I didn’t learn how to serve my community from a textbook or a leadership program. I learned it one Sunday morning in a church nursery in Brooklyn Park, when I saw a mother finally relax because someone she trusted was caring for her child. That moment taught me something I’ve carried with me ever since: service isn’t about big gestures. It’s about showing up, again and again, wherever people need someone to be there. I volunteer at Revive Church in Brooklyn Park, Minnesota. Every Sunday, I help in the nursery during the 9:00 AM service, then stay to worship at 11:00 AM. I do this on purpose: I give before I receive. Serving before sitting is a choice that reflects what my faith has taught me for years: the best way to be part of a community is to give to it before asking for anything in return. On the surface, my job is simple: I care for young children so their parents can worship without worry. But I’ve learned it’s more than just childcare. It’s what makes everything else possible. When parents know their child is safe and cared for by someone who wants to be there, they can relax and recharge for the week ahead. I help make that happen, and I take that responsibility seriously. Being involved at my church changed how I see community service. Before volunteering at Revive Church, I thought service meant doing things for people. Now I know real service means doing things with people. It takes presence, patience, and meeting people where they are, without expecting them to change first. That lesson has shaped everything I do. I volunteer with mentorship and financial literacy programs for first-generation and immigrant students at the University of Minnesota because I know what it’s like to face new challenges without help. I try to support these students the way my church supported me, not by having all the answers, but by being there and caring about their future. I also volunteered with the Hennepin County Women and Children Nutrition Program, helping mothers get fresh produce and learn how to feed their families. That work felt just like the nursery: meeting people where they are, offering practical help, and believing that small acts of care can lead to real change. My faith ties all of this together. I serve because I believe I was made to serve, and the mercy and stability I’ve found in my faith community are meant to be shared. As a Liberian immigrant who faced loss, instability, and financial hardship, I know what it’s like to need a supportive community. My church gave me that. It taught me that belonging isn’t something you earn; it’s something you build by showing up for others, week after week. I’m studying both Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota because I want to help build systems that do for whole communities what my church did for me: create places where people feel seen, supported, and able to thrive. Service isn’t something you do once you’ve made it. It’s how you move forward. Revive Church taught me this every Sunday at 9:00 AM, before most people even start their day.

When my family moved to the United States from Liberia, we believed, like many immigrants, that opportunity awaited us. What we didn’t realize was that opportunity here doesn’t come with instructions. Instead, it comes with complex and unfamiliar systems that expect you to know how to handle them from the start. That was our biggest challenge. It wasn’t just poverty or language. It was the confusion of trying to build a future in a world that wasn’t made for us. I saw my family struggle in ways that never made the news. We didn’t know how to read insurance forms or what to ask a doctor, landlord, or financial aid office. We didn’t realize that not knowing these things could cost us money, health, and opportunities, just as much as anything else we lacked. Every system expected us to know things we had never learned. We weren’t behind because we couldn’t do it. We were behind because no one had ever shown us how. I became the one who figured it out. I was the first in my family to go to college in the United States, so I had to teach myself how to apply for financial aid, get academic advice, and plan a career path no one in my family had taken before. I made mistakes, like dropping a class or missing a deadline, because I was learning as I went, with no room for error. I worked several jobs while taking a full course load, sent money to help family members studying in Liberia, and managed a chronic health condition I was diagnosed with at nineteen. When burnout and illness made me stop working, I went through what I had seen my family go through: how fast financial insecurity can undo everything you’ve worked for. Tuition, rent, transportation, and medical bills all came at once, with no safety net and no one to call. In that uncertainty, I made a decision I still hold onto: I would not let the gap between where I started and where I needed to go stop me from moving forward. That decision is why I am working toward dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota. My family’s struggles showed me that the barriers immigrant and low-income communities face are not personal failures. They are built into the way healthcare, education, and economic systems work, and these systems were never meant to include people like us. I want to spend my career changing that. As a future health economist and healthcare policy leader, I hope to help create systems in which a family’s immigration history, income, or zip code does not determine whether they receive quality care or access to opportunities. Cyrilla Olapeju Sanni never had the chance to go to college. Still, she built a productive and meaningful life because determined people make the most of what they have. I bring that same spirit to everything I do. My family came to America without a blueprint. Now, I am building one not just for myself, but for every family that comes after us and deserves to find the path a little clearer than we did.

The Girl Living in Perpetual Shadows There were no expectations concerning Priscilla. That was their first mistake. When she was six, her mother died and, without saying a word, the world as a whole decided that she was no longer anyone's responsibility. Her father had already reached that decision three years earlier. Subsequently, the extended family did the same. Finally, the state carried out its decision by placing her in care and assigning her to a caregiver's house, giving her a mattress to sleep on and imposing on her several responsibilities which no child should have to endure. Priscilla changed nappies when she was seven years old. At the age of twelve, she carried a 250-kilogram bag of flour on her head from the market to her house, and her shoes were so bad that the ground became familiar with the names of her feet. At the age of ten, she had discovered something that most people don't manage to put off throughout their entire lives: you'll never have anyone to save you. Even when you're ten and exhausted, and your shoes are held together by either faith or just by habit, the hero in your own story has to be yourself. Most people would have stopped. Priscilla took notes. At the age of thirteen, Priscilla joined an adoptive family, and at that moment she had a bed and, for the first time, she possessed shoes with no holes. Priscilla carefully and quietly saved up every lunch dollar until she had enough money to buy herself a complete set of clothes so that she might feel like a person with a future. She realized what the world would not teach her for years in a formal manner: that resources are finite, that priorities matter, and that the person who controls their own narrative is the one who controls their own destiny. By the age of fifteen, she had worked out that MBA programs charge $80,000 to explain. In her adopted family, she behaved as the older sister to each of the children by one year and at the same time took on responsibility for all of them. Every time they broke something, it was she who was punished; every time they cried, it was she who had to comfort them; and whenever the house needed holding together, she was the one providing support. Priscilla hadn't acquired resilience from a motivational poster; she had learned it by becoming the load-bearing wall of a family that never quite belonged to her. When she got to the United States, the land of opportunity, the country where her dream had been carried across the ocean, she remained silent. It was not because she had nothing to say, but because, after many years of careful observation, she had concluded that if you speak too early, people will cut you off, that asking questions gets you punished, and that the safest version of yourself is the one which nobody notices until the moment when you decide to become impossible to ignore. She attended college, but they stated that she did not have the financial means to stay on campus; they explained that the other students had tried going to college but had then left, so she should stay at home. They said that she was a burden and also claimed that she had been chosen, which meant that she had a duty and that duty involved paying the tuition for two other children in Africa while at the same time paying for her own. Hence she had two jobs. Burnout set in upon her just as it does in all the people who have to carry a heavy burden for too long without anyone ever asking whether they need help. She got sick, lost her job, and the bills piled up while her savings were exhausted. She had to go to the hospital more times, and every person who had come to her for financial support left her as soon as she had nothing left to give. Seated in the quiet apartment, with the rent in arrears and her tuition fees still unpaid and her body exhausted, she carried out the action that a mad genius takes when all conventional possibilities have been exhausted. She refused. In a quiet fashion, in a tenacious way, just like a person who has been putting up with unbearable situations since the age of six and who has never managed to stop. She prayed, drew up plans, and applied for every opportunity that arose. Although it was difficult, she still attended class, since at some point between the time she was in the foster home and the period when she was wearing the flour sack and having taken on the two jobs and going through burnout, she had decided: She wasn't going to allow the shadows to have control over her. A person who is called a Mad Genius isn't someone who is brilliantly gifted and who has access to a laboratory full of unlimited resources along with a crowd cheering them on. On the contrary, a Mad Genius is the kind of person who comes up against a system designed to break them and then figures out how that system works. They accept every difficulty and ask themselves, 'What am I being taught by this?' and, although they take on more than their fair share for a period of time that goes beyond what is reasonable, they never end up feeling bitter but instead become sharper. Priscilla is not a warning tale, nor is she a tragedy. Here is her origin story. The girl who wore broken shoes to school, saved her lunch money, took beatings meant for other children, crossed an ocean, worked two jobs, got sick, lost everything, and kept going anyway. She is a mad genius. She always was. The shadows had not yet realized that she was composed of light. Concept Explanation: Priscilla's story is a classic example of a Mad Genius origin scenario: instead of being born with special abilities under unusual circumstances, she acquired them as a result of circumstances meant to destroy her. I chose the short story format because it is impossible to sum up her life and must instead be experienced. The narrative moves slowly from her childhood survival through to her adolescent resourcefulness and then on to a crisis in young adulthood, thereby illustrating the traditional origin story pattern: the ordinary world, growing difficulties, apparent failure, and the refusal that is typical of the hero. The reason for the 'Mad Genius' reframe is that Priscilla's genius, by any measure, was not conventional; it was strategic, adaptive, and a reaction to the necessity she faced. She gained the ability to allocate resources when she was twelve, acquired skills in organizational resilience during her teenage years, and learned crisis management in her early adulthood, all because survival required it. The whole point of the article is that people who are ignored by the world often have the most remarkable minds. What we need to do is pay attention.

I did not grow up with a library nearby. In Liberia in my village Gaha Hill, where I spent my early childhood, books were not always accessible. When I immigrated to the United States, I discovered something I had never had before: free books, available to anyone, simply waiting to be picked up. That’s how I found the book that changed everything for me. It was sitting in a donation box at school, the kind most people ignore. The book was Reengineering the Corporation: A Manifesto for Business Revolution by Michael Hammer and James Champy. No one told me to read it or suggested it. I picked it up because the title spoke to a question I’d always wondered about: what does it truly mean to change a broken system? I didn’t pick it up for fun. I needed a way to think about a question that has always driven me: why do systems meant to help people so often let them down? I lost my mother to Hepatitis B that turned into liver cirrhosis because my family in Liberia couldn’t afford treatment. I lost my brother for the same reason, after he couldn’t get care in time. I grew up watching healthcare, social, and economic systems quietly fail people not through big events, but through inefficiency, inaccessibility, and a lack of redesign for those they should serve. When I read Hammer and Champy’s main idea that organizations shouldn’t just work faster but should rethink what they do and why, it made sense to me right away. They were describing what I had seen all my life. Systems get patched and changed for years, but no one asks the tough questions: Should this process even exist? Should this barrier be there? Should a family have to lose someone because the system was never changed to help them? That idea changed my career goals in a way that years of experience alone couldn’t. I’m a first-generation Liberian immigrant and a senior at the University of Minnesota, studying Economics and Healthcare Management. Before reading this book, I knew I wanted to work in healthcare leadership and public policy. After reading it, I realized I shouldn’t just push for small fixes to broken systems. Instead, I should do what Hammer and Champy suggest: start with the patient, the family, the community, and build the process from there. That change has shaped how I tackle every problem now. When I mentor first-generation and immigrant students, I don’t ask how to make the system a bit easier. I ask what the student really needs and work backward. When I think about healthcare policy, I don’t ask how to fix the current model. I ask what a system built from the ground up for vulnerable communities would look like. Reengineering isn’t just a business idea to me. It’s a way of seeing the world. A donated book in a school box gave me that chance. That’s what Barbara Cain worked to protect: the access point. It’s the moment when someone who needs an idea finds it by chance, by accident, when they need it. Libraries aren’t just buildings with books. They are places of possibility. They’re where someone like me, from Liberia, can reach into a box and find the idea that changes everything. Reengineering the Corporation didn’t just shape my goals. It gave me the words to express a purpose I already felt. That’s what books do. That’s why Barbara’s work matters. And that’s why I’ll never stop reading.

When people hear "woman of color pursuing higher education," they usually think of resilience. Resilience has played a role in my journey, but it is not the word that truly captures my story. For me, the word is responsibility. I was born in Liberia and lost my mother when I was six. Later, my brother passed away because healthcare barriers kept him from getting timely treatment. These experiences taught me lessons no classroom could: talent and hard work are not always enough to create opportunity. Too often, a person's future depends on factors they cannot control, such as where they are born, their family's income, or whether they can access the care they need. When I moved to the United States as a teenager, I brought more than just a suitcase. I carried the hopes of my family, who believed education could open doors that were closed to earlier generations. As a first-generation college student, I had to figure out systems that no one around me had experienced before. There was no guidebook or roadmap, just determination. Today, I am working toward degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota because I want to learn how systems affect people's lives and how to improve them. My goal is to become a healthcare leader who expands access, affordability, and opportunity for underserved communities. I hope fewer families will face the losses my family did simply because they lacked resources. My education is not just an investment in my own future. It is also an investment in the people I hope to serve. Through mentoring, community service, and supporting educational programs in both Minnesota and Liberia, I have learned that success matters most when it helps others. Every achievement I reach is a door I can keep open for someone else. This scholarship would ease the financial burden of completing my education and allow me to spend more time on academics, leadership, and service. Even more, it would help turn my vision into real action. I am not earning a degree to show I can overcome hardship. I am doing it because I believe hardship should not decide anyone's future. My story started with loss, but it will not end that way. Through education, I hope to create a legacy of opportunity, advocacy, and service that reaches beyond my own life. The biggest impact of this scholarship would not be what it does for me, but what it lets me do for others.

