly. Sometimes she changed her mind. It seems small, but it taught me that helping someone does not mean taking over. People still want choices, especially when illness has already taken away so much. I saw the same thing at community clinics, where I worked as a scribe and Mandarin translator. Some patients came in already nervous. They knew what hurt, but they did not always know how to say it in English. I helped them explain their symptoms to the doctor and ask the questions they had been holding in. I remember one patient relaxing after I repeated the doctor’s instructions in Mandarin. It was not a big moment to anyone else in the room, but I could see what it meant to her. She finally knew what she was supposed to do next. Those experiences are why I founded NeuroHub. I wanted to make neuroscience easier to understand for students and families learning about Alzheimer’s, dementia, ALS, and brain health. I know what it feels like to look for answers while worrying about someone you love. I want NeuroHub to be a place where people can find clear explanations without feeling embarrassed for not already knowing the science. In the future, I hope to work in nonprofit public health or health education. I want to create resources for immigrant families, older adults, patients with disabilities, and people who are trying to understand healthcare in a language or system that feels unfamiliar. I want to keep working with clinics and community groups so information reaches people before they are already overwhelmed. I am drawn to nonprofit work because it is close to people’s actual lives. It is the phone call someone makes when they are confused. It is the translated handout they take home. It is the workshop where a family learns what questions to ask at the next appointment. It is the patient who leaves feeling a little less lost. I do not want my work to be far away from the communities I care about. I want to help make healthcare and health education easier to reach, easier to understand, and easier to trust. I want families like mine to have a place to begin.

I chose nursing because I want to be the kind of person patients remember when they are scared, confused, or unable to explain everything they need. I first understood that kind of care through my own family. When my grandmother developed Alzheimer’s, I watched how illness could change the way people treated her. Sometimes people rushed her because waiting for her answer took too long. Sometimes they talked around her instead of directly to her. I knew caring for someone with memory loss was difficult, but I also knew she was still there. She still had feelings, preferences, fear, and pride. That experience taught me that good healthcare is about more than treatment. It is also about patience, dignity, and making sure a person still feels human. That is what draws me to nursing. Nurses are often the people closest to patients during the most vulnerable moments of their lives. They notice when someone is uncomfortable, afraid, confused, or trying to be brave. They explain things again when families do not understand the first time. They make patients feel safe in a place that can feel overwhelming. I am interested in nursing because it combines science with direct care, and because it allows me to support both patients and families in a very personal way. My goal is to become a registered nurse who serves low-income and immigrant communities. As a first-generation immigrant and native Mandarin speaker, I know how intimidating healthcare can feel when language becomes a barrier. At a community clinic for uninsured patients, I have worked as a medical scribe and helped translate for Mandarin-speaking patients. Some patients come in nervous or embarrassed to ask questions. Others nod even when they do not fully understand what the doctor is saying. In those moments, I have seen how much it matters when someone slows down, explains clearly, and treats the patient with respect. I want to carry that same attentiveness into nursing. I have also volunteered at Legacy Senior Communities, where I helped residents in memory care and rehabilitation. I pushed wheelchairs, assisted with activities, adapted exercises, and spent time one-on-one with older adults who needed patience more than anything else. Some days, the most meaningful thing I did was listen. Other days, it was helping someone feel included in an activity they thought they could not do anymore. Those moments showed me how small acts of care can restore confidence and comfort. My personal accomplishments so far have strengthened my commitment to becoming an RN. Through clinic work, senior care volunteering, and medical outreach projects such as assembling first-aid kits for unhoused community members, I have learned that healthcare begins before a hospital bed. It begins with noticing what people need and responding with empathy and compassion. Sara Jane’s legacy as a nurse who put patients first deeply inspires me. I hope to build a career that honors that same spirit: skilled, compassionate, and focused on the patient in front of me. This scholarship would help me continue my education and move closer to becoming a nurse who makes people feel safe, heard, and cared for.

1. I discovered TXT during COVID, when every day blurred together and life felt really empty. I would wake up, open my laptop for online school, close it hours later, and realize I had barely said anything out loud all day. Then I heard “0X1=LOVESONG,” and it felt like the song was screaming feelings I had been keeping inside. After that, TXT became something I looked forward to every day. For the first time in a while, I felt like myself again. 2. Sincerity. MOAs are chaotic and dramatic, but the love is real because a lot of us found TXT during our own hard seasons. You do not have to own every album or go to every concert to be a real fan. Some MOAs love TXT just as hard from their bedrooms, because that is where TXT found us. 3. My TXT bias is Soobin. At first, it was because he was cute and awkwardly funny without even trying, but then I really connected to him. He is weird in a cute way, dramatic over nothing, soft-spoken, and somehow like a human capybara who runs the whole room’s vibe. I love his dimples, his laugh, and the way he looks personally betrayed every time the members tease him. As the oldest sibling, I always thought I had to be serious and responsible to be strong. Soobin showed me that I can be gentle, awkward, emotional, and still be someone people can count on. 4. My ult bias is Soobin. I love all five members, but Soobin is the one my eyes go to first. Even when he is just standing in the back looking confused, I keep gravitating toward him. 5. My favorite TXT song is “Maze in the Mirror.” It feels like pure comfort. It captures self-doubt so well, especially that feeling of being stuck in your own head and trying to find a way out. I loved it so much that I bought a guitar to learn it. TXT gave me somewhere to put feelings I did not know how to explain. 6. I’ve been dreaming of seeing TXT live, but tickets and travel are expensive, and college costs come first. Sometimes I watch concert clips and feel happy for other MOAs, but also sad because I wish I was there too. One day I’ll hold a lightstick and scream “Run Away” with everyone else. 7. My favorite album concept is The Name Chapter: Temptation. I love that it is pretty and dreamy, like wanting to escape real life for a while. Sometimes school, money, family worries, and the future feel like too much. TXT turns those feelings into a whole world. 8. I am paying for school through financial aid, my savings, full-time work, and whatever my family can help with. I am a first-generation college student from a low-income immigrant family, so college feels like the biggest opportunity of my life, but also one of the scariest financial responsibilities. Even with aid, books, dorm supplies, and transportation add up fast. 9. This scholarship would help fill those gaps. It would help me buy what I need for college without feeling guilty about every cost. TXT has comforted me through my darkest years, so having the fellow MOA community support my education would mean the world to me. 10. TXT has been my sanctuary and my reason to keep moving. As the oldest, I used to feel like I had to be serious all the time, like if I relaxed for even a second everything would fall apart. Then I’d watch TO DO at night, see them screaming over the dumbest little games, and laugh until my stomach hurt. TXT reminded me I’m allowed to cry over a song, dance in my room, fangirl over Soobin, and live out my inner child. 11. I’ll use my education in bioengineering and medicine to support low-income and immigrant families through their healthcare journeys. At community clinics, I translate for Mandarin-speaking patients, and I’ve seen how much it matters when doctors slow down and listen to understand. TXT made me feel less alone when I was lost. I want to give other people that same feeling through healthcare.

