“Why am I so stupid?” my student Jane exclaimed, attempting the same multiplication problem for the fifth time, one intended for students two grades below her. I was in eighth grade, tutoring students who had fallen behind during the pandemic. Watching Jane struggle with her self-esteem, I saw my former self. Although I’ve always loved math, my passion faded in seventh grade when the pandemic transformed school online. In person, I could stop by my teacher’s office for help. Online, however, emailing a teacher repeatedly felt like a burden. As my grades dropped, my mental health plummeted, trapping me in a vicious cycle. Returning to in-person learning in eighth grade, I still hesitated to seek help. But as my mental health worsened—my heart racing at just the thought of entering school—I knew I had to make a change and prioritize my well-being. I pushed myself to approach my math teacher, Ms. Kunkler. She patiently reviewed my weaknesses and gave me space to ask questions along the way. My understanding grew; my confidence returned, and I broke free from the vicious cycle. Ms. Kunkler showed me the power of individualized support in rebuilding mental health. Determined to support other struggling students, I gathered friends and collaborated with teachers and parents to create a school-wide tutoring program. Every Saturday, we tutored fifth graders in small, online sessions. Within weeks, teachers reported noticeable grade improvements. Jane, however, continued to struggle. Whether solving practice problems or playing math games, she often gave up quickly. I recognized the very signs I had experienced myself—the restless tapping of her leg, the way she clenched her fists under the table, and how her eyes grew wide with panic when she noticed others were far ahead. Remembering how individual attention had helped me, I began tutoring Jane one-on-one. Like Ms. Kunkler had done for me, I wanted to create a space where she felt safe and understood. These one-on-one sessions became transformative. Instead of shutting down, Jane gradually voiced when she was confused. Her confidence grew, and her math teacher reported that she seemed more engaged and enthusiastic in class. I soon realized that mental health isn’t separate from academic success—it’s the foundation of it. Like me, Jane's struggles with her mental health made her nervous and embarrassed to seek help, perpetuating the vicious cycle. The one-on-one sessions gave her a safe space to learn at her pace, gradually rebuilding her confidence. Her improved self-esteem boosted her performance, breaking her own vicious cycle. On the program’s final day, Jane enthusiastically joined an online review game, where she won first place. “Wow, I’m so good at this!” she exclaimed, beaming with pride. That summer, I expanded the scope of our initiative to a volunteer-led nonprofit: Mission Math. Through Mission Math, I advocate for the mental health of K-12 students, creating supportive environments where they feel safe to learn, take risks, and grow, just like the space Ms. Kunkler built for me. Over the past three years, I’ve grown Mission Math into an international organization, impacting over 1,800 students across 36 countries. This journey taught me that when students feel supported mentally, they’re more willing to ask questions, take risks, and stay motivated, making mental health fundamental to students’ academic growth. If I could help another student like Jane overcome their struggles with mental health, my mission would be accomplished.

For a while, I’ve found a lot of interest in medical work and research, feeling optimistic about the idea of curing illnesses. But the journey to recovery is immensely hard—especially for patients. In 2023, I attended the HOSA: Future Health Professionals Washington State Leadership Conference, a competition for students interested in healthcare. There, I participated in a workshop led by a psychology professor, where we experienced a simulation of withdrawal. We stared at an incredibly bright, flashing light, making my eyes water and my head pound from the extreme discomfort. The professor then revealed that these physical symptoms were meant to replicate the side effects of withdrawal. The simulation was such a visceral experience, giving me a glimpse at the intense uphill battle that people face when trying to become sober. It wasn’t just discomfort—it was unbearable, all-consuming pain, the kind that makes it impossible to focus on anything else. Before this experience, I had thought of addiction as mostly a psychological struggle, but this simulation made me understand the sheer physical toll it takes. The pain doesn’t just end when someone decides to quit. As I researched further, I discovered harm reduction, a healthcare approach that focuses on providing safer drug alternatives rather than demanding immediate withdrawal. From the simulation, I saw that addiction was not something that can be easily “overcome” by sheer willpower alone. It requires a thorough and compassionate understanding of the patient’s behavior and struggles, followed by humane solutions informed by this knowledge. I also learned that women face unique challenges in overcoming addiction. Pregnant women or mothers with substance use disorders often fear that seeking help would cause them to lose custody of their children, causing many women to struggle in isolation. Society frequently labels these women as “bad mothers,” and this stigma extends into healthcare settings, discouraging women from accessing the compassionate care they desperately need. As a future physician, I am committed to using harm reduction strategies to treat addiction with empathy—ensuring that every patient, especially women, feels understood and supported rather than judged. I am particularly excited to design tools and technologies that support recovery, especially in underserved communities where treatment is often inaccessible or extremely stigmatized for women. Addiction treatment isn’t just about detoxing or prescribing medication. I aspire to treat the whole patient by providing comprehensive emotional and physical support that transcends gender stereotypes and barriers. My goal is for all patients to receive the care and treatment they need, as with any other illness.

Growing up, I spent my evenings sitting on my grandparents’ front porch. For hours, I would watch stray dogs wander the streets, searching for water beneath the scorching Indian sun. Their ribs protruded under patchy, matted fur, yet people walked by without a glance, as if these animals were invisible. But to me, they weren’t. In middle school, I began researching animal welfare issues, seeking to understand these animals’ struggles. My discovery of puppy mills—commercial breeding facilities notorious for their cruelty—motivated me to take action. I signed up to lead a monthly assembly at my school to educate peers about these abuses. When the pandemic canceled my presentation, I was crushed but undeterred. So I launched a petition pushing for stricter captivity legislation for dogs in Washington state, gathering over 1,500 signatures. I designed posters advocating animal rights and put them up in neighborhoods, hoping to spread awareness. Yet, many peers, including friends, didn’t understand why I cared so much, leaving me feeling isolated in my efforts. Seeking community, I soon joined Seattle Humane, expecting simple volunteer tasks like walking dogs and feeding cats. Instead, I witnessed countless animals arrive covered in bruises and wounds from head to tail. I was shocked by this realization: mistreatment towards animals wasn’t only directed at stray dogs or puppy mill dogs, but even people’s beloved pets. After my shifts, I sat with the dogs in their kennels, feeling a deep sadness watching them flinch at my slightest movement. I knew I had to do more to give these dogs a voice, so I joined Seattle Humane’s Teen Congress. My peers and I analyzed gaps in King County’s captivity laws, comparing local policies to other counties’. We then presented a proposed amendment to strengthen animal welfare regulations, urging community members to support improved protections. However, as I watched people sob giving up their pets to the shelter, I realized that not every pet entering the shelter had been abused. Many people had lost their jobs due to the pandemic and could no longer afford their cat’s expensive surgery or even their dog’s daily dinner, causing them to give up their beloved pet. To help these pets stay with their families, fellow volunteers and I launched a fundraiser to provide relief to struggling pet owners. We raised 20,000 pounds of pet food, alongside essential items like collars and food bowls, helping hundreds of families in the Seattle area remain united. Each step—from feeding strays on my grandparents’ porch to mobilizing community support—showed me the power of giving a voice to those often ignored. These ideas have been the foundation for my approach in life every day: I am committed not just to recognizing suffering, but actively alleviating it. Whether fighting for animals or helping families in crisis, I’ve learned that meaningful change happens when compassion meets purposeful action. I am motivated to look beyond what others overlook and ensure that every voice, no matter how quiet, is heard.