Heavy Metal Means Hope and Survival to Me The doctor said the words, and I heard my mother die twice. I was nineteen years old when I was diagnosed with Hepatitis B, the same disease that had already taken her from me. No cure, no cure was running through my brain. I didn't think about treatment plans. I thought: this is how my story ends the same way hers did. Fear arrived all at once, and it brought a silence I didn't know how to fill. A friend named Mara filled it with Black Sabbath. I am Ruth Socree, a first-generation Liberian immigrant and senior at the University of Minnesota pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management. I lost my mother to Hepatitis B. I lost my brother to delayed medical care and financial barriers that should never have existed. My academic and professional goal is to become a healthcare leader and economist who dismantles the systems that killed them, expanding access, fixing policy, and making sure fewer families bury people they didn't have to lose. Heavy metal didn't just help me cope. It rebuilt me. When the diagnosis hit, I was already navigating college, financial hardship, and the particular exhaustion of being a first-generation student with no roadmap and no safety net. I was drowning quietly. Then came the riffs. Then came the drums. Then came the realization that heavy metal had been doing what I needed all along: taking unbearable weight and transforming it into something that makes you throw your fist in the air instead of giving up. Black Sabbath's Master of Reality became my most-played album during treatment. "Children of the Grave" hit differently when you've actually stared at your own mortality because it isn't a song about despair. It's a demand. Believe in a better future. Build it. Now. I took that personally. I still do. My favorite bands are Black Sabbath, Metallica, and Pantera. "Walk" came on during a particularly brutal week of managing symptoms, coursework, and zero dollars, and something about Dimebag's guitar just rearranged my spine. Heavy metal has a particular genius for making you feel the weight of everything, then making you feel powerful enough to carry it anyway. That's not a coincidence. That's philosophy with distortion. I need this scholarship because earlier this year, I made the hardest financial decision of my life: I left both of my jobs to protect my health and keep up with the demands of a dual-degree program. As a low-income, first-generation student managing a chronic illness, that choice came at a real cost. I am not writing that to perform struggle; I am writing it because it is true, and because this scholarship exists precisely for students who are grinding through something real while refusing to stop moving forward. The financial relief would allow me to concentrate fully on my education, my volunteer work supporting immigrant students, and the nonprofit I co-founded that serves vulnerable communities in rural areas with health awareness, without financial instability quietly undermining all of it. Heavy metal taught me that strength and suffering are not opposites. They occupy the same space. The best metal doesn't pretend the darkness isn't there. It walks straight into it, turns up the volume, and dares you to do the same. That's how I approach healthcare inequity. That's how I approach my own illness. That's how I approach every room I walk into as someone who was never supposed to make it this far. Medicine kept me alive. Heavy metal reminded me why I wanted to stay. My career will be dedicated to building healthcare systems worthy of the people they serve. I will carry Black Sabbath, Metallica, and Pantera into every boardroom, policy meeting, and community clinic I ever enter, maybe not literally. Still, in everything those bands gave me: the refusal to be quiet, the belief that the future can be different, and the absolute conviction that surviving is only the beginning.

No one in my family had ever filled out a college application. No one could explain financial aid, help me with a course catalog, or warn me about the hidden rules that others seemed to know. Being a first-generation college student was more than just being the first. It meant feeling alone in a way that is hard to describe to anyone who has not experienced it. I grew up in Liberia. I lost my mother to Hepatitis B when I was six. My brother died at 14 when we were adopted because we could not afford the medical care that might have saved him. I went through foster care and financial struggles when we moved to the United States, always hoping that education could help me rebuild what I had lost. Every step I took in higher education, I took without guidance. I faced every form, every deadline, and every decision on my own, and sometimes I missed them altogether. There were nights when I doubted I would make it. But I did. Now, I am a junior at the University of Minnesota, working toward degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management. Those losses did more than shape me; they gave me a clear goal. I want to become a health economist and healthcare leader who works to fix the systems that failed my mother and brother. This is not just an idea for me; it is my mission. I want to help build organizations and policies so that a family's income does not decide whether they get care, so the gaps that left the people I loved behind begin to close, and so being poor and sick does not mean being left behind. I volunteer with programs that support first-generation and immigrant students because I remember exactly how it felt to need someone who understood and not find anyone. I co-founded Hope & Smile Foundation to provide donated food, education, and community support to vulnerable children and older adults in Minnesota during the holidays. I never thought about waiting until I was stable to give back. This scholarship would help close a real financial gap in my junior year. I have no financial aid, no job income, and I am managing a chronic illness that caused the death of my mother and brother while finishing a dual degree. This support would give me the stability I need to finish what I started. I was the first in my family to walk through these doors. I intend to keep them open for everyone who comes after me.

Many people think you can only be selfless when life is easy, but I have learned that is not true. The times that shaped me most were the difficult ones, when helping someone meant giving up something I needed as well. I am a first-generation Liberian immigrant and a senior at the University of Minnesota, studying Economics and Healthcare Management. I lost my mother when I was six. My brother passed away because he could not get medical care in time, held back by financial barriers that should never decide who lives. I experienced foster care, poverty, and years of uncertainty that could have made me focus only on myself. But those experiences taught me to support others. The people who changed my life were not the wealthiest or most powerful. They were the ones who stayed. While working toward my degree, I have helped pay for my family members’ education in Liberia because I know how much education can change a life. Sometimes I had to set aside my own needs. I never saw those sacrifices as losses. They were investments in someone else’s future, just as someone once invested in mine. I co-founded Hope & Smile Africa Foundation to help vulnerable children and older adults in rural Liberia with food, clothing, education, and community support. I started this work even while I was still struggling myself, organizing fundraising and support from afar because the people we serve could not wait for my situation to improve. Seeing a child receive school supplies and knowing that it shows someone cares about their future is what motivates me to continue. Here at home, I volunteer with mentorship and financial literacy programs for immigrant and first-generation college students. I understand how confusing it can be to go through higher education without anyone to guide you. That is why I try to be the person I once needed, helping students with scholarship applications, financial aid, and encouraging them to feel they belong, even in places that were not made for them. Doing this work has never been easy. I have continued to serve while dealing with a chronic illness, working several jobs, and, most recently, after leaving both jobs to take care of my health while finishing a tough dual-degree program. For me, perseverance is not just an idea. It means choosing every day to keep giving, even when it is difficult. Michael Rudometkin understood that life is measured not by what you accumulate but by the people you lift along the way. I have tried to live that way for a long time before I had a name for it.

Some plans begin with ambition. Mine began with a funeral. I was six years old when my mother died of Hepatitis B. I was fourteen when I lost my brother to delayed medical care treatment that existed, that could have saved him, that our family could not afford. I moved through foster care, financial instability, and the particular silence of growing up in systems that were not built for people like me. At nineteen, a doctor told me I had Hepatitis B, the same disease that killed my mother. In that moment, I understood something I had been circling my entire life: the healthcare system does not fail people randomly. It fails them by design. Someone needs to fix the design. That someone is going to be me. I have a plan. I am a first-generation Liberian immigrant pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota, graduating Spring 2027. My goal is to become a health economist and nonprofit healthcare leader dedicated to improving access and affordability for underserved communities, built on specific milestones, honest numbers, and no room for drift. The Financial Reality My estimated costs for the remaining two years at the University of Minnesota are approximately $56,000, covering tuition, living expenses, and academic materials. My current financial aid covers roughly $28,000, leaving a gap of $28,000 across my final two years. Earlier this year, I made the difficult decision to leave both of my jobs to protect my health and preserve my academic performance while managing a chronic illness and a dual-degree program simultaneously. That decision was necessary. It was also costly. I am currently navigating my remaining years with no employment income, a shrinking savings buffer, and a significant shortfall that I am closing through scholarships, emergency aid applications, and disciplined budgeting. This scholarship directly addresses that gap. Beyond graduation, I have mapped the full financial arc. Graduate school MPH or MHA, targeting the University of Minnesota School of Public Health, Johns Hopkins Bloomberg, or Harvard T.H. Chan, with enrollment beginning Fall 2027, will cost between $40,000 and $60,000 over two years. I will fund this through research assistantships, graduate fellowships, and continued scholarship applications. Target debt at graduate completion: zero. That is not optimism. That is the plan. The Five-Year Roadmap Spring 2027: Graduate with dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management. Secure admission to a top MPH or MHA program beginning Fall 2027. 2027–2029: Complete graduate training. Pursue research focused on healthcare access for immigrant and low-income populations. Formalize Hope & Smile Africa Foundation, the nonprofit I co-founded, providing food, clothing, and educational support to vulnerable children and elderly individuals in rural Liberia, with a sustainable board structure and recurring funding streams. 2029–2031: Move into director-level nonprofit healthcare leadership. Develop and launch a policy framework to improve healthcare delivery in Liberia, funded by the Gates Foundation, the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation, or USAID. Build the organization that makes the losses my family experienced less common and eventually preventable. What This Requires Money. Mentorship. Discipline. And the daily commitment to work the plan without losing sight of its purpose. Joe Gilroy kept his plan in his shirt pocket. I keep mine in a document I return to every week, adjusting, refining, and holding myself accountable to specifics rather than intentions. My mother deserved a healthcare system that worked. My brother deserved one, too. I am building it one deliberate, documented, fully-funded step at a time.

At six years old, I lost my mother to Hepatitis B. At fourteen, I lost my brother to delayed medical care and financial barriers that should never have decided whether he lived. Before I understood healthcare policy or economics, I understood something more fundamental: that the difference between survival and loss is often just access to a doctor, to a resource, to one person willing to show up. That understanding became my vision. I am a first-generation immigrant and senior at the University of Minnesota pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management. I grew up in foster care, financial hardship, and the particular invisibility of navigating systems designed for people with more resources than I had. I know what it feels like to be on the wrong side of every gap: the healthcare gap, the wealth gap, the opportunity gap. I also know what it feels like when someone reaches across that gap and pulls you forward. That is the only thing I have ever wanted to do with my life. The people who inspire me most are not famous. They are the mentor who stayed on the phone an extra twenty minutes when I was overwhelmed. The community member who believed in my potential before I did. The family member who sacrificed opportunities so the next generation might have them. Sloane Stephens' grandparents, Doc and Glo, belong in that same category: people who understood that investing in someone else's future is one of the most powerful things a human being can do. Their legacy lives in every student Sloane's foundation has reached. That kind of impact does not end. It multiplies. I try to build that same kind of multiplication into everything I do. I volunteer with programs supporting immigrant and first-generation students because I remember how isolating it felt to navigate higher education without a roadmap. I teach financial literacy and mentor young people who remind me of who I was, capable, uncertain, and desperately in need of someone to believe in what they hadn't yet become. I also co-founded Hope & Smile Foundation, where I drive miles to collect food, used clothing, and educational support for vulnerable children and homeless elderly individuals in Minnesota during the holidays. I did not wait until I was stable to give back. I gave back while I was still building my own foundation, because the people we serve could not wait. My education is preparing me to expand that impact beyond what individual service alone can reach. As a future healthcare leader and health economist, I want to address the systemic conditions that determine whether entire communities receive care, not just individual patients, but the policies, funding structures, and organizational decisions that shape what is possible for millions of people. I want to build and lead organizations that close the gaps my family fell through. I want fewer children to grow up the way I did, not because their circumstances were erased, but because the systems around them finally worked. The change I am determined to create is a world where a person's zip code, income, or background does not determine their access to healthcare, education, or opportunity, not as an abstract goal but as a practical, measurable, achievable reality, built one policy, one program, and one person at a time. Sloane Stephens understood something early that took me longer to name: that what you build for others outlasts everything you build for yourself. That is the legacy I am working toward. And I am just getting started.