The first time I worked as a scribe at my community’s free clinic, an elderly Mandarin-speaking patient sat across from me with one hand resting against her chest. She spoke quietly, almost like she was apologizing, and explained that the pain had been coming and going for months. She had noticed it. She had worried about it. She had thought about seeing a doctor earlier. Then she said she did not have insurance. I translated her words to the physician, then translated his questions back to her. The room was small, with the paper on the exam table crinkling every time she shifted. Before answering, she would pause, look down at her hands, and then explain a little more. In that quiet exchange, I saw something I had known my whole life but had never fully put into words: for many families in my community, healthcare is a calculation people make before it is ever a treatment. They ask themselves whether the pain is bad enough, whether the bill will be worse, whether they can wait one more week. I have watched that same calculation happen in my own family. I have seen my parents delay checkups, stretch medication, and treat the emergency room as a last resort because the cost felt scarier than the illness. Growing up low-income means learning early that money follows every decision. Rent, food, gas, school supplies, medicine. Even your own body becomes something you learn to budget around. That is why attending college matters so much to me. Higher education is the path that will allow me to turn what I have witnessed into the training to help. I plan to study bioengineering on a pre-medical track because I am drawn to both the science behind disease and the human experience of living with it. I want to understand how treatments are developed, how medical technology can improve care, and how research can reach patients who are often left out of medical progress. In the long term, I hope to become a physician-scientist who works with underserved communities, especially families facing neurological disease, language barriers, and limited access to care. My volunteer work has shaped this goal in ways a textbook could not. At the free clinic, I scribe, help with vitals and scheduling, and translate for Mandarin-speaking patients. Sometimes my role is clinical, making sure the physician has accurate notes. Other times, it is simply helping a patient feel comfortable enough to ask another question. I have seen patients nod even when they are confused because they do not want to seem difficult or take up too much time. Translating taught me that communication is part of care. A patient can be sitting in the same room as a doctor and still feel far away from help if no one understands her. I have also volunteered with seniors in memory care and rehabilitation, where I learned a quieter kind of service. I helped residents move safely, adapted activities, and sat with people whose memories were changing in ways they could not understand. Those moments shaped my interest in neurological disease. They also taught me that dignity often depends on patience. Sometimes care means slowing down enough for someone to finish a sentence. I founded NeuroHub to make neuroscience easier for students and families to understand, because I know how overwhelming medical information can feel when someone you love is sick. I wanted to create resources that felt clear and approachable, especially for people who may already feel shut out of science or medicine. College will give me the education, mentorship, and research opportunities I need to keep building toward this future. It will also bring a real financial burden. My parents have worked physically demanding jobs to support me, and I know every tuition bill represents hours on their feet, sore hands, and money carefully saved. This scholarship would ease that pressure and give me more room to focus on my studies, service, and preparation for medical school. I think often about that patient at the clinic and how long she waited before asking for help. I want to become the kind of physician who explains clearly, the kind of researcher who remembers the families behind the disease, and the kind of advocate who makes care a right, not a privilege. Through my higher education, I aspire to build a healthcare system where language, income, or background does not decide whether a patient is able to access care.

I chose bioengineering because I know what it feels like to sit in a doctor’s office and leave with more questions than answers. When neurological disease affected someone I loved, ordinary life changed quickly. Moving, speaking, remembering, and explaining what was wrong all took more effort. I watched my family try to understand what was happening while also trying to stay calm for each other. The doctors gave explanations, but much of the language felt far away from the way we spoke at home. We left appointments knowing more than before, yet still unsure how to prepare for what came next. That feeling stayed with me. I kept thinking about the space between medicine and the people who need it. A treatment can be advanced, but patients and families still need to understand it, access it, and feel heard while receiving it. Bioengineering gives me a way to work in that space. It combines science, technology, and care, allowing me to study neurological disease while staying focused on the people and families living with it. My short-term goal is to study bioengineering at Stanford University and build the foundation I need to contribute to medicine in a meaningful way. I want to learn more about neuroscience, medical technology, and treatment development for diseases like Alzheimer’s, dementia, and ALS. I also want to continue growing NeuroHub, the organization I founded to make neuroscience easier to understand for students and families. I started NeuroHub because I know how overwhelming medical information can feel when someone you love is sick. Families deserve resources that are clear, simple, and written with them in mind. I also hope to stay involved in community clinics, where I have seen how much language and confidence affect care. As a scribe and Mandarin translator for uninsured patients, I have watched people nod through instructions they did not fully understand because they felt embarrassed or intimidated. Those moments remind me that important work in medicine happens when someone slows down, explains clearly, and helps a patient feel less alone. In the long term, I hope to become a physician-scientist focused on neurological disease and underserved communities. I want to help develop treatments and medical technologies while staying close to the patients those advances are meant to serve. My goal is to help build a healthcare system where a person’s language, income, or background does not determine how much they understand or how much care they receive. Being an underrepresented minority in STEM has shaped this goal. I am a first-generation Chinese immigrant, and my parents are laborers. They work physically demanding jobs and come home tired, yet they still ask about my classes, my future, and whether I have eaten. They supported me in every way they could, but they could not show me how to find research opportunities, email professors, apply to programs, or move through academic spaces they had never been part of themselves. I learned by trying, getting rejected, asking questions, and trying again. This scholarship would help ease the financial pressure on my family. College costs mean long shifts, sore hands, and money my parents worked hard to save. This support would give me more room to focus on my education, research, service, and community work without placing as much weight on them. I chose bioengineering because my family once needed answers that felt hard to reach. I want to spend my education helping make those answers clearer, closer, and more possible for families like mine.

The first time I realized science could change someone’s life, I was not in a classroom or a lab. I was beside my grandfather, watching ALS slowly take away the parts of him that made daily life feel normal. I remember watching him try to do things that used to be simple. Moving his hand, speaking clearly, sitting up, and caring for himself became harder. He was still the same person I loved, but his body was no longer listening to him. I did not understand how that could happen. I kept wondering why doctors could explain what ALS was, but still could not stop it. At first, my questions came from anger. I hated feeling helpless. I hated watching someone I loved lose abilities most people never think about. But over time, those questions became curiosity. I wanted to understand how cells, nerves, and muscles could fail in such a devastating way. For the first time, science did not feel like a school subject. It felt urgent. It felt like something people were waiting on. That is why I am passionate about receiving a STEM education. I want to study bioengineering because I do not only want to learn about disease. I want to help build treatments and technologies that make life better for the people living with it. I want to work on solutions that give patients more options, more independence, and more time with the people they love. My passion for STEM grew stronger through research. I used to think science was mostly about finding the right answer. Research taught me that it is often about asking better questions. Experiments fail. Results do not always make sense. Progress can feel slow. But that process taught me persistence. It also reminded me that difficult problems are worth staying with, because behind every disease are real patients and families waiting for better answers. After seeing neurological disease affect my own family, I founded NeuroHub to make neuroscience education more accessible. I know how scary it feels when a disease is happening to someone you love and the science feels impossible to understand. Through NeuroHub, I want students and families to feel less intimidated by neuroscience and more comfortable asking questions. I have also seen how much access matters while scribing and translating at community clinics. Some Mandarin-speaking patients knew what they were feeling, but struggled to explain it in English. I helped them describe their symptoms to the doctor, ask questions, and understand the next steps in their care. Those moments showed me that science only matters when it reaches people in a way they can understand and trust. As a first-generation, low-income student, I know that pursuing STEM will not be easy. My parents have worked hard to give me opportunities they never had, and I carry that with me. Financial support would help me focus more fully on my education, research, and service instead of letting the cost of college decide how far I can go. This fall, I will study bioengineering at Stanford University. My goal is to become a physician-scientist who develops treatments for neurological diseases while staying close to the patients and families affected by them. I could not give my grandfather back the movements ALS took from him. But I can study, research, and build so that one day another family has more options than watching and waiting. That is why I want a STEM education: not just to understand disease, but to help create the kind of answers my family once needed.

