At the Brookwood Community—a nonprofit in Texas for adults with disabilities—I witnessed a quiet but urgent issue: social invisibility. Many of the citizens, though rich in creativity and thought, struggled to express themselves in ways society recognized. Their expressions were dismissed as “sweet” or “simple,” but to me, they were profound. What they lacked wasn’t ability—it was an audience. So, I created and led a poetry therapy workshop to give voice to those considered voiceless. I guided 15 neurodivergent adults through structured poetic prompts inspired by haiku, ekphrasis, and spoken word. I tailored the sessions to their needs: visual poetry for those with limited speech, sign-language-infused performances for others. One man, after weeks of silence, pointed to a line in his peer’s poem and mouthed, “I feel that.” That moment still humbles me. It showed me that the problem wasn’t communication—it was exclusion. What began as a summer workshop is now a scalable model. I’ve submitted the program structure to regional nonprofits and am working to digitize the curriculum with visual and auditory aids for broader accessibility. I also plan to develop a facilitator's guide for use in special education classrooms and rehabilitation centers. My motivation stems from my older brother, diagnosed with nonverbal autism. Growing up interpreting his gestures into meaning taught me that communication transcends grammar. At Brookwood, I realized that art—especially poetry—can translate human emotion where speech falls short. This work has ignited my passion for neuroscience and medicine, especially in communication disorders, and inspired me to pursue a career advocating for inclusive therapeutic spaces. If awarded this scholarship, I will use the funds to expand the digital accessibility of the workshop and pilot the program in underserved communities in Houston, where I’ll attend Rice University this fall. My dream is simple: to create spaces where every voice is heard—even when unspoken.

Late at night, while my brother, diagnosed with nonverbal autism, struggled with overstimulation, I learned to soothe without words. Through poetry, music, and patient silence, I became his translator, his advocate, and eventually, the reason I fell in love with medicine. Caring for him deepened my empathy, but also sparked a lifelong curiosity: How does the brain mediate experience, and how can we, as physicians, give voice to those the world overlooks? As an incoming neuroscience student at Rice University, I aim to become a physician-scientist committed to inclusive, human-centered care. I’ve pursued research in tuberculosis pathogenesis, conversation dynamics in neurodiverse children, and the therapeutic effects of poetry on the brain. I’ve also led poetry workshops for individuals with ALS, Down syndrome, and depression—creating spaces where communication isn't measured in syllables but in emotional connection. If awarded the KC MedBridge scholarship, I will use the funds to cover travel and lodging for research and shadowing opportunities in Houston’s medical district. With limited family income and caretaking responsibilities, this support would allow me to gain immersive clinical experience while continuing to advocate for patients with communication disabilities. My story began in a quiet kitchen with my brother. With your support, I’ll continue it in hospital wards, research labs, and communities in need—amplifying voices too long unheard.

The first poem I ever wrote wasn’t written—it was signed. My older brother, born with non-verbal autism, couldn't speak, but his eyes would widen each time I tapped rhythmically on the table, mouthing a rhyme or humming a tune. In a quiet kitchen late at night, with our parents exhausted from work and caregiving, I’d sit beside him and recite verses aloud—fragments of Emily Dickinson, lines of Tagore, or haikus we created together, stitched from gestures and glances. He never replied in words. He didn’t need to. That was our language. That was my first lesson in medicine: healing doesn’t always come through prescriptions—it often begins in listening. I am an incoming freshman at Rice University, pursuing a path in neuroscience and medicine. For years, I’ve balanced school, research, and part-time caregiving—changing schedules to meet my brother’s needs, translating for him at doctor’s appointments, and soothing him when the world feels too loud. Financial constraints have always loomed in the background of my ambitions, but so has resilience. My passion for medicine was born not from textbooks, but from watching someone I love confront silence daily and wanting to give him a voice. That realization drove me to the lab. I became a Welch Scholar at the University of Texas at Dallas, where I studied metal-sensing regulators in Mycobacterium tuberculosis, analyzing how stress alters transcription and pathogen survival. I explored similar questions in the Conversation Dynamics Lab at the University of Houston, where we examined how neurodiverse children align speech patterns with caregivers. And most recently, I contributed to a report on the neurological impact of poetry, submitted to Neuroscience and Neurobehavioral Reviews. Across these experiences, one truth has emerged: illness is not only biological—it’s communicative. To understand disease, we must understand the ways bodies, cells, and people speak under stress. Medicine, to me, is not just a discipline—it’s a promise. A promise that the quiet ones will be heard. That the stories hidden in the brain’s folds and the body’s stress responses will be honored. My brother can’t tell the world what he feels, but I can become the kind of doctor who listens hard enough to understand anyway. I want to join the next generation of physician-scientists who see both the poetry and the precision in patient care. Those who ask not only “What is the diagnosis?” but “What does this person need to feel human again?” As a student and caregiver, I’ve learned to improvise, to persist, to nurture—even when resources are scarce. I will continue to amplify the voices that medicine too often overlooks. I will bring the full weight of my empathy, inquiry, and experience to every patient encounter, lab bench, and hospital hallway. And I will carry my brother’s silence with me—not as a burden, but as a language I’ve come to understand, and a future I am ready to build.