I did not choose this career path. Loss chose it for me. I lost my mother at six years old. I lost my brother to delayed medical care and financial barriers that should never have determined whether he lived or died. Growing up in a single-parent, low-income household in Liberia, I did not learn about healthcare inequity from a textbook. I learned it from watching people I loved disappear into gaps that money could have closed. Those losses did not break me. They gave me a direction I have never questioned since. I am a first-generation Liberian immigrant and senior at the University of Minnesota pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management. I chose this field because I want to understand the systems that failed my family, how resources are allocated, how policies are designed, and how the distance between a person in crisis and the care they need gets determined by factors that have nothing to do with how much they deserve it. I believe that business knowledge, when driven by genuine purpose, becomes one of the most powerful tools for change available to anyone. Earning this degree will change my life in ways that go far beyond a title or a salary. It will give me the language and the tools to do what I have always known I needed to do. Through economics, I am learning how systems make decisions and where those decisions break down. Through healthcare management, I am learning how organizations can be restructured to reach the people they were built to serve. Together, these degrees are building the foundation for a career dedicated to healthcare accessibility, affordability, and equity for underserved communities. As a low-income, single-parent household student, I know what it costs to be here. There were moments when continuing felt financially impossible when the weight of tuition, living expenses, and the responsibilities I carried outside the classroom made the future feel very far away. I left both of my jobs earlier this year to protect my health and preserve my academic performance, which meant I had to absorb the financial consequences of that decision alone. Every dollar of support I receive is not just money. It is the difference between sustainability and survival. But I have never stopped building. I volunteer with immigrant and first-generation students through mentorship and financial literacy programs. I co-founded Hope & Smile Africa Foundation, which provides food, used clothing, and educational support to vulnerable children and elderly individuals in rural Liberia. I give back even as I struggle myself because I have never believed that service should wait for comfort. Andrea Santore's story resonates with me deeply. She understood that passion and vision are powerful, but that without resources, they remain out of reach for too many people. That is exactly what I have lived. And it is exactly what I intend to spend my career changing. My long-term goal is to become a healthcare leader and economist who helps build systems in which fewer families lose people they love to financial barriers, and in which healthcare is determined by need, not income. Where the next child who grows up the way I did has a fighting chance, not because someone made an exception for them, but because the system was finally built to include them, this degree is how that begins. It is how I honor my mother, my brother, and everyone who deserved better than what they received. And it is how I make sure fewer people have to grieve the way I have.

I never chose faith the way some people describe choosing it in a quiet moment of clarity, kneeling in a sunlit church. I came to faith the way you come to a wall in the dark. You reach for it because you have nothing else to hold onto, and then you realize it was holding you the whole time. I was six years old when my mother died. I was nineteen when I was diagnosed with Hepatitis B, the same disease that killed her. In between those two moments, I lost my brother to delayed medical care and financial barriers, moved through foster care, navigated poverty, and arrived at the University of Minnesota as a first-generation Liberian immigrant with no roadmap and no safety net. Each of those chapters asked the same question of me: Will you keep going? Faith was the only reason my answer stayed yes. I want to be honest about what faith did and did not do for me. It did not remove my hardships. It did not explain why a six-year-old should lose her mother or why a young man should die from a treatable condition because his family could not afford care. Faith did not hand me answers to the questions I brought to God in the hardest nights of my life. What it did was refuse to let despair have the final word. It was the quiet, stubborn presence that met me in the wreckage and said, "This is not the end of your story." It gave me the endurance to believe in a future I could not yet see. When I received my Hepatitis B diagnosis, I sat in that doctor's office and felt history repeating itself. The fear was total. But even then, especially then, something held. I began to understand that faith is not the absence of fear. It is the decision to move forward while fear is still in the room. That decision has shaped everything I have done since. I am now a senior pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management. I volunteer with programs supporting immigrant and first-generation students. I co-founded Hope & Smile Africa Foundation, which provides food, clothing, and educational support to vulnerable children and elderly individuals in rural Liberia. I do these things because my faith has taught me one non-negotiable truth: grace received must become grace extended. The mercy that carried me through loss is not mine to keep. It was always meant to move through me toward someone else. That conviction will define my career in healthcare leadership and health economics. I want to improve access to care for underserved communities, not as an abstract mission, but as a moral responsibility. My faith will remind me, in every boardroom and policy meeting, that every statistic represents a person made in the image of God. Every access barrier is a family in crisis. Every decision I make carries weight that extends far beyond the spreadsheet. The founders of this scholarship understood something essential: that ambition without integrity is just appetite. That true success is measured not only by what you build, but by how you build it and who you bring with you. I carry that same belief into everything I pursue. Faith did not make my life easier. It made me someone who could bear the difficulty and then turn it into purpose. That is the gift I did not ask for and cannot put down.

The Missing Word: Stuttering My Way Through Life. The word was "Wednesday." Not "otorhinolaryngology." Not "Worcestershire." Just Wednesday. Unfortunately, Wednesday and I had been enemies for years. I stood at the front of my college classroom, PowerPoint glowing behind me, twenty pairs of eyes glowing in front of me. I had spent a week preparing this presentation. I knew every statistic, every policy implication, every transition slide. I had not prepared for Wednesday. "On W-W-W" The word folded its arms and refused to come. My classmates waited. My professor waited. The clock on the wall, I was convinced, slowed down specifically for this moment. I could feel the heat moving up my neck, arriving at my face right on schedule, as it always does, as if my body enjoys announcing what my mouth cannot. I knew the word. I have always known the word. But knowing a word and saying a word are two entirely different things when you have a stutter. "On that day," I said finally. A few students nodded. The presentation continued. Nobody laughed. Nobody pointed. Nobody, it appeared, cared at all. To everyone else: a trivial moment. A blip. A single missing word in a twenty-minute presentation. To me: it followed me home. I thought about it while brushing my teeth. I replayed it while walking to class. I stared at the ceiling with it at midnight, conducting a thorough post-mortem on a single syllable. I could explain the economics of healthcare reform. I could discuss policy frameworks that affect millions of lives. I had co-founded a nonprofit operating across an ocean. And yet. Wednesday. For weeks, I stopped raising my hand. Then a younger student approached me after a volunteer meeting. "I really liked what you said today," she told me. I almost laughed. "Even after I got stuck on half the words?" She looked genuinely confused. "I didn't notice that." I stood very still. Didn't notice. For years, I had assumed my stutter entered every room before I did, that it was the headline, the first impression, the thing people organized their understanding of me around. I noticed every stumble. Every elongated pause. Every sound that doubled back on itself without permission. She hadn't noticed any of it. What if the thing I was most afraid of mattered far less to the world than it did to me? That question rearranged something. I still stutter. Wednesday still wins sometimes. So do certain names, the word "particularly," and any sentence that begins with the letter F on a bad day. My mouth and my brain have an arrangement I was never consulted about, and they will probably keep it forever. But I raise my hand anyway. I give presentations anyway. I model on runways anyway. I interview for things I'm not sure I'll get anyway. I speak haltingly, imperfectly, unstoppably anyway. Because I finally understood what that girl's confusion was actually telling me: The audience was never grading my fluency. They were listening to what I had to say. Most people would call a missing word a trivial problem. And they would be right. But sometimes the most trivial things crack you open just enough to let the light in. Wednesday still owes me an apology. I've decided I don't need it anymore.

The most painful part of my grandfather's dementia was not watching him forget things. It was watching him forget us. Before dementia, my grandfather was the gravitational center of our family. He was the person relatives called when they needed wisdom. This person remembered every birthday, every story, every thread of family history that connected us to where we came from. In Liberia, where our family lived, he was not just a grandfather. He was an institution. People in our community came to him for guidance, the way people go to elders everywhere, because some people carry a particular kind of knowing that cannot be replaced once it is gone. Dementia took that from him. And then it took him from us. The early changes seemed almost manageable. Misplaced objects. Repeated questions. Conversations he couldn't hold onto. We told ourselves these were small things. They were not small things. They were the first evidence of a disease that would spend the next year systematically dismantling the person we loved, stripping away his recognition of faces, his ability to perform basic tasks, his connection to the life he had built, and the people he had built it with. Toward the end, he could not identify a spoon. He could not identify us. The man who had spent decades being the person everyone else leaned on became someone who needed everything done for him, by people he could no longer name. We did it anyway. Because that is what his love had taught us to do. What made this experience uniquely devastating was where it happened. My grandfather lived in Liberia, where specialized dementia care is nearly nonexistent. There were no memory care facilities within reach. There were almost no medical resources equipped to help a family navigate what we were watching unfold. There was very little public understanding of dementia, which meant there was also very little compassion for it. Our family became his entire care system. We learned as we went, doing everything we could with almost nothing to guide us, fighting a disease we did not fully understand inside a healthcare system that was not equipped to help us understand it. For nearly a year, my grandfather lived without recognizing the people who loved him most. We fed him, comforted him, sat beside him, and preserved his dignity every single day, not because he knew our names, but because we knew his. Because the disease had taken his memory of us, but it had not taken our memory of him. And we refused to let him disappear without being seen. He passed away after that year. I have thought about him constantly in the years since. I have thought about what it would have meant for our family if we had access to earlier diagnosis, better resources, more research, more answers. I have thought about the millions of families around the world in under-resourced countries, in underserved communities, in places where dementia is still misunderstood or stigmatized, who are navigating what we navigated, alone and without support. I have thought about Henry Respert, a man I never met but recognize deeply: someone who was the center of everything for the people who loved him, whose diagnosis reshaped every life around his, whose story is a testament to why this research cannot wait. My grandfather's illness did not send me into neuroscience or biomedical research directly. What it did was permanently alter the way I understand what healthcare is actually for. I am pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota because I believe that the gap between what medical research discovers and what vulnerable communities actually receive is one of the most consequential and least addressed problems in global health. Treatments that exist but are inaccessible. Diagnoses that come too late due to a lack of resources or awareness among families. Care systems that were never designed for people who look like my grandfather, who live where he lived, who have what he had. I want to close that gap. Through healthcare policy, health economics, and nonprofit leadership, I want to build systems that bring the best of what research produces to the communities that need it most, including communities in sub-Saharan Africa, where dementia remains profoundly misunderstood, and support is almost absent. This scholarship honors Henry Respert by investing in students who understand, from the inside, why this work matters. I understand it from the inside. I understand what it costs a family to watch someone disappear without answers. I understand what it means to provide care without resources, to love someone through a disease that makes them a stranger, to grieve a person who is still alive. That understanding is not something I read in a textbook. It is something my grandfather taught me not with words, but by the end, with his presence. With the fact that even when he could not reach us, we could still reach him. With the reminder that dignity is not something a disease can fully take away, as long as someone is still willing to protect it. Dementia took his memories. It left me with a purpose I cannot put down: to help build a world where fewer families fight this battle alone, where research reaches the people who need it, and where every patient, regardless of where they live or what they have, is treated as someone whose life and mind and story matter. Henry Respert's life mattered. My grandfather's life mattered. That is exactly why this work does too.

The most meaningful service I have organized did not begin with funding, a formal structure, or a team. It began with a question I could not stop asking myself: If I know what it feels like to be forgotten, what is my responsibility to make sure others aren't? I am a first-generation Liberian immigrant and senior at the University of Minnesota pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management. I lost my mother at six years old. I lost my brother to delayed medical care and financial barriers that should never have existed. Before I understood leadership, I understood what it feels like to need help and not know whether it will come. That understanding did not make me bitter. It handed me a responsibility I did not ask for and have never been able to put down. That responsibility led me to co-found Hope & Smile Africa Foundation, an initiative providing food, used clothing, school supplies, and community support to vulnerable children and elderly individuals in rural Liberia. One of the service projects I organized required building something from nothing, fundraising across borders, communicating with community partners, coordinating volunteers, and ensuring resources reached people who had no guarantee they would. The logistics were hard. The harder thing was understanding what we were really delivering. The food mattered. The clothing mattered. But what mattered most was the message beneath it all: you have not been forgotten. In communities where invisibility is chronic, that message is its own kind of lifeline. Closer to home, I volunteer with mentorship and financial literacy programs supporting immigrant and first-generation students at the University of Minnesota. I know the specific disorientation of navigating higher education with no family blueprint, no one who has sat in these offices, filed this paperwork, or survived this particular kind of uncertainty before you. I show up as that person for students who are where I once was, because someone showing up for me changed what I believed was possible. These experiences taught me the essential difference between leadership and servant leadership. Traditional leadership asks, "How do I succeed?" Servant leadership asks: what do people need to move forward, and how do I help provide it? The most powerful leaders I have ever encountered were not the loudest people in the room. They were the ones who stayed after the room emptied to make sure no one was left behind. Service creates a ripple effect that is impossible to measure fully. A meal. A conversation that reframes someone's beliefs about their future. A child who receives school supplies and understands, for the first time, that someone outside their community thinks their education matters. These moments seem small. They are not small. I know because people invested in me when I had no reason to expect it, and that investment is the reason I am still here, still building, still showing up. The true measure of leadership is not how many people follow you. It is how many people move forward because you chose to serve them first. That is the only kind of leader I have ever wanted to be. And it is the kind I work toward every single day.