When my grandmother first forgot who I was, I did not know what to do. I remember standing there, waiting for her to recognize me again. Part of me thought maybe she was joking or that I had misunderstood her. But she looked genuinely confused. In that moment, Alzheimer’s stopped being just a disease I had heard about. It became something real, something that could slowly take away pieces of a person I loved and make her feel distant. At first, I just wanted to understand what was happening inside her brain. Why does memory disappear? Why do familiar faces become unfamiliar? Why can someone remember something from years ago but forget what happened a few minutes earlier? I did not know the answers, but I knew I wanted to learn. As time passed, my questions changed. I did not only want to understand disease. I wanted to help build solutions for people living with it. That is why I want to study biomedical engineering. To me, biomedical engineering is where science becomes something that can actually help someone: a treatment, a device, a tool, or a piece of technology that gives a patient more comfort, independence, or time. Watching my grandmother struggle with Alzheimer’s showed me how much disease can take away. It can take away one’s memory, independence, and identity. Some people were patient with her. Others talked over her or rushed her when she repeated herself. I saw how easily illness could make someone feel small. I do not want to enter STEM just to study diseases from a distance. I want to help create things that make life better for the people living through them. I saw this need more clearly while volunteering with rehabilitation and memory care residents at a senior center. I learned that care often happens in small moments. It is asking where someone wants to go before pushing their wheelchair. It is waiting for an answer instead of assuming. It is moving at their pace without making them feel like they are slowing you down. Those moments taught me something important about design: the best solutions should give people more control, not take it away. I also saw this while scribing and translating at community clinics. Some Mandarin-speaking patients knew what they were feeling, but they did not always know how to explain it in English. I helped them describe their symptoms to the doctor, ask questions, and understand the next steps in their care. I remember how relieved some patients looked when they realized they were being understood. That stayed with me because even the best treatment cannot help fully if a patient cannot access it, understand it, or trust it. As a young woman pursuing STEM, I know how important it is to have educators and mentors who believe that girls belong in scientific spaces. Julie Adams devoted her life to teaching math and encouraging students, especially young women, to show them that they belonged in STEM. Her legacy is meaningful to me because I know that representation and encouragement can change the way a student sees herself. When young women are supported in STEM, they do not just gain access to careers. They gain the confidence to ask questions, solve problems, and imagine themselves as part of the future of science. I am passionate about biomedical engineering because it gives me a way to turn helplessness into action. I could not stop my grandmother’s Alzheimer’s, and I could not give her memory back. But I can learn. I can study the brain, medicine, and engineering. I can work toward treatments and technologies that help future patients feel empowered instead of powerless. My goal is to design solutions that are advanced, but still human-centered. I want to help create treatments and medical technologies that protect dignity, improve access to care, and give patients more control when illness takes so much away. Biomedical engineering is the path that lets me combine my love for science with my desire to serve people. It gives me a way to turn helplessness into action, and that is why I know it is the right path for me.

The moment that made me want to pursue healthcare was not in a hospital room or during a major emergency. It was at home, when my grandmother looked at me and asked me who I was. At first, I focused on the science behind Alzheimer’s disease. I wanted to understand why memory disappears, why familiar faces become unfamiliar, and why someone’s personality can seem to change because of a disease. But over time, what stayed with me most was not only the biology of Alzheimer’s. It was the way illness can make a person feel powerless. I saw my grandmother repeat questions, become frustrated, and depend on others for things she once did easily. Some people were patient. Others talked over her or treated her disease like it made her less human. Watching that changed me. It made me realize that healthcare is not only about treating a condition, but also about protecting the person behind it. That lesson followed me into my volunteer work with rehabilitation and memory care residents at a senior center. There, I learned to slow down and listen. I asked residents where they wanted to go before pushing their wheelchair. I waited for their answers instead of assuming. I adjusted to their pace instead of making them feel like they were holding me back. These moments taught me that care is not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it is simply preserving someone’s control and dignity. I saw the same need for compassionate care while scribing at community clinics for low-income and uninsured patients. Some Mandarin-speaking patients came in nervous before the appointment even began. They knew what they were feeling, but they did not always know how to explain it in English. I helped them translate and describe their symptoms to the doctor, ask questions, and understand the next steps in their care. What stayed with me most was how often patients seemed relieved just to be understood. Those experiences showed me the kind of healthcare professional I want to become: someone who combines knowledge with patience, empathy, and clear communication. Brian Moore’s story reminds me that healthcare professionals can leave a lasting impact not only through their skill, but through how they make people feel during some of the hardest moments of their lives. His experience with leukemia was shaped by compassionate medical professionals, and I hope to pay that same kind of care forward. Through my education in healthcare, I want to help patients feel heard, respected, and more in control of their lives when disease has taken so much away. I want to work with vulnerable patients, especially those affected by aging, disability, language barriers, or limited access to healthcare. To me, “Be More” means becoming more than someone who understands disease. It means becoming someone who protects the person living through it. I want to be the steady presence patients and families remember not because I had all the answers, but because I made them feel less alone and more empowered.

The first time my grandmother forgot who I was, I did not know what to say. Alzheimer’s was no longer just something I had heard about. It was happening in front of me, to someone I loved. I started noticing how people acted around her. Some became impatient. Some talked over her. Some treated her disease like it made her less of a person. That experience changed how I understand empathy. To me, empathy is not just feeling sorry for someone. It means slowing down, listening, and remembering that people still deserve dignity even when they need extra help. One of my strengths is helping people feel understood, especially when they are in situations where they may feel embarrassed, confused, or overlooked. That calling led me to volunteer at a senior center with rehab and memory care residents. At first, I thought being helpful meant doing as much as possible for someone. Over time, I learned that real help often starts with asking and listening. I ask residents where they want to go before pushing their wheelchair. I give them time to answer instead of rushing them. I repeat myself when needed without making them feel bad for needing to hear something again. These small moments matter because they remind people that they still have a voice. I have also learned the importance of communication through tutoring underprivileged students around the world in English. Many of my students were smart and hardworking, but language barriers made it harder for them to speak up. Helping them improve their English was not just about grammar or vocabulary. It was about helping them gain the confidence to ask questions, talk to teachers, and advocate for themselves. That experience showed me how open communication can empower mutual understanding and empathy. Through free community clinics, I have seen the same problem in healthcare. As a medical scribe and Mandarin translator, I help patients who are uninsured, low-income, or not fully comfortable speaking English. Some patients come in nervous because they do not understand the healthcare system or are afraid of saying something wrong. I try to make the visit less overwhelming by helping them explain their symptoms, understand the doctor’s instructions, and feel heard and respected. No patient should be unable to access care due to language, income, or background barriers. As a first-generation college student, I know what it feels like to enter spaces without a guide. My parents sacrificed so I could have opportunities they did not have, and I want to use my education to empower others. Through a college education, I hope to further my studies in public health while facilitating open dialogue and engaging in cross-cultural collaboration and appreciation. This scholarship will alleviate the financial pressure of college and allow me to dedicate my time towards utilizing my skills in communication, translation, and patient care to build a more empathetic, compassionate global community. Whether I am volunteering with seniors, tutoring students, translating at a clinic, or creating educational resources, I will continue empowering people feel heard, respected, and understood.

Xiao long baos show no mercy. When I was younger, my grandmother and I made them together on Saturdays. She would line the counter with small circles of dough and show me how to pinch the edges: twelve pleats to a dumpling, no more, no less. Hers always came out round and full, with the soup sealed inside. Mine sagged before they even reached the steamer. The broth leaked across the tray, and I would stare at the mess like I had failed a test. She would laugh, slide another wrapper toward me, and say, “Guo Guo, try again.” For a long time, that was how I understood my grandmother: through her hands. Her hands measured soy sauce without a spoon. Her hands tucked scallions into pork filling. Her hands folded dough quickly, like the recipe lived somewhere in her fingers. Then Alzheimer’s began taking those small certainties away, piece by piece. At first, the changes were easy to excuse. She forgot the ingredients one week. Another week, she asked me how many pleats a dumpling needed, even though she had been the one teaching me. Then her fingers started trembling mid-fold, hovering over the wrapper as if the next step had disappeared. The steamer would sit on the counter, waiting. I remember feeling scared by how quiet the kitchen became. I responded the only way I knew how at first: I studied it. I read about amyloid plaques, tau tangles, neurons, memory circuits, and neurodegeneration. Science gave me vocabulary. It helped me understand what might be happening in her brain, but it also left me with a painful gap. I could explain Alzheimer’s pathology, yet I still did not know what to do when my grandmother looked lost in her own kitchen. So I went back to the dumpling table. I began handing her wrappers the way she once handed them to me. When she forgot how to fold, I guided her fingers through each pinch. Sometimes she remembered for a few seconds. Sometimes she smiled at the shape in her palm. Sometimes she forgot my name, and I still sat beside her anyway. Those moments changed how I understand care. Care is patience when the same question comes again. Care is helping someone do a task slowly, even when you could finish it faster yourself. Care is protecting someone’s dignity when their memory is failing them. Alzheimer’s taught me that a person still deserves respect and gentleness when the disease changes how they speak, move, or remember. After she passed away, I tried making xiao long bao by myself. I recited her recipe because I was afraid it would vanish too: soy sauce, scallions, ginger, pork, broth. The wrappers stuck to my fingers. The soup leaked. No batch tasted exactly like hers. For a while, that frustrated me. Then I realized I was still learning from her. Each attempt was a way of keeping part of her with me. In high school, I took that commitment beyond my own family by starting NeuroHub, a student-led organization that makes neuroscience and neurodegenerative disease easier to understand. I wanted to create the kind of resource I wish my family had when we were trying to understand my grandmother’s Alzheimer’s. Through NeuroHub, we published student-written articles, graphics, and educational content about the brain, including Alzheimer’s and other neurological diseases. I spotlighted other families’ stories through heart-to-heart interviews, because dementia does not affect every family in the same way. I also want to advocate for more research, more education, and better access to memory care, especially in underserved communities where dementia is often misunderstood, diagnosed late, or ignored. My goal is to make complicated science clearer for students and families who are trying to understand what is happening to someone they love. My grandmother’s Alzheimer’s also pushed me toward research. In an independent project, I studied tau, a protein that can build up abnormally in the brains of people with Alzheimer’s disease. I used computer modeling to look at how small chemical changes to tau might affect its shape and make it more likely to clump together. Since then, I have continued pursuing biomedical research and will begin my undergraduate education studying neuroscience on a pre-medical track this fall. I am confident that there will be better treatments for Alzheimer’s, and one day, a cure. I want to help bring that day closer for families like mine. Henry Respert’s legacy, as someone who strengthened his community while facing the challenges of dementia, resonates deeply with me. This scholarship would mean more than financial support. It would help me honor those affected by Alzheimer’s and dementia through education, research, and service. Receiving it would allow me to focus more fully on my studies and continue investing my time in meaningful work that supports patients, families, and the search for better treatments. Alzheimer’s and dementia ask us to protect the parts of a person that illness can make harder to see: memory, identity, dignity, and human connection. Through my academic journey and community advocacy, I have come to understand healthcare and research as ways to bring clarity and hope to people during some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives. I want to help build a future where families no longer have to watch their loved ones slip away without answers, and where patients can receive care that honors who they are. I still make xiao long bao. They still leak sometimes. Each time I fold one, I remember my grandmother’s hands, her patience, and the way she kept telling me to try again. I cannot bring back what Alzheimer’s took from her, but I can keep studying, serving, and working toward a future where families like mine have more hope, more support, and clearer answers than we did.

"Would you still choose medicine if it paid $40,000 a year?" My answer came out too fast. "No." Marisol laughed, and I laughed too because I realized how blunt it sounded. We were on Zoom for an interview about cultural differences. I know Marisol through my English tutoring work, so I thought the conversation would feel familiar. Usually I'm the one with the slides and the questions. This time, she was asking me things I didn't have ready answers for. Marisol is older than me, speaks Spanish as her first language, and came to the United States as a refugee from Mexico. For her, work was never an abstract discussion about fulfillment. It meant food on the table, rent paid, and family members being okay. I had asked her about careers, thinking we'd talk about opportunity. I said people should choose work they love. When I said it, it felt like common sense. Then she asked the $40,000 question. When she asked why I said no, I started explaining: medical school costs money, doctors train for years, people need enough income to actually live. A career has to support a life too. Halfway through my answer, I realized I was saying exactly what she had been saying. Marisol told me that when she was younger, a good job meant something steady. It helped with bills. It kept the family from worrying so much. She wasn't against passion. She was just talking about what comes first. Then she asked, "Do you think your dad chose his job because it was his passion?" I didn't know what to say. My dad has worked at Panda Express for as long as I can remember. He leaves early and comes home tired, smelling like fryer oil and soy sauce. I have always been grateful for how hard he works, but Marisol’s question made me realize I usually think about his job through what it gave me: time to study, volunteer, do research, and imagine a future in medicine. I had not thought enough about what that work meant for him. Before our conversation, I thought choosing passion was brave. I still think it is. But Marisol helped me see that choosing stability takes courage, too. It means doing work that wears you down because people are counting on you. It means choosing the job that keeps your family afloat, even if it's not the one you imagined for yourself. After the call, I kept thinking about how I expected cultural differences to show up in obvious ways — language, food, holidays, traditions. Instead, it showed up in how we understood one word: choice. I was used to asking, "What do I want to do with my life?" Marisol made me ask, "Who had to be tired so I could choose?" I still want to pursue medicine because I love science and care about patients. That didn't change. What changed was how I understood the freedom behind that choice. That night I looked at my biology notes spread across the table while my dad came home from another shift. I had always felt grateful for him. But Marisol made me rethink gratitude. His sacrifices weren't separate from my dreams. It gave them somewhere to begin. I certify that I personally conducted the live interview described in my essay, and I confirm that the submitted photograph is an authentic, unedited image of me and the actual person I interviewed. I have read and agree to the Official Contest Rules. I certify this essay is my original, unpublished work, and it was not generated using Artificial Intelligence.

The first patient I truly cared for was not in a hospital bed. She was sitting in a recliner. Judith's call light blinked constantly. On my first day, a senior aide warned me about her. "She'll have you in there four times an hour," she said. The floor was busy, and many viewed Judith as demanding. But after spending time with her, I realized something different. Judith's dominant arm was severely impaired. A blanket that slipped to the floor, a television remote placed slightly out of reach, or a lunch tray positioned incorrectly could leave her unable to complete even the simplest task. Her constant requests were not a personality trait. They were the consequence of dependence. Once I understood that, I stopped seeing the blinking light as an interruption. I began checking on her between rounds, repositioning items before she needed them, and looking for small ways to return some independence to her day. Her call light blinked less. More importantly, she smiled more. One afternoon, she stopped me and thanked me for noticing the things that others overlooked. That moment changed how I thought about healthcare. Before then, I believed healthcare was primarily about treating disease. Judith taught me that healing also involves dignity. Sometimes the most meaningful thing a caregiver can provide is not a medication or procedure, but the ability for someone to maintain a sense of control over their own life. That lesson followed me to a retirement community where I volunteered with older adults facing physical limitations and chronic illness. I watched residents work tirelessly to preserve their independence even as their worlds became smaller. I learned that healthcare is not simply about extending life. It is about improving the quality of the life being lived. What inspires me most about nursing is the unique relationship nurses develop with patients. Nurses are often the first to notice fear, frustration, loneliness, or discomfort. They spend time at the bedside. They see patients on their hardest days. They have the opportunity to advocate for people who may not have the strength, confidence, or ability to advocate for themselves. I am inspired by the nurses and caregivers who showed me that compassion is not a soft skill. It is a clinical skill. The ability to listen carefully, anticipate needs, and recognize the humanity of every patient can profoundly affect a person's healthcare experience. As I continue my education, I hope to build a career dedicated to serving others with the same attentiveness and compassion that inspired me. I want patients to feel seen, respected, and valued, especially during moments when illness makes them feel vulnerable. Judith probably never realized how much she taught me. What began as a blinking call light became the moment I understood that healthcare is ultimately about people. That lesson continues to guide the kind of healthcare professional I hope to become. I found out about this scholarship on Bold.org.