My awkward thing is that I never fit the mold of the spaces I choose to enter. And I choose the hardest ones on purpose. I am 5'2" with a stutter. I model on runways and speak in front of crowds. Modeling agencies want 5'7" to 6'0". Audiences want fluency. On paper, I am not the person who belongs in any of those rooms. I walk into all of them anyway. I am a first-generation Liberian immigrant and senior at the University of Minnesota pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management. I grew up watching doors close on my mother, who died of Hepatitis B; on my brother, who died from delayed medical care that should have saved him. I learned early that the world has a habit of deciding who belongs and who doesn't, whose life is worth fighting for and whose isn't. I decided early that I would spend my life fighting that habit. Growing up, my height and my stutter made me an easy target. Comments about my height were constant, dressed up as feedback, landing like verdicts. In conversations, I fought to get words out while watching people's expressions shift, wondering whether they were hearing what I said or just how I said it. For a long time, I treated both as liabilities, something to apologize for. Then I understood something that rearranged everything: confidence is not believing you are perfect. Confidence is deciding you belong even when every signal in the room says otherwise. So I kept modeling. I kept speaking. I co-founded a nonprofit providing food, clothing, and educational support to vulnerable children in rural Liberia. I mentor students who remind me of who I was, uncertain, capable, and desperately in need of someone to believe in what they hadn't yet become. Reading about Charles Brazelton stopped me. A left-handed kid who shot hoops with his right hand. Terrible at basketball, extraordinary in the water. His own awkward thing. His own unrepeatable way of moving through the world was stolen at twenty-three by gun violence. That is what gun violence does that doesn't get said enough: it doesn't just take lives. It takes specificity. It takes the particular, irreplaceable version of a person that no one else will ever be. The world needed exactly who Charles was. And the world lost him. I think about my own losses and what they might have built if systems had not failed them first. That is why I am building a career in healthcare leadership. Not to fix an abstract problem. To honor specific people. My stutter taught me that having a voice matters more than having a perfect one. Being different is not my awkward thing. It is my entire purpose.

Most people enter the nonprofit sector because they want to help others. I entered it because helping others is the reason I survived. I am a first-generation college student at the University of Minnesota pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management. But before I understood policy or public health, I understood something more fundamental: what it feels like to need help and have no idea whether it will come. I was six years old when my mother died. Years later, I lost my brother not from an untreatable illness, but to delayed medical care and financial barriers. That distinction matters. He did not have to die. He died because systems failed him. I carry that wound into every room, every decision, every goal I set for my future. After my mother's death, I moved through foster care, instability, and the particular grief of watching doors close simply because no one had the resources to hold them open. These experiences did not make me bitter. They handed me a responsibility I did not ask for and cannot put down. I have learned that the distance between hope and hopelessness is often one person. One mentor who stays on the phone an extra ten minutes. One organization that funds what the government won't. One scholarship that tells a student their future is still possible. I know this because I have stood on both sides of that distance. While navigating college, financial hardship, and my own health challenges, I kept showing up for others. I volunteer with programs supporting immigrant and first-generation students because I know the specific disorientation of having to decode systems no one in your family has faced before. I teach financial literacy to middle schoolers, mentor young people who look like I did five years ago, uncertain, capable, and desperately in need of someone who believes in what they haven't yet become. Also co-founded Hope & Smile Foundation, which provides food, clothing, educational support, and community assistance to vulnerable children and elderly individuals in rural areas. I did not wait until I was successful to give back. I gave back while I was still struggling. Service was never a reward I saved for later. It became the structure that held me together. Those experiences ultimately taught me: charity addresses the immediate wound. Systems change prevents it from happening again. That is why I chose Economics and Healthcare Management. I want to understand not just how to help one family, but how to reshape the conditions that failed thousands of them. I want to work at the intersection of public health, economic policy, and nonprofit leadership, building organizations and advocacy strategies that address healthcare inequities, expand access to care, and create durable opportunities for communities that have been historically overlooked. I know these communities are not statistics. I have been one of them. I know what it is to live with uncertainty, to navigate systems that seem impossible, to wonder whether anyone in power actually sees your life. My career will be organized around making sure they build programs where fewer children lose parents to preventable illness, fewer students abandon their ambitions because poverty runs out before their potential does, and fewer families feel invisible to the institutions built to serve them. This work has never been a career path. It has always been a commitment shaped by loss, sustained by responsibility, and aimed at a world more honest about what human beings owe each other. The measure of my success is not how far I rise. It is how many people rise because I chose to reach back.

If my brother were still here, I don’t think we would have started a business to make money. We would have built something to help other families avoid the kind of loss that took him and my mother from me too soon. When I was fourteen, I lost my brother because delayed medical care and financial barriers kept him from getting help in time. I lost my mother for similar reasons years earlier. These losses changed how I see healthcare, poverty, and dignity. Long before I studied economics or healthcare, I knew what it was like to watch loved ones suffer while help came too late. If my brother were here now, I think we would have started a healthcare group focused on making care more affordable for families who need it most, especially immigrants and low-income communities. We would offer outreach, education, and resource support so families would not have to choose between getting care and meeting basic needs. My brother was smart, caring, and quietly strong. Even as a child, he looked out for others, and I try to do the same. I often think about the future he missed and the difference he could have made if he had more time. Now, I am studying Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota because I want to turn my grief into real change. In many ways, the work I hope to do in healthcare is for both my future and the future my brother never got to have. Although my brother never had the opportunity to grow up, his life still shapes who I try to be every day.

My journey to higher education began long before I ever stepped onto a college campus. It began with sacrifice. I am a first-generation college student and a senior at the University of Minnesota pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management. Like many immigrant families, my family's story is rooted in resilience, faith, and the belief that education can change the trajectory of future generations. When I came to the United States, I quickly learned that opportunity and access are not the same thing. As an immigrant, I had to navigate unfamiliar systems, cultural differences, financial hardship, and the pressure of building a future without a roadmap. As a first-generation college student, I had no one in my family who could explain financial aid, internships, networking, or how to navigate higher education. Every step forward required learning through trial and error and persistence. My challenges did not end there. I lost my mother at six years old and later lost my brother due to delayed medical care and financial barriers. After my mother's death, I experienced instability, foster care, and the difficult reality of growing up without the support system many students rely on. There were moments when survival felt more realistic than dreaming. Yet those experiences became the foundation of my purpose. Rather than allowing hardship to define me, I chose to let it guide me toward service. Today, I volunteer with organizations that support first-generation and immigrant students through mentorship and financial literacy education. I also co-founded Hope & Smile Foundation, which provides food, clothing, and educational support to vulnerable children and elderly individuals. Through these experiences, I have learned that true success is not measured by how far we rise alone, but by how many people we bring with us. My education is preparing me to create an impact on a larger scale. By studying Economics and Healthcare Management, I am gaining the tools to address healthcare inequities that disproportionately affect low-income, immigrant, and underserved communities. My long-term goal is to become a healthcare leader and health economist focused on improving healthcare accessibility, affordability, and equity. I want to help build systems in which fewer families experience preventable suffering because care is delayed, inaccessible, or financially out of reach. As an immigrant and first-generation student, I understand the weight of carrying not only my own dreams, but also the hopes of those who sacrificed before me. Every class I complete and every obstacle I overcome honors my family's resilience and the opportunities they worked so hard to create. I believe education is one of the most powerful forms of generational change. My goal is to use mine to ensure that the next generation of immigrant students sees barriers not as limits, but as starting points for transformation. By turning my experiences into service, advocacy, and leadership, I hope to create opportunities for others just as those before me created opportunities for me.

5. What is your favorite TXT song, and why? My favorite TXT song is “9 and Three Quarters (Run Away).” As a first-generation immigrant and college student, I often feel like I am finding my way in a world that is not always welcoming. The song’s message about hope, belonging, and holding onto dreams during tough times means a lot to me. After losing my mother and later my brother, there were many days when life felt too much to handle. “Run Away” helps me remember that even when things are hard, there is always a chance for something better ahead. 6. Have you had a chance to see TXT live in concert before? No, I have not. As a low-income student, I have found it difficult to attend the TXT concert due to ticket prices, transportation, and hotel costs; however, I always watch on YouTube and Weverse. With tuition, housing, healthcare, and helping my family, I could never make a concert. Still, TXT’s music has made a big difference in my life. Their songs have helped me through some of my hardest times and encouraged me when I needed it most. A big shoutout to all MOA who live scream the concert for MOA like us who can't afford to be there. They bring joy and happiness to MOA like me, helping me feel included and present. I appreciate all MOA. 8. How are you currently paying for school? I pay for school with financial aid, scholarships, savings, and work. Until recently, I worked several jobs while going to school full-time. Because of health problems and the demands of my senior year in a dual-degree program, I had to leave my job to focus on my health and studies. Each semester, I have to plan carefully since I do not have a financial safety net. 9. How will the scholarship help you? What gaps can it fill? This scholarship would give me more than just financial help. It would bring stability. It would help pay for tuition, books, school costs, and living expenses, so I could focus on finishing my degree. It would also let me spend more time volunteering, mentoring first-generation students, and supporting vulnerable communities. Instead of worrying about bills, I could focus on becoming the leader and advocate I want to be, and I would be able to create a TXT K-pop club on my campus for MOA, where many MOA like me watch live concerts, and know they belong and are part of the MOA. We would be able to chant, dance, and sing together as one during a live concert, an interview, or a fan meet, and one day we could all raise funds to buy tickets and travel to a live concert. 10. How has TXT influenced you for good? TXT has shown me that growing up is hard, but always possible. Their music speaks honestly about fear, friendship, and the struggles of becoming yourself. As someone who has faced loss, foster care, money problems, health issues, and the challenges of being a first-generation immigrant student, I see my own story in their songs. TXT reminds me that tough times do not define who you are. Their perseverance, humility, and care for their fans inspire me to keep going, even when the future is unclear. 11. How will you use your education to do good in the world? I am studying Economics and Healthcare Management because I want to help build a healthcare system that serves everyone, not just those who can pay for it. After losing my mother and brother to healthcare inequalities and being diagnosed with the same disease as my mother, I saw that many families suffer not because there are no solutions, but because they cannot get the care they need. My goal is to become a healthcare leader and economist who works to make healthcare more accessible, affordable, and fair for underserved communities. I want my work to help prevent loss for other families and give more people the chance to live healthy, dignified lives, no matter their background or income.

From my own life, I learned that purpose is not just found. Sometimes, it grows out of the pain that was supposed to keep you quiet. I am a Liberian immigrant and the first in my family to attend college. I am studying Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota. When I was six, I lost my mother, and at fourteen, I lost my brother because we could not get them the care they needed in time. Long before I learned about healthcare or economics, I knew what it was like to watch loved ones suffer because our family could not afford the help they needed. After my mother died, I went through foster care, instability, and financial struggles at an age when most kids are just learning what it means to feel safe. These challenges did not weaken my sense of purpose. They made it stronger. Today, I mentor immigrant and first-generation students and help with financial literacy programs. I also co-founded the Hope & Smile Africa Foundation to support vulnerable communities in Liberia. My goal is to become a healthcare leader and health economist who works to make healthcare more accessible, affordable, and fair for people who need it most. My experiences showed me that just surviving is not enough. Real purpose starts when you turn your pain into ways to help others.