When I was younger, I thought successful people simply had ambitious goals. As I have grown older, I have realized that ambitious goals are only useful when paired with a detailed plan. My long-term goal is to become a physician-scientist focused on developing treatments for neurodegenerative diseases such as Alzheimer's disease and ALS. This fall, I will begin pursuing that goal at Stanford University, where I plan to study Bioengineering while completing the prerequisites for medical school. I chose bioengineering because it combines scientific discovery with practical problem-solving. Through neuroscience research, computational biology projects, clinical volunteering, and biomedical engineering experiences, I have learned that understanding disease is only the first step. I want to help develop the technologies and therapies that improve patient outcomes. My plan consists of four major stages. The first stage is earning my bachelor's degree at Stanford between 2026 and 2030. During this time, I plan to maintain a strong GPA while gaining substantial research experience. My goal is to join a neuroscience, bioengineering, or computational biology laboratory during my freshman year and continue conducting research throughout college. I also plan to continue volunteering in clinical settings to strengthen my understanding of patient care and healthcare systems. The second stage is preparing for medical school. By my junior year, I plan to complete the MCAT and continue building my research portfolio through publications, presentations, and advanced projects. I hope to pursue summer research opportunities and fellowships that will strengthen both my technical skills and scientific independence. The third stage is earning an MD-PhD. This pathway would allow me to receive rigorous training as both a physician and researcher. My goal is to specialize in neurology or a related field while conducting research on neurodegenerative diseases. I want to help bridge the gap between laboratory discoveries and patient treatments. The fourth stage is establishing a career as a physician-scientist. Long term, I hope to lead a research laboratory, care for patients, and contribute to the development of new therapies for neurological disease. I also hope to mentor future students, particularly those from first-generation and low-income backgrounds. Financial planning is a critical part of this roadmap. As a first-generation college student from a low-income immigrant family, affordability has always been a major consideration. Stanford's financial aid significantly reduces my educational costs, but I still anticipate expenses related to books, transportation, personal expenses, research opportunities, and professional development. My estimated annual expenses include: • Books and academic supplies: approximately $1,000 • Travel between Texas and California: approximately $1,200 • Personal expenses and incidentals: approximately $2,000 • Research conferences and professional development opportunities: approximately $1,000 This scholarship would help offset those costs and reduce the need for outside employment during the academic year, allowing me to dedicate more time to research, academics, and service. Of course, plans evolve. Research interests change, opportunities emerge, and unexpected challenges arise. However, the core mission behind my plan remains constant: using science and medicine to improve the lives of patients facing devastating neurological diseases. Joe Gilroy's motto, "Plan Your Work, Work Your Plan," resonates with me because it captures the philosophy that has guided my own educational journey. Goals are important, but progress comes from turning those goals into actionable steps and consistently working toward them. I have a vision for where I want to go, and more importantly, I have a plan for how to get there.

I grew up believing that education could change the trajectory of a family. My parents immigrated from China in search of opportunities they never had themselves. My father works as a cook, and my mother has faced health challenges that have prevented her from working. While they always encouraged me to pursue my education, navigating life in a new country came with challenges. Language barriers, unfamiliar systems, and financial limitations often meant that many opportunities required extra persistence to find and pursue. As I grew older, I became the person researching scholarships, translating documents, and figuring out educational opportunities that no one in my family had previously experienced. Those experiences taught me independence, resourcefulness, and the importance of asking questions when I did not know the answer. One challenge I have faced is learning how to create opportunities rather than wait for them to appear. Because my family had limited familiarity with the American educational system, I often had to learn how to navigate research opportunities, college applications, financial aid, and academic programs on my own. At times, this felt overwhelming. However, it taught me how to seek mentors, advocate for myself, and remain persistent when faced with uncertainty. I learned that success is rarely the result of having all the answers. More often, it comes from being willing to keep searching for them. The person who has inspired me most is my father. Despite working long hours in a physically demanding job, he has always prioritized our family's future over his own comfort. He rarely talks about sacrifice, yet his actions demonstrate it every day. Watching him work tirelessly to provide opportunities for me has motivated me to approach my own goals with gratitude and determination. My educational journey has been shaped by a deep interest in science and medicine. After witnessing the impact of neurodegenerative disease on members of my family, I became fascinated by neuroscience and biomedical research. Throughout high school, I pursued research experiences in neuroscience, computational biology, and bioengineering while also founding NeuroHub, a nonprofit organization dedicated to making neuroscience education more accessible. I have also served as a medical scribe and Mandarin translator at a free clinic and directed an international English tutoring organization. This fall, I will attend Stanford University to study Bioengineering. My long-term goal is to become a physician-scientist working at the intersection of research and patient care. I hope to develop innovative treatments for neurological diseases while helping ensure that scientific and medical advances are accessible to underserved communities. Receiving this scholarship would help reduce the financial burden of higher education and allow me to continue pursuing research, service, and leadership opportunities. More importantly, it would support my goal of using education not only to improve my own future, but to create opportunities for others navigating challenges similar to those my family once faced.

I would describe myself as someone who is driven by curiosity, service, and a deep appreciation for the opportunities my family worked hard to create. As the daughter of Chinese immigrants, I grew up between cultures. At home, I spoke Mandarin, translated documents for my parents, and learned the values of sacrifice, perseverance, and education. At school, I navigated a different cultural environment and learned how to adapt, communicate, and advocate for myself. Those experiences shaped both my identity and my goals. Growing up in a family that was still learning how to navigate life in the United States taught me lessons that many of my peers never had to think about. I often helped translate school forms, medical paperwork, and official documents. As I got older, I became the person researching scholarships, financial aid, and educational opportunities. Living between cultures taught me that access to information can dramatically affect a person's opportunities. It also taught me empathy. I learned how challenging it can be to navigate unfamiliar systems and how important it is to help others feel supported and understood. One of the most meaningful lessons I have gained through my educational journey is that knowledge becomes most valuable when it is shared. My experiences as an immigrant student helped me recognize barriers that many people face, whether those barriers involve language, education, healthcare, or access to resources. This realization inspired much of my community service. I founded NeuroHub, a nonprofit organization dedicated to making neuroscience education more accessible, serve as a medical scribe and Mandarin translator at a free clinic, and direct an international English tutoring organization that helps students build confidence and communication skills. Through these experiences, I have learned that leadership is not about titles. It is about creating opportunities for others. Academically, I am passionate about bioengineering because it combines scientific discovery with practical problem-solving. My interest in neuroscience began after seeing the impact of neurodegenerative disease on members of my family. Through research experiences in neuroscience, computational biology, and biomedical engineering, I became fascinated by the possibility of developing new treatments for diseases that currently have limited options. This fall, I will attend Stanford University to study Bioengineering with the goal of becoming a physician-scientist. I hope to contribute to both science and society by helping develop innovative therapies while improving access to healthcare and scientific education for underserved communities. Receiving this scholarship would help ease the financial burden of college and allow me to continue pursuing research, service, and leadership opportunities. More importantly, it would support my goal of using education not only to improve my own future, but also to expand opportunities for others navigating challenges similar to those my family once faced.