The toughest part of going to college is not always the classes, the cost, or the long nights. Sometimes, it is believing that your future can be bigger than where you started. I am a Liberian immigrant, an African American student, and the first in my family to attend college at the University of Minnesota, where I am studying Economics and Healthcare Management. Every academic success I have had comes from a background shaped by loss, instability, sacrifice, and resilience. I lost my mother when I was six and my brother when I was fourteen because they could not get timely medical care due to financial barriers. Long before I learned about economics or healthcare, I knew what it was like to watch loved ones suffer because our family could not afford the care they needed. When my mother died, everything changed for me. Some family members told me they could not afford to take care of me or even offer me a place at their table. I ended up in foster care and learned early on how quickly stability can vanish when support systems fail. While other kids were dreaming about their futures, I was learning how to cope with grief, uncertainty, and being left behind. There were many times when going to college felt out of reach. As a low-income, first-generation student, I started college without a clear plan, financial stability, or anyone to guide me through a system that often favors those with more support. I work overnight shifts while taking a full course load because I do not have a financial safety net. Some days, I am so tired that it is hard to focus in class, but I keep going because education was the first thing that made me believe my life could be more than just getting by. Now, my education is about more than just my own success. I chose Economics and Healthcare Management because I saw that what happened to my family was not just bad luck. It was part of bigger problems with healthcare access, costs, and unfair policies. School has given me the words to explain what broke my family apart and the skills to help fix these issues for others. My long-term goal is to become a healthcare leader and health economist focusMy goal is to become a healthcare leader and health economist who works to improve access, affordability, and fairness in healthcare for underserved communities. I want to use data and policy analysis to help build systems where fewer families lose loved ones because care was too late, too expensive, or out of reach. As a Black immigrant woman in fields where people like me are still rare, I also hope to show that leadership in healthcare, economics, and policy can look different. Even while juggling school, overnight jobs, money worries, and family duties, I keep giving back because I know what it is like to struggle quietly and feel unseen. I volunteer with Junior Achievement, teaching financial literacy and economics to immigrant and first-generation students who often lack mentors or guidance. I want young people like me to know that leadership, college, and opportunity are not just for those born into privilege. Outside the United States, I co-founded Hope & Smile Africa Foundation, which helps children and older adults in rural Liberia with food, clothing, education, and other basic needs. I also help support younger family members in Liberia by paying for their tuition, food, electricity, and medical bills because I know how much education and stability can change a person’s life. One of the things I am most proud of is not a title, award, or position. It is what I kept going when it would have been easy to give up. To me, leadership is not about being recognized. It is about taking responsibility and doing the right thing, even when no one notices how hard it is. This scholarship would ease some of the financial stress I still face as I work toward my degree. More importantly, it would help me keep going in school, not just for myself, but to make a real difference for communities that are often left out by the systems meant to help them. My story is not just about getting through hard times. It is about turning hardship into service, grief into purpose, and education into a tool that can help rebuild opportunities for others. I want my life’s work to show that students from underrepresented and low-income backgrounds are not held back by where they start. Sometimes, they become the ones who change the very systems that once let them down.

The biggest challenge for first-generation students is not just paying for college. It is learning to believe you belong in places where no one you know has ever been. I am a Liberian immigrant, an African student, and a first-generation undergraduate at the University of Minnesota, working toward degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management. Every achievement I have comes from a story marked by grief, instability, and resilience. I lost my mother when I was six and my brother when I was fourteen because they could not get timely medical care due to financial barriers. After my mother died, I went through foster care, rejection, and financial hardship at an age when most kids are just starting to feel safe. For a long time, just surviving felt more possible than dreaming about the future. As a first-generation student, I had no guide for how to get through college. No one told me about financial aid, networking, internships, or how to feel confident in spaces often designed for students with family support and privilege. I started college with responsibilities that went far beyond my classes, working overnight shifts, dealing with financial stress, and supporting family back in Liberia. Still, I did not let my challenges limit what I could achieve. Education was the first thing that helped me see my story could be more than just surviving. It gave me words to describe the systems behind my family’s struggles and the tools to help change them. Now, I want to become a healthcare leader and health economist focused on making healthcare more accessible, affordable, and fair for underserved communities. I hope to help build systems in which fewer families suffer because care is delayed, hard to access, or too expensive. But I know that inspiring other first-generation students begins long before I earn a degree or title. I already support students who feel unseen in the education system. By volunteering with Junior Achievement, I teach financial literacy and economic awareness to immigrant and first-generation middle and high school students who often lack mentors or guidance. I want them to know that higher education, leadership, and opportunity are not just for those born into privilege. I teach them what I once needed: real belief and practical tools, not just empty encouragement. I also mentor peers who are dealing with emotional, academic, and financial challenges because I know how lonely college can feel when you are carrying invisible burdens. Sometimes, inspiring someone starts with helping them believe they deserve to be here. Outside the United States, I co-founded Hope & Smile Africa Foundation, which gives food, clothing, and educational support to children and older adults in rural Liberia. Growing up with instability taught me what it is like to struggle quietly and feel forgotten. That is why I promised myself that if I ever had an opportunity, I would use it to help others find their own paths. I want other first-generation students to know that their background does not limit them. It shows their resilience. My story proves that students can come from grief, poverty, foster care, and systemic barriers and still reach places that once seemed out of reach. Most of all, I want first-generation students to know they do not have to wait until they 'make it' to start making a difference. Sometimes, the most meaningful success is making sure your struggles do not stop someone else from dreaming.

Being low-income is difficult, but the biggest challenge is not always about money. It is about finding hope and dreaming while just trying to get by. I learned this at six years old when my mother passed away because we could not get her the medical care she needed in time. Years later, I lost my brother for similar reasons. Long before I studied economics, healthcare, or policy, I knew what it was like to watch loved ones suffer because help arrived too late and survival depended on what a family could afford. When my mother died, everything in my life changed right away. Some family members told me they could not take care of me or even offer me a place at their table. I ended up in foster care and learned early on how quickly life can become unstable when support systems break down. While other kids my age were focused on school and friends, I was learning to cope with grief, uncertainty, and feeling alone. Many times, going to college seemed out of reach. As a low-income, first-generation immigrant, I started school without guidance, financial stability, or anyone who really understood the hidden struggles students like me face. I work overnight shifts while taking full-time classes at the University of Minnesota because I lack a financial safety net. Some days, I am so tired that it is hard to focus in class, but I keep going because education is the first thing that helped me see a future beyond just surviving. Now, I am working toward degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management because I have learned that what happened to my family was not just bad luck. These losses are part of bigger problems with healthcare access, poverty, and unfair policies. Education has given me the words to explain what broke my family apart and the skills to help fix these issues for others. My goal is to become a healthcare leader and health economist who works to improve access, affordability, and fairness in healthcare for people who are often left out. I want to use data and smart policy to help build systems where fewer families lose loved ones because care was too late or too expensive. I am especially committed to speaking up for immigrant, Black, and low-income communities that are often left out of important decisions about healthcare and economic opportunity. But making a difference is not just a future goal for me. Even while facing my own financial struggles, I keep giving back. I volunteer with Junior Achievement, teaching financial skills and economic awareness to immigrant and first-generation students who often lack mentors or opportunities. I also help classmates who feel overwhelmed or alone because I know how hard college can be when you are carrying invisible burdens. Outside the United States, I helped started Hope & Smile Africa Foundation, which gives donated food, used clothing collected from neighbors, friends, coworkers, and basic supplies to children and older adults in rural Liberia. Growing up with so much uncertainty showed me what it is like to struggle quietly and feel forgotten. That is why I promised myself that if I ever had knowledge, opportunity, or influence, I would use it to help others. Higher education is not just changing my future. It is turning my grief into purpose, my survival into leadership, and my hardships into a way to make a real difference for communities that have been overlooked for too long.

I chose to pursue STEM because I have experienced the impact of broken systems firsthand. I lost my mother at six and my brother at fourteen due to delayed medical care and financial barriers. Long before I understood healthcare systems or policy, I understood grief and what it means to watch loved ones suffer while help arrives too late. These experiences taught me early on that for many vulnerable families, survival depends not on strength or effort but on access. This realization shaped my purpose. I am now pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota because I believe STEM can transform inequity into opportunity. For me, STEM is not just about innovation; it is about applying data, research, and systems thinking to address persistent human challenges. As a Black immigrant woman and first-generation college student, I often enter STEM spaces where people like me are underrepresented or absent. In many economics and healthcare classes, I am one of the few Black women and often the only Liberian student. At times, I questioned my place while balancing overnight work shifts, financial hardship, grief, and responsibilities beyond the classroom. Each obstacle strengthened my conviction. Representation in STEM is not symbolic; it is transformational. Communities facing healthcare inequities and systemic barriers deserve leaders who understand these realities personally, not just academically. I aim to become a healthcare leader and health economist who ensures vulnerable populations are visible in policy, healthcare systems, and data-driven decisions. My long-term goal is to improve healthcare access, affordability, and equity for underserved communities through healthcare economics and policy reform. I want to help build systems where fewer families lose loved ones due to delayed, inaccessible, or unaffordable treatment. I am especially committed to addressing disparities affecting Black, immigrant, and low-income populations because I have experienced the human cost of inequity. My commitment to uplifting communities began before college. Despite my own financial hardship, I continued to invest in others. I volunteer with Junior Achievement, teaching financial literacy and economic awareness to first-generation and immigrant students who often lack mentorship and opportunity. I also co-founded Hope & Smile Africa Foundation, which supports children and elderly individuals in rural Liberia with donated food, used clothing, and essential supplies. Growing up with instability taught me what it means to struggle silently and feel forgotten. I promised myself that if I gained knowledge, opportunity, or influence, I would use it to create pathways for others. STEM has given me more than a career path. It provided the language to challenge systems, the tools to build solutions, and the ability to turn personal pain into measurable impact. My goal is not only to succeed in STEM but to help redefine who is seen, heard, and represented. Innovation is most powerful when it includes those who have been overlooked for too long.

“You have power over your mind, not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” Meditations by Marcus Aurelius In Meditations, Marcus Aurelius articulates a philosophy that is both deeply personal and universally challenging: human beings possess significantly less control over life than they assume, yet within this limitation lies the potential for authentic freedom. My central thesis is that this passage transcends a simple argument for emotional resilience or self-discipline. Instead, Aurelius contends that human dignity arises when individuals acknowledge the instability of external circumstances and deliberately cultivate sovereignty over their inner world. Within this framework, strength is not defined by the absence of suffering but by the refusal to allow suffering to dictate one’s moral and psychological identity. At first glance, the passage appears deceptively simple. Contemporary readers frequently interpret it as motivational advice about “staying positive.” However, Aurelius advances a far more philosophically rigorous proposition. The Stoics divided existence into two domains: what is within human control and what lies beyond it. External events, including death, illness, injustice, poverty, rejection, political instability, and loss, fall into the latter category. While individuals may temporarily influence circumstances, they can never fully govern them. The mind, by contrast, remains the ultimate domain of agency. Consequently, Aurelius shifts the locus of human freedom from external achievement to internal discipline. The phrase “you have power over your mind” is particularly significant because Aurelius does not promise control over outcomes themselves. This distinction constitutes the philosophical core of the passage. Human beings instinctively pursue happiness through external stability such as wealth, reputation, relationships, status, security, or success. However, all external structures are inherently vulnerable to collapse, as life is governed by impermanence. Aurelius contends that suffering arises not merely from painful events, but from the mistaken belief that peace depends on controlling what is fundamentally uncontrollable. The second half of the statement, “not outside events,” thus serves as a direct challenge. Aurelius dismantles the illusion of total control to which many individuals cling. Most people interpret suffering as evidence that life is unfair or meaningless. The Stoic perspective, however, rejects this interpretation. External hardship is not an aberration but an inevitable aspect of existence. Ethically, the crucial question is not whether suffering occurs, but whether individuals maintain integrity, reason, and humanity in response to it. The historical context of Meditations further enriches this interpretation. Aurelius composed these reflections while governing the Roman Empire amid war, plague, political unrest, and personal grief. These writings were not abstract philosophical exercises created in comfort; they were acts of psychological survival. Aurelius recognized that even emperorship could not protect an individual from uncertainty, mortality, or loss. His insight is radical precisely because it arises from lived instability rather than theoretical idealism. The concluding sentence, “Realize this, and you will find strength,” reveals the passage's transformative essence. Aurelius deliberately employs the term “realize” to emphasize that strength is not externally bestowed but emerges through intellectual recognition. This realization fundamentally alters how individuals confront adversity. When people accept that external events are beyond complete control, they cease to measure their worth by circumstances. Emotional energy is redirected from resentment, panic, and fear toward self-governance, clarity, and purposeful action. Importantly, Aurelius does not advocate emotional numbness or passivity. Stoicism is often misconstrued as the suppression of feeling, yet Aurelius calls for mastery over one’s reactions. Grief, fear, and pain are intrinsic to the human experience. The critical issue is whether these experiences dominate one’s character. Aurelius maintains that individuals retain the capacity to choose courage, compassion, and moral discipline even amid suffering. Thus, strength becomes an ethical quality rather than a physical one, most evident during periods of instability rather than comfort. The enduring quality of this passage lies in its universality. Throughout history, individuals have faced illness, injustice, uncertainty, and loss. Aurelius’ philosophy remains compelling because it neither offers escape from suffering nor succumbs to despair. Instead, it frames resilience as an act of conscious self-authorship. While external events may alter lives, inflict harm, or destabilize the future, Aurelius asserts that the mind remains the ultimate source of human freedom. The underlying meaning of the passage is therefore profoundly existential: human dignity arises not from controlling the world, but from refusing to surrender oneself to it.