The first thing ALS took from my dad was not his ability to walk. It was his handwriting. For years, every birthday card I received from him ended with the same message: "Love, Dad." As his ALS progressed, those words became shakier and shakier until eventually they disappeared altogether. One year, he asked my mom to sign the card for him because he could no longer hold the pen steadily enough. The card is still sitting in my desk drawer. People often think the hardest part of ALS is watching someone lose physical abilities. That is certainly part of it. But what surprised me most were the small losses. The last time my dad drove a car. The last time he carried groceries inside. The last time he opened a bottle by himself without asking for help. There was never a single moment when life changed. Instead, ALS seemed to take tiny pieces of normal life one at a time. Growing up alongside this disease changed the way I viewed education. When I was younger, success meant getting good grades and earning awards. As my father's condition progressed, I began to understand how fragile health can be and how much families depend on scientific progress. I found myself reading about motor neurons, clinical trials, and neurodegenerative diseases, trying to understand why ALS exists and why there are still so few effective treatments. Those questions eventually sparked my interest in science and medicine. They motivated me to pursue research opportunities and inspired my goal of becoming a physician-scientist. More importantly, they taught me that behind every disease is a family adapting to a reality they never expected. ALS has also created financial challenges for my family. Medical appointments, treatments, equipment, and caregiving needs add up quickly. As college approaches, I am aware that my educational goals exist alongside those responsibilities. Receiving this scholarship would help ease some of that burden and allow me to focus more fully on my education while reducing financial pressure on my family. In addition to supporting my father, I have sought opportunities to contribute to neurological disease awareness through education and outreach. I believe one of the most powerful ways to help families affected by these conditions is by increasing awareness, encouraging research, and making scientific information more accessible. ALS has taken many things from my father, but it has also given me something unexpected: a sense of purpose. It taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of using knowledge to serve others. Every step I take toward my education is shaped by the lessons I have learned from watching my father face this disease with courage and dignity. The birthday card in my desk drawer reminds me of that every day.

I grew up in a family where opportunity was never taken for granted. My parents immigrated from China in search of a better future. My father works long hours as a cook, and my mother has been unable to work because of health challenges. Like many children of immigrant families, I grew up watching my parents make sacrifices that often went unnoticed. They worked tirelessly to provide opportunities for me, even when they were navigating an unfamiliar country, language, and educational system themselves. Because my parents had never attended college and could not understand English, many responsibilities naturally fell to me. I translated school forms, medical paperwork, and official documents. When it came time to explore colleges, research opportunities, scholarships, and financial aid, I often found myself learning everything from scratch. While some students had family members who could explain the process, I became the person searching for answers and building the roadmap as I went. Those experiences taught me independence, but they also shaped the way I see the world. I realized that access to information can profoundly influence a person's opportunities. Whether it is a student trying to understand a college application, a patient struggling to navigate the healthcare system, or an immigrant family facing language barriers, knowledge is only useful if people can access and understand it. This realization became even more personal when my grandmother developed Alzheimer's disease. Watching her memory slowly fade sparked my interest in neuroscience, but it also exposed me to the challenges families face when trying to understand complex medical conditions. I became fascinated by the intersection of science, medicine, and communication. That passion has guided much of what I do today. I founded NeuroHub, a nonprofit organization dedicated to making neuroscience education more accessible to students and families. I serve as a medical scribe and Mandarin translator at a free clinic for uninsured patients, where I help bridge communication gaps between providers and patients. As the director of an international English tutoring organization, I have worked with students around the world to help them gain confidence and access new educational opportunities. Outside of school and volunteering, I have also worked several part-time jobs while balancing a full AP schedule, research, and leadership commitments. Managing those responsibilities has taught me discipline, resilience, and the value of every opportunity I receive. This fall, I will attend Stanford University to study Bioengineering. My goal is to become a physician-scientist who develops innovative treatments for neurological diseases while ensuring that scientific and medical advances remain accessible to the communities that need them most. As the child of immigrants and a first-generation college student, I have seen how education can transform a family's future in a single generation. My parents came to this country hoping to create opportunities they never had themselves. Everything I have accomplished has been built on their sacrifices, and everything I hope to accomplish is motivated by a desire to create opportunities for others in return.

One of my earliest responsibilities was translating. Growing up as the daughter of Chinese immigrants, I often found myself sitting at the kitchen table helping my parents understand forms, letters, and documents written in a language they could not fully read. Sometimes it was school paperwork. Sometimes it was insurance information. Sometimes it was medical documents. I did not always understand everything myself, but I learned how to ask questions, search for answers, and piece together information until it made sense. At the time, I did not realize how much those experiences would shape the person I would become. My father works long hours as a cook, and my mother has faced health challenges that have prevented her from working. Like many first-generation students, I grew up understanding that opportunities were valuable because they were never guaranteed. My parents worked incredibly hard to provide for our family, but when it came to navigating the American educational system, college admissions, scholarships, research opportunities, and financial aid, we were all learning together. As I got older, I became the person responsible for finding information. I researched opportunities, emailed professors, searched for scholarships, and tried to understand systems that nobody in my family had experienced before. While many students had parents who could guide them through the process, I was building the roadmap while walking it. Those experiences taught me independence, but they also taught me something else. I began to realize how much access to information influences a person's opportunities. Knowledge has tremendous power, but only if people can access and understand it. That idea became even more meaningful when my grandmother developed Alzheimer's disease. Watching her memory slowly decline was heartbreaking. I remember feeling frustrated that I could not understand why it was happening or what could be done about it. As I started learning more about neuroscience, I became fascinated by the complexity of the human brain and the challenges researchers face in developing treatments for neurodegenerative diseases. What began as a personal experience evolved into a deep scientific curiosity. That curiosity eventually led me into research. Throughout high school, I pursued opportunities to study neuroscience, molecular biology, and biomedical science. Research taught me that scientific discovery is rarely straightforward. Experiments fail. Results are unexpected. Progress can be slow. Yet I found myself drawn to the process of asking questions and searching for answers. I loved the idea that a small discovery in a laboratory could one day improve someone's life. My passion for science also led me to academic competitions. I earned first place in the International Neuroscience Olympiad, became a multiple-time USABO Semifinalist, and competed in a variety of biology and mathematics competitions. While these accomplishments were meaningful, they were never my ultimate goal. What mattered most was the opportunity to learn. Over time, I realized that I did not just want to understand science. I wanted to help others understand it too. That realization inspired me to found NeuroHub, a nonprofit organization dedicated to making neuroscience education more accessible. Through NeuroHub, I have worked with students and volunteers from around the world to create educational resources and increase awareness of neurodegenerative diseases. I wanted to help make complex scientific concepts understandable to students, families, and community members who might otherwise feel excluded from those conversations. My commitment to accessibility extends beyond science education. As a medical scribe and Mandarin translator at a free clinic, I help uninsured patients navigate healthcare appointments and communicate with providers. Through my work as an English tutor, I have taught students from around the world and helped them gain confidence in their ability to communicate and learn. Through volunteer work with older adults in rehabilitation and memory care communities, I have seen firsthand how patience, empathy, and human connection can improve someone's quality of life. Outside of academics and service, athletics have also played an important role in my development. As a taekwondo competitor, I earned two gold medals at the AAU National Championships. Taekwondo taught me discipline, resilience, and perseverance. Success was never achieved overnight. It was built through consistent effort, repetition, and a willingness to learn from setbacks. Those lessons have shaped the way I approach every challenge, whether in research, academics, service, or leadership. This fall, I will attend Stanford University to study Bioengineering. I hope to become a physician-scientist working at the intersection of research and medicine, helping develop innovative treatments for neurological diseases while caring directly for patients and families. My goal is not only to advance scientific knowledge but also to ensure that scientific and medical advances are accessible to the people who need them most. I believe I should be considered for this scholarship because I have dedicated myself to using education as a tool for service. Whether I am translating for my family, conducting research, teaching students, volunteering with patients, or building educational resources, I am motivated by the same belief: opportunities should not be limited by language, background, or access to information. As a first-generation college student from a low-income family, I understand how transformative educational opportunities can be. This scholarship would help ease the financial burden of college and allow me to continue pursuing opportunities to learn, serve, and contribute to my community. More importantly, it would help me continue the work that has guided me throughout my life: opening doors for others by sharing knowledge, creating access, and building bridges where barriers once existed.