Education matters to me because it gave me something hardship could never take away: hope for a future beyond just getting by. I lost my mother when I was six. Years later, I lost my brother at fourteen because we could not afford timely medical care. Even before college, I knew grief, instability, and what it feels like when systems let families down. After my mother died, some relatives told me they could not care for me or even offer “an extra plate” at their table. I ended up in foster care and saw how quickly a child’s world can fall apart when support is gone. While other kids dreamed about their futures, I was focused on surviving. For a long time, that was my only goal. Education changed that for me. As a Liberian immigrant and first-generation college student at the University of Minnesota, studying Economics and Healthcare Management, I bring more than just my own dreams to class. I carry the sacrifices of those who never had the chance to go to college. I also feel responsible for showing that students from backgrounds like mine deserve a place in spaces that were not made for us. Some days, that responsibility feels overwhelming. In many of my economics and healthcare classes, I am one of the few women and often the only Liberian student. No one speaks my language, and few understand the hidden pressures that first-generation students face while juggling work, grief, financial problems, and fear of failure. I work overnight shifts and take full-time classes because I do not have a financial safety net. Still, I keep going. For me, education is not just about personal success. It means freedom. It is a way to break cycles of poverty, instability, and limited chances. It gives me the power to challenge systems that keep failing families like mine. Most of all, it lets me turn pain into purpose. That purpose guides everything I do. I volunteer with groups that help immigrant and first-generation students through mentoring and teaching financial skills because I know how lonely it can be to face these challenges alone. I also co-founded Hope & Smile Africa Foundation, which gives food, used clothing, and basic supplies to children and older adults in rural Liberia. Even while facing my own financial struggles, I keep serving others because I know what it is like to struggle in silence and feel left out. My long-term goal is to become a healthcare leader and health economist working to make healthcare more accessible, affordable, and fair. I want to help create systems where fewer children lose family members because care was delayed, hard to get, or too expensive. The legacy I want to leave is not about titles or money. I hope my life shows that someone can come from grief, foster care, poverty, and big obstacles and still grow up with kindness. I want young girls who feel unseen, especially immigrant and first-generation girls, to see themselves in places where they were once told they did not belong. If education changed my life, I believe it can change whole communities too.

Being a leader is not about my title, achievements, or how loudly I speak. It comes from my willingness to keep showing up for others, even when I am facing my own challenges. I am a Liberian immigrant and the first in my family to attend college, currently studying Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota. I lost my mother when I was six and my brother when I was fourteen, both times because medical care was delayed due to financial barriers. After my mother died, I went through foster care, instability, and rejection from relatives who said they could not afford to care for me or even offer me a place at their table to eat, calling me "dirt". Those experiences could have broken me, but instead, they taught me resilience, empathy, and responsibility. I also grew up with speech difficulties and stuttering, which made me feel less confident as a child. Often, I felt overlooked or misunderstood before I even had a chance to speak. Sometimes, just talking in class, introducing myself, or asking questions felt overwhelming. Living with special needs showed me what it is like to be in places that are not always patient or understanding. Over time, I learned that leadership is not about being the loudest person in the room. Sometimes, it means speaking up even when you are nervous. Sometimes, it means moving forward even when life keeps telling you to stop. Today, I use my experiences to help others who feel invisible. While managing school, overnight work, and financial challenges, I continue to serve both local and international communities. I volunteer with Junior Achievement, teaching financial literacy and economic awareness to immigrant and first-generation students who often lack mentors or opportunities. I also support classmates who are struggling emotionally, financially, or academically because I know how lonely it can be to go through college without support. Outside the United States, I co-founded Hope & Smile Africa Foundation. This group helps children and older adults in rural Liberia by providing food, used clothing, and other essentials. My own unstable childhood taught me how much people need compassion, dignity, and support during hard times. Service is at the heart of my leadership. By working with people with behavioral and developmental needs, I learned that real leadership requires patience, emotional intelligence, and standing up for those who are often ignored. My experiences taught me that leadership is not about power, but about responsibility. It means using what you have been through to help others succeed. I want to become a healthcare leader and health economist who works to improve healthcare access and fairness for underserved groups. I know from experience how systems can fail families in need. My goal is to help build a future where fewer children face preventable loss, instability, or abandonment because they cannot get care in time. What makes me a leader is simple. I turned my pain into purpose, and now I use that purpose to help others feel seen, supported, and valued in a world that often overlooks them.

I am a first-generation college student because I would not let loss, instability, or systemic barriers decide what my future could be. I am a Liberian immigrant, a Black woman, and the first in my family to go to college in the United States. Long before I ever set foot on a campus, I learned what it meant to survive. I lost my mother when I was six and my brother when I was fourteen because medical help arrived too late. Before I knew anything about healthcare policy or economics, I knew what it was like to lose loved ones because help did not come in time. When my mother died, everything changed at once. Some family members told me they could not afford to care for me or even offer me an extra plate at their table. I ended up in foster care and saw how quickly stability can vanish. While other kids worried about homework or friends, I was learning to cope with grief, uncertainty, and being left behind. There were many times when giving up seemed easier. As a first-generation student, I had no one to guide me. No one told me about financial aid, networking, internships, or how to navigate systems designed for people with more privilege and connections. In my economics and healthcare classes at the University of Minnesota, I am often one of the few women and sometimes the only Liberian student. No one speaks my language. Few people notice the emotional weight that immigrant and first-generation students carry as they try to succeed in places where they often feel unseen. But facing hardship gave me something stronger than fear: a sense of purpose. I decided to study both Economics and Healthcare Management because I want to change the systems that failed my family. I have experienced delayed care, high healthcare costs, and unfair treatment in the healthcare system. I know how hard it is when families cannot get the care they need. My goal is to become a healthcare leader and health economist who works to make healthcare more accessible, affordable, and fair for underserved communities. I want to help create systems where no child loses their family because care was too late, denied, or too expensive. My dedication to this work goes beyond the classroom. By helping people with behavioral and developmental needs, I learned that healthcare is about more than treatment; it is about dignity, advocacy, and human connection. I also did public health outreach for underserved families. I co-founded Hope & Smile Africa Foundation, which gives food, used clothing, and supplies to children and older adults in rural Liberia. Even while managing school, money worries, and personal loss, I kept serving others because I know what it is like to struggle in silence and feel forgotten. Dinakara Rao chose education even when life was hard because he believed it could change everything. I hold on to that same belief every day. For me, education is more than a personal achievement. It is a way to resist, to heal, and to take responsibility. Every time I walk into a classroom, I show that pain did not win. Every goal I set comes from my belief that students like me deserve not just to survive, but to lead, rebuild systems, and create new chances for those who come after us.

I have experienced delayed care, high out-of-pocket healthcare costs, and failures in the healthcare system. I lost my mother when I was six. Years later, my brother died at fourteen from liver failure after he did not get timely medical care. Long before I learned about healthcare policy or insurance, I knew what it was like to watch loved ones slip away because help did not arrive soon enough. These losses were not just personal tragedies; they happened because of inequity, inaccessibility, and systems that failed families like mine. When my mother died, everything changed for me. Some family members told me they could not afford to care for me or even offer me a place at their table. I eventually entered foster care and saw how quickly a child’s world can fall apart without stability. At six, I was not thinking about dreams or careers. I was learning to cope with grief, uncertainty, and being left behind. I had every reason to walk away from healthcare. I could have chosen a different path and tried to avoid the pain my family went through. But I cannot accept that other children might face the same preventable losses. I do not want to see another child waiting in a hospital, hoping for more time. I do not want another family to be torn apart because treatment was delayed, unavailable, or too expensive. I do not want another child to end up in foster care because the healthcare system failed their loved ones. That pain gave me a sense of purpose. Today, I am studying Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota because I want to help rebuild healthcare systems for those who are often left behind. My goal is to become a healthcare leader and health economist who focuses on access, affordability, and equity. I want to help create systems where everyone can access quality care, no matter their race, income, immigration status, or where they live, and where healthcare focuses on prevention rather than just reacting to problems. My commitment to this work goes beyond what I learn in class. By supporting people with behavioral and developmental needs, I learned that healthcare is about more than just treatment. It is also about dignity, advocacy, and connecting with others. Working with vulnerable groups showed me how much policy and daily decisions affect people’s lives. I also completed a public health internship in which I supported underserved families through outreach and healthcare access programs, deepening my understanding of the barriers people face in accessing care. As a Liberian immigrant, a first-generation college student, and a Black woman in spaces where people like me are often underrepresented, I know how important it is to have diverse voices in healthcare leadership. In many of my economics and healthcare classes, I am one of the few women and often the only Liberian student. Instead of discouraging me, these experiences remind me why my perspective is important. My life has taught me about the real cost of healthcare inequity and the strength needed to overcome it. I chose healthcare because I have seen what happens when systems fail those who need help most. Now, I want to spend my life making sure fewer families go through preventable pain, fewer children lose loved ones too soon, and fewer communities have to struggle with systems that were not designed to protect them.

My understanding of mental health comes from my experiences with grief, silence, and living in a community where emotional struggles were often misunderstood. As a Liberian immigrant, I rarely heard open conversations about mental health. Conditions like anxiety, depression, OCD, or emotional trauma were not always recognized as medical or psychological issues. Instead, people were often told their struggles were punishment, spiritual weakness, witchcraft, or karma for past actions. Because of this, many of us, myself included, learned to suffer in silence. Sharing my story helps connect personal experiences to the larger issue of mental health stigma in immigrant communities. I lost my mother when I was young, and later my brother, who had become my protector and emotional support after she died. These losses had a deep impact on my mental health, but I did not always have the words or support to deal with my grief. Instead, I learned to hide my pain and keep going. In many Black and immigrant communities, people often see strength as the ability to endure suffering without talking about it. I stayed quiet. I carried anxiety, grief, exhaustion, and obsessive thoughts while trying to manage school, work, family, and daily life. Sometimes I doubted myself because of what I learned growing up. When mental health is stigmatized, people start blaming themselves for struggles they did not choose. Instead of reaching out, many feel ashamed. This experience changed how I see the world. I realized how harmful silence can be. Mental health struggles do not go away just because people ignore them. They grow in isolation. Now I see that many people around us are carrying invisible pain and pretending to be fine because they fear being judged by family, culture, or society. Understanding these feelings is essential for building compassion and reducing stigma. These experiences have shaped how I build relationships now. Since I know what it feels like to suffer in silence, I try to create safe spaces where people feel supported, heard, and understood. I am more compassionate toward people whose struggles are not obvious because I know how easy it is to hide pain behind success, work, or a smile. My mental health journey has also shaped my goals. I am now studying Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota because I want to improve healthcare systems for underserved communities. Working in behavioral health and supporting people with developmental and behavioral needs has shown me how important compassionate mental healthcare is. I hope to help build systems where mental health is treated with dignity, not stigma, especially in underserved Black and immigrant communities where these topics are often ignored. My mental health struggles taught me resilience and empathy. Most of all, they showed me that healing begins when people accept their humanity and stop feeling ashamed of their struggles. This understanding can inspire others to embrace their own journeys toward acceptance.

To me, the American dream is more than just personal success. It means building a life in which people who have faced hardship, loss, and uncertainty can still afford dignity, opportunity, and hope. As a Liberian immigrant and the first in my family to attend college, I learned early on that the American dream is not given to everyone in the same way. For many immigrants, especially those facing unfamiliar systems, just seeing daylight can feel like a victory. You enter spaces where no one looks like you, speaks your language, or knows your story. You have to work twice as hard to keep up. Still, you keep going because you believe something better is possible if you keep trying. For me, the American dream means not giving up, even when life is hard, and holding on to your kindness. I lost my mother when I was young, and later, my brother passed away because he did not get medical care in time. After my mother died, some family members told me they could not take care of me or even offer me a place at their table. These experiences showed me what it is like to live with uncertainty and still try to move forward. But these challenges also taught me how to be strong. Now, I am studying Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota because I want to help create systems that support people in need. My dream is not just about my own success. I want to help build a society where immigrants, low-income families, and others do not have to struggle just to feel accepted or cared for. For me, the American dream means opening doors for people who were never expected to have a chance. That is why I am so committed to serving my community. With Hope & Smile Africa Foundation, I help organize food, clothing, and supplies for children and older adults in rural Liberia because I know what it is like to struggle and feel left out. I also support people with behavioral and developmental needs and volunteer in healthcare outreach programs because I believe helping others is a powerful way to lead. My experiences taught me that systems can either help people or leave them out. That is why one of my biggest goals is to help build fairer healthcare systems in the United States. I want to see a future where everyone can get good healthcare, no matter how much money they have, where they come from, or where they live. My American dream is to see healthcare that supports families before they are in crisis and makes sure people are treated fairly for their hard work and sacrifices. Most of all, my American dream is to feel like I belong. It means creating a world where immigrants do not have to prove themselves every time they walk into a room. A world where children from tough backgrounds can dream without being afraid. A world where people who are struggling find support instead of being left out. The American dream is not about being perfect. For me, it is about building a society where people like me are not just surviving in systems that were not made for them, but are helping to change those systems for others.