If I had to describe what makes someone a "You Got It Girl," I would say it's the ability to keep showing up. For me, that lesson came from taekwondo. I started training years ago and quickly learned that progress is rarely as straightforward as it looks. People see the medals and competition results, but they do not see the thousands of repetitions, the difficult practices, the self-doubt, or the early mornings. Taekwondo taught me that success is not built in the moments when everything goes right. It is built when you keep working after things go wrong. Over the years, I have competed in taekwondo, primarily in poomsae and breaking events. One of the highlights of my athletic career was winning two gold medals at the AAU Taekwondo National Championships in WT Poomsae and Speed Breaking. While I am proud of those accomplishments, the most important thing taekwondo gave me was confidence. It taught me how to stay calm under pressure, trust my preparation, and keep moving forward even when I felt discouraged. One of the biggest setbacks I faced was learning how to handle failure. When I was younger, I tied my self-worth to results. If I did not perform the way I wanted, I felt like I had failed. Over time, I realized that growth does not happen when everything goes perfectly. Some of my most valuable lessons came from mistakes, losses, and performances that fell short of my expectations. Taekwondo taught me to focus on the process instead of the outcome. That mindset has shaped every area of my life, from academics and research to leadership and service. As a first-generation college student from a low-income immigrant family, I have carried those lessons with me far beyond the mat. I have balanced athletics with a rigorous academic schedule, scientific research, volunteer work, and part-time jobs. I founded NeuroHub, a nonprofit organization dedicated to making neuroscience education more accessible, volunteer as a medical scribe and translator at a free clinic, and tutor students around the world in English. Many of these opportunities required me to step outside my comfort zone, face rejection, and persist despite uncertainty. Taekwondo prepared me for that. The person I admire most is my father. He immigrated to the United States seeking opportunities for our family and works long hours as a cook. Despite the challenges he has faced, he never complains and never gives up. He taught me that resilience is not something you talk about; it is something you practice every day. Watching his work ethic and determination has inspired me to approach my own goals with gratitude and perseverance. This fall, I will attend Stanford University to study Bioengineering. My goal is to become a physician-scientist and develop innovative treatments for neurological diseases while improving access to healthcare for underserved communities. Although I will not be attending as a recruited athlete, I plan to continue training, staying active, and carrying the lessons of taekwondo with me throughout college and beyond. Being a student-athlete has shaped who I am. It taught me discipline, leadership, humility, and resilience. This scholarship would help reduce the financial burden of college on my family and allow me to continue pursuing opportunities that support my academic, athletic, and professional growth. More importantly, it would remind me that there is a community of women who believe in lifting each other up and investing in one another's success. If there is one thing I have learned through sports, it is that strength is not about never falling down. It is about getting back up every time you do. That is what taekwondo taught me, and that is what I will carry with me into every challenge that comes next.

When I was little, I thought every child translated for their parents. I thought it was normal to explain school forms, read unfamiliar documents, and interpret conversations that seemed far too important for a child to be handling. As the daughter of Chinese immigrants, I often found myself standing between two worlds: the one my parents had left behind and the one they were trying to build for me. My parents came to the United States seeking opportunities they never had themselves. My father works long hours as a cook, and my mother has faced health challenges that made financial stability difficult. Neither had the chance to attend college. Growing up, I watched them work tirelessly, not because their jobs were easy, but because they believed education could provide a future different from their own. For a long time, college felt like a distant concept. I knew it was important, but I did not fully understand why. That changed as I grew older and began to see how often opportunities are determined by access. Access to information. Access to mentors. Access to resources. Access to people who can show you what is possible. As a first-generation immigrant and future first-generation college student, going to college means gaining access to those opportunities for the first time. It means learning how to solve problems that have personally affected my family and community. It means transforming sacrifice into possibility. My sense of purpose began to take shape when my grandmother developed Alzheimer's disease. I became fascinated by the science behind memory and neurodegeneration, spending hours reading about neurons, proteins, and the brain. But what affected me most was not the biology. It was watching someone I loved gradually lose pieces of herself. I saw how illness impacts entire families, especially those who may lack the resources, knowledge, or support systems needed to navigate it. That experience inspired me to pursue research in neuroscience and bioengineering while serving communities facing barriers similar to those my family experienced. I founded a neuroscience education nonprofit to make complex science more accessible. I direct an English tutoring organization that has helped students from around the world gain confidence in communication. As a medical scribe and Mandarin translator at a free clinic, I help patients navigate healthcare systems that can feel confusing and intimidating. Through volunteering with older adults, including those experiencing memory loss, I have learned that dignity, empathy, and human connection are just as important as medicine itself. Through college, I hope to become a physician-scientist who bridges research and patient care. I want to develop treatments for neurodegenerative diseases while ensuring that scientific advances reach the people who need them most. I want to advocate for underserved patients, expand access to healthcare, and mentor students from backgrounds similar to mine so they can see possibilities that once seemed out of reach. To me, college is not simply a pathway to a career. It is a responsibility. It is the opportunity my parents spent years working toward without ever receiving themselves. It is a chance to honor their sacrifices by creating opportunities for others. Most importantly, it is a chance to prove that where a family begins does not have to determine where the next generation can go.

When I was younger, I often served as the bridge between my family and the world around us. As immigrants, my parents worked hard to build a life in a country whose language and systems were unfamiliar to them. I translated forms, interpreted conversations, and helped navigate situations that many families take for granted. Those experiences taught me that access to opportunities often depends on whether someone has the knowledge, resources, or support to reach them. That lesson shaped my sense of purpose. Rather than viewing barriers as obstacles to overcome alone, I began looking for ways to help others overcome them too. As the director of an English tutoring organization, I have taught students from around the world because I know how empowering communication can be. As a medical scribe and Mandarin translator at a free clinic, I help patients navigate healthcare systems that can feel overwhelming. Through volunteering with older adults and creating neuroscience education resources, I have worked to make information and support more accessible to people who need it most. Being a first-generation immigrant and future first-generation college student has shown me how much a single opportunity can change the course of a life. My purpose is to use education, science, and service to expand those opportunities for others, especially those who, like my family, are navigating unfamiliar paths and deserve someone in their corner.