Service shaped my life long before I understood what leadership was. For me, it all began with my mother. I am from Liberia, and I was raised by a mother who saw kindness as a responsibility. Every New Year's, she gathered children from nearby homes, made sure everyone had food and drinks, and welcomed every child into our house to celebrate with us. I always thought it was my birthday celebration because I was born on January 1st. No one was ever turned away. She taught me to be generous, to forgive, to care for people even if they don’t return the favor, and to support others in both good and hard times. Her example showed me that the way you help others is what truly defines you. I lost my mother. After my mother passed away, some family members turned me away, saying they couldn’t afford to support me or even offer me a plate at their table. I was eventually adopted, but I had to grow up quickly. Before I could get ready for school, I washed dishes and helped the younger kids prepare for their day. I managed my grief, kept up with my studies, and dealt with the financial struggles my family faced. Years later, I lost my brother, my hero, who died of liver failure because his medical care was delayed. Service is part of my work, my studies, and my free time. I support people with behavioral and developmental challenges, helping them live better lives with dignity and care for things many of us might overlook. I also volunteered at Children’s Dental Service, a public health group, where I helped families access dental care and understand the healthcare system. In my spare time, I enjoy volunteering in local communities, like helping parents sign up for nutrition programs and find healthier food for their kids. My nonprofit, Hope & Smile Africa Foundation, shows my passion for service. I co-founded it to provide meals and essential resources to children and older adults in rural Liberia. We have raised enough donations to help over 2,500 people with food, used clothing, and other necessities. I kept going despite thinking about leaving school to ease financial pressure because I want others to feel hope through perseverance. Jesus Christ is my lord and savior. I love God with all my heart, and I’ve learned that our purpose can come from pain. Serving others is a powerful way to show Christ’s love, which I hope can inspire others to find strength in faith during hardships. My professional aspirations include becoming a healthcare leader and a health economist. I plan to use my degree to change how we view healthcare and to create solutions that help those with limited access to care. I don’t want to “make it” just for myself; I want to help build a path that gives others hope.

Many relationships in my life have taught me important lessons, but none influenced me more than my mother. I didn’t grow up with her, but she shaped who I am more than anyone else. My mom showed me that love is something you practice daily by being generous, kind, and caring to others. She made everyone feel seen, appreciated, and accepted, no matter their situation. My favorite memories of my mother are from New Year’s in our small Liberian town. While most families celebrated with only close relatives, my mom invited the whole village into our home. She gathered children from nearby houses, cooked for days, served drinks, and made sure no child left hungry or sad. In our house, there was “always an extra plate” for someone. As a child, I thought she was feeding people. It took me years to realize she was actually teaching me how to love people deeply. My mother valued hospitality, forgiveness, and being there for others in both good times and bad. She taught me that kindness is unconditional. It isn’t about what you get in return. It means helping people even when life is hard, when you don’t have much, and even when no one notices. Then I lost her. After she died, everything changed. The world felt colder. Some family members said they couldn’t take care of me because they didn’t have enough money. I even heard people say there was no “extra plate” for me at their house. Hearing that as a child, after losing the most important person in my life, broke my heart. I went from a home where everyone was welcome to feeling like I didn’t deserve a place at all. For years, I wondered why life could be so unfair. What kept me going was the legacy my mother left in me. Grief didn’t make me bitter. Instead, my mother’s example helped me face pain with empathy. I know what it’s like to feel neglected, so I make sure others feel included. I know what it’s like to be sick and without help, so I pay attention to those who are struggling. My relationships are based on understanding, honesty, and love because my mother showed me how much those things matter. Her legacy not only shaped how I treat others but also inspired my future goals. Today, I am a Liberian immigrant and a first-generation college student at the University of Minnesota, studying Economics and Healthcare Management. I hope to become a healthcare leader who improves access to quality care for underserved communities. After losing my mom and other loved ones to illnesses we couldn’t treat in time, I knew I wanted to help build a system that values everyone. My mother’s influence also led me to start the Hope & Smile Foundation, which provides food, used clothing, and necessities to children and older adults in rural Liberia. Hope & Smile is my way of carrying on her legacy. Just as she welcomed kids from the street to eat with us, I want to make sure others feel that same care. My mother won’t get to see me graduate or follow my dreams, but she will live on through everyone I help. She taught me that our legacies aren’t measured by money or careers, but by how many people felt loved because we were here.

For much of my childhood, I believed intelligence only mattered if you could express it flawlessly. Still, I see that every voice, including mine, is vital to understanding and social impact. I stutter, and growing up, it often made me feel invisible, because I never had the chance to be understood. I remember sitting in classrooms rehearsing sentences in my head before raising my hand, hoping the words would come out smoothly every time. But they did not. There were moments when people finished my sentences for me, avoided eye contact while I struggled to speak, and assumed hesitation meant uncertainty. Over time, I became painfully aware of how quickly the world rewards fluent voices and overlooks quieter ones. For years, I viewed my stutter as a weakness. Now I understand it shaped some of my greatest strengths. As a first-generation immigrant college student, I was already navigating environments where I often felt different. My stutter deepened that isolation. But it also transformed the way I experience the world. It taught me how to listen carefully, observe deeply, and think before speaking. More importantly, it fostered empathy for people whose struggles are not immediately visible, encouraging the audience to feel compassion and understanding. Living with a speech disability forced me to develop resilience long before I understood the word itself. I lost my mother at a young age, a protector and source of stability. Between grief, financial hardship, and navigating life as an immigrant student, there were many moments when it would have been easier to shrink into silence. Instead, I learned to keep moving forward even when confidence did not come naturally, hoping to inspire others to persevere through their own challenges. That persistence now defines both my education and my purpose. Today, I am pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota to become a health economist. I want to improve healthcare systems for underserved communities by addressing disparities in access, delayed care, and systemic inequities. Losing loved ones to circumstances connected to inadequate healthcare access taught me that systems can determine the direction of a person’s life. I want to help redesign those systems so fewer families experience preventable suffering. My stutter has directly influenced how I lead. Because communication has not always come easily to me, I learned that leadership is not about speaking the loudest. It is about consistency, service, and the ability to make others feel heard. That belief shaped my work supporting individuals with behavioral and developmental needs. Ironically, the condition that once made me afraid to speak became the reason I care so deeply about advocacy and visibility. I know what it feels like to have thoughts trapped behind hesitation. I know what it feels like to fear being judged before being understood. Because of that, I am intentional about creating spaces where people feel respected, valued, and seen, regardless of their challenges. Financially, pursuing higher education as a first-generation immigrant student with significant needs has not been easy. There are pressures behind my education that many people never see. But my experiences taught me not to measure my potential by my obstacles. My stutter once made me question whether my voice mattered. Now it reminds me why it must be used. Because strength is not always found in perfect speech. Sometimes, strength is choosing to speak anyway and using your voice to create opportunities for people who have spent their lives feeling unheard, inspiring others to overcome their own barriers and advocate for change.

I am a Liberian immigrant and the first in my family to attend college. I study Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota. My life has been shaped by loss, resilience, and a strong sense of responsibility to help others. I lost my mother when I was young, and after she passed away, some relatives told me they could not take care of me or even offer me a meal. Later, I lost my brother, who was my protector, a steady presence in my life, to liver failure because he did not get timely medical care. These experiences taught me about grief and instability, showed me how unfair access to care and opportunity can be. They gave me a sense of purpose. As a woman of African descent in spaces where people like me are often underrepresented, I have learned to lead with resilience rather than fear. My connection to Liberia is still a big part of who I am. Through the Hope & Smile Foundation, which I started, I collect food, clothing, and other essentials for children and older adults in rural Liberia. I believe that even communities that are often overlooked deserve dignity, recognition, and care. Living and studying in the United States has shown me how to adapt while staying true to who I am. As a first-generation immigrant student, I had to figure out college on my own, since no one in my family had gone before me. I learned how to handle financial aid, meet academic expectations, build connections, and plan for my career, all while juggling work, school, and family. In many of my economics classes, I am one of the few women and often the only Liberian student. No one speaks my language or fully shares my background. At first, I felt alone, but over time, that feeling became a source of strength. I realized that having a different perspective is valuable because it encourages others to think more openly and inclusively. Living between cultures has taught me to be adaptable, independent, and confident in my voice, even when it feels out of place. My education has changed the way I see systems, responsibility, and their impact. Losing someone close and seeing how hard it can be to get healthcare made me realize that systems affect people’s lives even before they notice. When care is delayed or resources are missing, a family’s future can change forever. This understanding shifted my goals from focusing on myself to making a difference in the bigger picture. Growing up, I took on responsibility early. Before heading to school, I often looked after younger kids while also keeping up with my studies and helping with money at home. These challenges taught me discipline, empathy, and how to keep going when things get tough. Mostly, I learned that hardship can make you bitter or give you a stronger sense of purpose. I chose purpose. My background in economics and healthcare management shapes the impact I want to make. I hope to become a health economist and leader who works to improve healthcare access, reduce disparities, and build fair, patient-focused systems. I want to help create healthcare systems in which fewer families suffer from delayed care or a lack of resources. This scholarship would help ease the financial challenges I face as an immigrant and first-generation student. More importantly, it would help me keep making a difference through education, leadership, and service. I hope my story shows that even those who start with loss, rejection, and limited resources can become leaders who change systems and lift their communities.

I learned early that where you are born, what resources you have, and whether someone advocates for you can determine the direction of your life. As a first-generation Liberian immigrant student, I grew up understanding both hardship and responsibility long before I understood adulthood. I lost my mother at a young age, and after her passing, I experienced rejection from family members who said they could not afford to care for me or even have “an extra plate” for me in their household. Years later, I lost my brother, the person who became my protector and source of stability, to liver failure after delayed medical care. Those experiences forced me to confront something painful: vulnerable communities often suffer not because solutions do not exist, but because access does not. That realization became the foundation of my purpose. Today, I am pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management because I want to understand how systems shape people’s lives and how they can be rebuilt to serve communities more equitably. My goal is to become a health economist and healthcare leader focused on improving healthcare access, operational efficiency, and health outcomes for underserved populations. I do not see education as personal advancement alone. I see it as preparation for responsibility. Through my studies, I am learning how policy, resource allocation, and financial structures influence healthcare delivery and long-term community outcomes. I want to help design systems where care is proactive instead of delayed, where underserved families are not forced to navigate barriers alone, and where access to quality healthcare is not dependent on race, income, or geography. But my commitment to helping my community did not begin in the classroom. It began through service. I work with individuals with behavioral and developmental needs, helping create stable, supportive environments and collaborating with care teams to ensure continuity of care. This work taught me that dignity matters as much as treatment. I also volunteer through Children’s Dental Services, supporting healthcare outreach efforts for underserved families and assisting with nutrition access programs for parents and children. At the same time, I created Hope & Smile Foundation. This initiative provides food, clothing, and essential supplies to children and elderly individuals in rural Liberia communities that are often forgotten by the world. I began by collecting donated clothes and food from people willing to give what they no longer needed. What started as a small effort became a mission rooted in restoring dignity and visibility to people too often overlooked. Even while balancing work, school, and financial pressure, I continued giving because I understand what it means to need help and feel unseen. As a Black woman in economics and healthcare spaces where people who look like me are underrepresented, I also recognize the importance of visibility and leadership. In many of my classrooms, I am one of the few women and often the only Liberian student. Instead of allowing that to intimidate me, I use it as motivation to succeed in spaces where voices like mine are often missing. My degree will allow me to do more than build a successful career. It will allow me to build systems my community deserved long before I entered a classroom, systems rooted in access, dignity, and equity. I want my work to ensure that fewer families experience preventable suffering, fewer communities feel forgotten, and more young Black students see leadership, possibility, and representation reflected in them. Because real impact is not measured by what you achieve for yourself alone, it is measured by how many lives become possible because you refused to stop fighting for others.