I grew up in a family where opportunity was never taken for granted. My parents immigrated from China in search of a better future. My father works long hours as a cook, and my mother has been unable to work because of health challenges. Like many children of immigrant families, I grew up watching my parents make sacrifices that often went unnoticed. They worked tirelessly to provide opportunities for me, even when they were navigating an unfamiliar country, language, and educational system themselves. Because my parents had never attended college in the United States, many responsibilities naturally fell to me. I translated school forms, medical paperwork, and official documents. When it came time to explore colleges, research opportunities, scholarships, and financial aid, I often found myself learning everything from scratch. While some students had family members who could explain the process, I became the person searching for answers and building the roadmap as I went. Those experiences taught me independence, but they also shaped the way I see the world. I realized that access to information can profoundly influence a person's opportunities. Whether it is a student trying to understand a college application, a patient struggling to navigate the healthcare system, or an immigrant family facing language barriers, knowledge is only useful if people can access and understand it. This realization became even more personal when my grandmother developed Alzheimer's disease. Watching her memory slowly fade sparked my interest in neuroscience, but it also exposed me to the challenges families face when trying to understand complex medical conditions. I became fascinated by the intersection of science, medicine, and communication. That passion has guided much of what I do today. I founded NeuroHub, a nonprofit organization dedicated to making neuroscience education more accessible to students and families. I serve as a medical scribe and Mandarin translator at a free clinic for uninsured patients, where I help bridge communication gaps between providers and patients. As the director of an international English tutoring organization, I have worked with students around the world to help them gain confidence and access new educational opportunities. Outside of school and volunteering, I have also worked several part-time jobs while balancing AP classes, research, and leadership commitments. Managing those responsibilities has taught me discipline, resilience, and the value of every opportunity I receive. This fall, I will attend Stanford University to study Bioengineering. My goal is to become a physician-scientist who develops innovative treatments for neurological diseases while ensuring that scientific and medical advances remain accessible to the communities that need them most. As the child of immigrants and a first-generation college student, I have seen how education can transform a family's future in a single generation. My parents came to this country hoping to create opportunities they never had themselves. Everything I have accomplished has been built on their sacrifices, and everything I hope to accomplish is motivated by a desire to create opportunities for others in return.

The first time I realized science could change a life, it wasn't in a laboratory. It was at my kitchen table. As my grandmother's Alzheimer's disease progressed, I watched someone who had once filled every room with stories gradually lose pieces of herself. I wanted to understand what was happening and why. At first, that curiosity led me to books, articles, and eventually neuroscience research. But as I learned more, I noticed something frustrating: many of the explanations that made sense to scientists were almost impossible for patients and families to understand. That realization shaped my passion for science. Science fascinates me because it helps us answer questions that once seemed impossible. Through research experiences in neuroscience, biochemistry, and bioengineering, I have explored everything from protein aggregation in Alzheimer's disease to neuroimmune interactions and therapeutic development. What excites me most is the process of discovery itself: asking questions, testing ideas, and gradually uncovering how the world works. However, I have come to believe that scientific knowledge only reaches its full potential when it is shared. That belief inspired me to found NeuroHub, a nonprofit organization dedicated to making neuroscience more accessible to students and the public. Through NeuroHub, I have worked with student writers around the world to publish articles explaining complex topics in clear and engaging ways. I have organized educational events, hosted international neuroscience competitions, and created resources that introduce students to research, neuroethics, and neurological disorders. I have also served as an Events Lead for the International Youth Neuroscience Association, where I helped organize the IYNA-Alzheimer's Association Ideathon for hundreds of students and coordinated seminars on experimental design, scientific literature, and neuroscience research. Whether I am speaking to students, editing articles, or organizing events, my goal is always the same: helping people feel that science is something they can understand and participate in. I believe science advocacy matters because public trust in science is not guaranteed. Scientific discoveries shape nearly every aspect of modern life, from healthcare and technology to environmental policy. Yet misinformation spreads quickly, and scientific concepts are often presented in ways that feel inaccessible. If we fail to communicate science effectively, we risk creating a world where important decisions are driven by confusion rather than evidence. The future of science depends not only on researchers but also on communicators, educators, and advocates who can connect scientific knowledge with the people it is meant to serve. As I pursue a career as a physician-scientist, I hope to continue doing both. I want to contribute to scientific discovery while also helping others understand it. Science gave me a way to understand my grandmother's illness. Through advocacy, I hope to help others find that same understanding, curiosity, and sense of possibility.

The impact I want to make is simple: I want to help people feel less powerless. Some of the moments that have shaped me most involved watching people struggle to navigate systems they did not fully understand. Growing up, I often translated forms, school paperwork, and medical documents for my parents. As immigrants, they worked incredibly hard to build a better life for our family, but language barriers and unfamiliar systems often made simple tasks feel overwhelming. Later, I experienced that feeling from a different perspective when my grandmother developed Alzheimer's disease. I watched someone I loved gradually lose memories, stories, and pieces of herself. I wanted answers, but I quickly realized how much remained unknown. That experience sparked my interest in neuroscience, but it also taught me something larger: knowledge can be empowering, and lack of access to information can leave people feeling isolated and helpless. That belief has guided much of what I do today. I founded NeuroHub, a nonprofit organization that makes neuroscience education more accessible to students around the world. I tutor underserved students in English because communication creates opportunities. I volunteer at a free clinic serving uninsured patients because healthcare should not depend on income. In many ways, these experiences all stem from the same goal: helping people gain access to information, resources, and opportunities that can improve their lives. This fall, I will attend Stanford University to study Bioengineering and pursue a career as a physician-scientist. I hope to contribute to research that advances our understanding of neurological diseases while also caring for patients and families facing them. What excites me most about this path is the opportunity to bridge discovery and service. Research can create new possibilities, but those discoveries only matter if they ultimately reach the people who need them. The people who inspire me most are my parents and grandmother. My parents taught me perseverance through their sacrifices, and my grandmother taught me empathy through her illness. Together, they shaped the person I hope to become: someone who uses education not simply to achieve personal success, but to create opportunities and improve lives. In the future, I hope my impact extends far beyond any individual achievement. I want to mentor students who lack access to opportunities, advocate for underserved communities, and help patients navigate complex healthcare systems with dignity and understanding. If there is one thing I hope people remember about me, it is that I used the opportunities I was given to make those opportunities more accessible for others.

Growing up, I thought a lot of things were normal that I later realized were not. I thought it was normal to use food stamps at the grocery store. I thought it was normal to avoid going to the doctor unless it was absolutely necessary because my family did not have health insurance. I thought it was normal to translate forms, school paperwork, and medical documents for my parents because their English was limited. As the daughter of Chinese immigrants, I often found myself helping my family navigate systems that were unfamiliar to all of us. My parents worked incredibly hard. My father spent long hours working as a cook, and my mother was unable to work because of health issues. They always emphasized the importance of education, but when it came to college admissions, research opportunities, financial aid, and scholarships, they could not show me the way because they had never gone through those processes themselves. Like many first-generation students, I had to figure things out as I went. That is why I believe students from underserved backgrounds deserve opportunities such as scholarships and grants. Financial hardship does not make someone less capable. If anything, it often forces students to become resourceful, independent, and resilient long before they reach adulthood. The problem is not a lack of talent or ambition. The problem is that many students never receive the same access to opportunities, guidance, and resources as their peers. I worked hard to seek out those opportunities myself. After my grandmother developed Alzheimer's disease, I became interested in neuroscience and pursued research opportunities to better understand neurological disorders. I founded NeuroHub, a nonprofit organization that makes neuroscience education more accessible to students around the world. I tutor underserved students in English, volunteer at a free clinic serving uninsured patients, and spend time with seniors in memory care communities. Many of these experiences began with a simple email, a question, or a chance that someone was willing to take on me. This fall, I will attend Stanford University to study Bioengineering and pursue my goal of becoming a physician-scientist. Receiving this scholarship would help ease the financial burden of college for my family and allow me to focus more fully on my education and service. More importantly, it would reinforce something I have learned throughout my life: that when motivated students are given opportunities, they often do far more with them than anyone expects. I am grateful for every opportunity I have received. Through my college education, I hope that one day I can create those same opportunities for others.