I hope to serve others by uplifting and creating access to opportunity through healthcare and service. Growing up as a Liberian immigrant and first-generation college student studying dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management has taught me what it means to have access to resources, healthcare, and opportunity. I lost my mother when I was very young, and later lost my brother due to delayed medical care. From these experiences, I learned how systems can overlap in someone’s life, and I found my purpose to help others. My passion for service started long before college. I grew up learning what it was like to struggle and suffer in silence. As a young girl, I was told by my family that they could no longer care for me after my mother’s passing. As I got older and had to balance school with taking care of my family, I realized there were people out there facing challenges no one asked about or tried to solve. Service to me was never a choice; I knew I wanted to help people. Inspired by my family’s story, I started Hope & Smile Foundation. This grassroots organization provides donated clothes, food, and essential items to children and elderly citizens in rural communities in Liberia. At the time, I understood how something as simple as wearing a clean pair of jeans or eating a nutritious meal can restore dignity and hope. I believe that is why my impact could not just stop there. I knew I wanted to continue creating pathways to opportunity for others. Whether through volunteering with Children’s Dental Services to help expand access to dental care for underserved families or supporting nutrition programs that help parents learn to provide nutritious meals for their children, I believe impact shows up no matter the capacity. Impact, to me, is donating part of my paycheck to provide meals for children in need. Impact is not based on how much you have, but what you are willing to give. In addition to my outreach initiative, I work with individuals with behavioral and developmental disabilities. Through my job, I’ve learned to be patient, handle difficult situations with grace, and show empathy. Caring for others has taught me that we do not just need to give people care; we need better systems to support them. I hope to change that one day. My goal is to one day become a healthcare leader and health economist, enabling me to tackle health systems and expand access to quality healthcare for others. Through policy and data, I aim to create operational procedures that are equitable, proactive, and patient-first. My purpose is to prevent families from experiencing unnecessary suffering due to delayed care. But I do not want my story to end there. I want people who look like me to know their beginnings do not define their story. As a Black immigrant woman in competitive spaces where we are often seen as less than, I know others look like me who need someone to foster them to be leaders as well. I want young girls who look like me to grow up knowing that their voices, their stories, and their passions are needed in leadership just as much as those of their counterparts. To me, creating an impact will not get me recognition. It will help me leave people and the communities better than I found them. Whether that be through healthcare, helping my neighbors with a meal, or advocating for better policies, I hope to give others the opportunities that I wish I had growing up.

As a Christian, faith has played the most important role in my life, but that faith was not built easily. It was built through grief, rejection, responsibility, and learning how to trust God even when I did not understand Him. I lost my mother at a very young age. After her passing, my world changed overnight. I remember family members rejecting me and saying they could not afford to feed me or have “an extra plate” in their household. As a child, those words stayed with me. They made me feel unwanted at one of the most painful moments of my life. And I blamed God. I asked Him why He allowed me to lose my mother, why I had to feel abandoned so young. Life felt unfair when other children still had the comfort of a parent to go home to. Eventually, I was adopted into a new home, but even then, life was not easy. By the ages of ten, eleven, and later fifteen, I was already helping care for younger children in the household before I was old enough to care for myself fully. While other students were focused solely on school, I was quietly balancing responsibility, grief, and pressure. There were moments I blamed God again, asking why my life carried so much weight so early. Then I lost my brother, the person who had become my protector, role model, and source of stability after my mother passed away. Again, I questioned God. But somewhere through all of the loss, anger, and confusion, my faith remained. Even when I was upset with God, I never fully walked away from Him. Deep down, I believed there had to be a purpose greater than my pain, even if I could not see it yet. Over time, faith stopped being just something I inherited as a Christian. It became something personal. It became the reason I continued moving forward when life became overwhelming. Faith taught me that my circumstances did not determine my future. It taught me perseverance, discipline, and compassion for others carrying invisible pain. Today, as a first-generation Liberian immigrant student pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota, I see how every difficult experience has shaped me into someone stronger and more purposeful. My faith influences not only how I live, but also how I serve others. Because I know what it feels like to struggle, I am intentional about helping people who feel forgotten. I created Hope & Smile Foundation, an outreach initiative that supports children and elderly individuals in rural Liberia with food, clothing, and essential resources. I volunteer in healthcare outreach programs and work with individuals with behavioral and developmental needs because I believe service is one way we reflect God’s love to others. Faith also shaped my future goals. I want to become a healthcare leader and health economist focused on improving systems that fail vulnerable communities. I know what it feels like to experience hardship without enough support, and I want my career to create better access, opportunity, and care for others. Looking back, I realize faith was never about having a perfect life. It was about continuing to believe even when life felt broken. I may never fully understand why I experienced so much loss at a young age, but I believe God allowed my pain to shape purpose within me. What once made me question Him has now strengthened my relationship with Him. And today, my faith is no longer built only on blessings; it is built on survival, resilience, and purpose.

I learned responsibility before I fully understood childhood. As a Liberian immigrant and first-generation college student, my journey has been shaped by loss, sacrifice, and resilience. I lost my mother at a young age, and years later, I lost my brother, the person who became my protector and source of stability after her death. Between those losses, I was adopted and raised with love and opportunity, but grief never completely leaves you. It simply teaches you how to carry weight quietly. Growing up, my responsibilities often began before the school day even started. Before I could prepare for class, I was caring for younger children in my family, getting babies ready, helping around the house, and managing responsibilities many people my age never had to think about. At the same time, I was balancing coursework, work, transportation costs, and the pressure of building a future without a roadmap. No one asked how exhausting it was. No one asked how much I spent each week driving to school and work. No one asked how stressful it felt navigating college as a first-generation immigrant student without guidance, connections, or examples to follow. No one saw the invisible pressure of trying to succeed while carrying grief, financial stress, and responsibility all at once. But I kept going. I refused to let hardship define the limits of my future. Instead, it gave me clarity about the kind of impact I wanted to make. Today, I am pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota because I want to improve systems that fail vulnerable communities. My experiences taught me that access to healthcare, education, and opportunity can determine the direction of someone’s life. I want to use my education to create more equitable healthcare systems and improve outcomes for underserved populations. But I also knew impact could not wait until after graduation. That belief led me to create Hope & Smile Foundation, a charitable initiative dedicated to supporting children and elderly individuals in rural communities in Liberia that are often forgotten by the world. I began collecting used clothing, food, and essential supplies from people willing to give what they no longer needed. What started as a small effort became a mission rooted in dignity, compassion, and service. For me, service has never been about giving from abundance. It has been about giving even when I have little myself. Even while balancing school and financial responsibilities, I continued finding ways to support others because I understand what it feels like to struggle quietly. Through Hope & Smile Foundation, I want children and families in underserved communities to know they are seen, valued, and not forgotten. As a Black immigrant woman studying economics and healthcare management, I also understand the importance of representation. In many of my classes, I am one of the few women and often the only Liberian student. Instead of shrinking in those spaces, I have learned to lead within them. My story is not one of limitation; it is one of perseverance, responsibility, and purpose. Losing my family members changed my life, but it did not take away my ambition. It strengthened it. I want my life to prove that even people who carry heavy stories can still create hope for others.

Healthcare was personal to me long before I decided to major in it. My mother passed away when I was young, and many years later, my brother passed from liver failure after being diagnosed too late. Through these experiences, I learned to view healthcare differently. Not only are health outcomes dependent on sickness, but they also depend on access to care, the timing of diagnosis, available resources, and the quality of the systems surrounding the patient. While my family dealt with preventable loss more than once, I learned how large an impact gaps in healthcare can have, and it gave me motivation for my studies. I am double-majoring in Economics and Healthcare Management to one day improve the healthcare systems. As a Liberian, African woman who is first-generation in college, I have experienced what it is like to work with and within systems that were not built with me in mind. That unique lens informs how I view healthcare. I want to look beyond treating patients after the fact; I want to understand how and why entire communities experience worse health outcomes, and how we can reimagine systems to better serve those communities. I hope to one day be a health economist and healthcare leader who focuses on improving access, early intervention, and healthcare equity. I want to help construct a world where families no longer experience preventable loss because they did not get care in time. In addition to my family’s story, working with people with special needs has fueled my passion for healthcare. I work with adults with behavioral and developmental needs, and it’s something I see fulfilling day after day. Their care is consistent, with good communication and structure. Patients thrive when they have supporters that treats them as whole people. Outside of my job, I have volunteered with Children’s Dental Services to provide vulnerable families with access to care. I have also worked with parents to access food nutrition resources for their children. Through these experiences, I learned that no one should be denied healthcare because of income, background, or life circumstance. I believe that service is healthcare leadership. Outside of school and work, I donate part of my paycheck to provide meals for kids in need. I understand that healthcare starts long before you step foot in a hospital or doctor’s office. Nutrition, education, and stability all play a factor in health. There were, and sometimes still are, challenges to my pursuing healthcare. I am first-generation, so I did not have anyone to guide me on how to “do college.” Between school, work, and paying my own bills, I’ve learned to balance a lot at once. I even decided to quit my full-time job to further commit to my studies and career. Despite these challenges, I know my passion for working in the healthcare service cannot be replicated by a passion for another profession. Why healthcare? What change will you make? I hope to design healthcare systems and processes that are proactive instead of reactive. I want to help tackle issues of healthcare accessibility and build systems that center people of all backgrounds. I want to be part of constructing healthcare systems that ensure quality care is never predicated on zip code, income, or upbringing. Healthcare took my family, but it gave me back my drive. I plan to use that drive to better the healthcare system for those who come after me.

My mother taught me who I was before I had the words to understand it. I was six years old when she passed away. At that age, grief is not something you can explain. It comes as an absence. I remember the silence most of all. There was an empty space where her voice should have been. There were questions no one could answer in a way that made sense to a child. Losing her was not just losing a parent; it was losing the person who would have helped me understand the world as I grew up. And yet, she never truly left. Later, I was adopted into a home that gave me stability, opportunity, and care. Still, I grew up with two truths: I was chosen, and I had experienced loss. Learning to carry both shaped me in ways I did not see at the time. It taught me to live with complexity, to move forward without full closure, and to find strength in something that could have broken me. Losing my mother changed the way I approach life. It made me independent earlier than most. I had to learn to face challenges without the guidance that many people have. I needed to develop discipline, focus, and a sense of responsibility, not just for myself but for the future I wanted to build. I learned that resilience is not about avoiding hardship. It is about continuing on, even when the path is unclear. That resilience became the foundation of my journey. As a first-generation college student working toward degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management, I am creating a new path for myself. I have balanced tough classes with work and financial responsibilities, often making hard choices to stay focused on my goals. One of those choices was leaving full-time work to invest in my education. It was a risk, but it showed my belief that making a difference takes focus, sacrifice, and purpose. My mother’s absence shaped how I see others. It gave me a deep awareness of what people carry that cannot be seen. I know what it means to live with loss, and that shapes how I support others. I work with people who have behavioral and developmental needs, helping create safe and supportive environments. I volunteer in healthcare outreach programs that expand access to care and nutrition for more families. I set aside part of my income to help children in need. These actions are not separate from my story. They are a continuation of it. Her loss did not diminish my ambition; it clarified it. I am working toward a career in healthcare systems and policy, focused on improving access, coordination, and outcomes for underserved communities. I have seen how gaps in care and slow support can affect lives, and I am committed to building systems that respond better and more fairly. My goal is to ensure fewer families face the problems caused by limited access to care and delayed care. Receiving this scholarship will allow me to dedicate more time to my studies, pursue internships with local healthcare organizations, and develop the skills necessary to lead effective policy change. It will help relieve financial pressure, giving me the flexibility to participate in research opportunities and community health projects that are directly connected to my future goals. Most importantly, support from this scholarship will help me make a meaningful difference for underserved communities and turn my commitment into a lasting impact. Although my mother did not get to see who I am becoming, everything I am building is rooted in what she gave me.

As a first-generation college student, I have learned that understanding others begins with navigating spaces where you are often the only one like you. I am a Liberian, African American student pursuing a dual degree in Economics and Healthcare Management. In many classes, especially economics, I am often one of the few women and the only person with my cultural background. No one speaks my language or shares my experiences. These situations have taught me to listen deeply, communicate intentionally, and bridge differences. Adaptability, empathy, and communication form the foundation of my commitment to fostering a more understanding global community. My perspective is shaped by both my identity and my experiences. Growing up between cultures has shown me how systems can include or exclude individuals. I have seen how access to healthcare, education, and basic resources differs across communities. Personal loss, including the passing of my mother and brother, revealed the lasting impact of gaps in care and delayed access. These experiences guide me to approach people and challenges with empathy and a commitment to finding solutions. I intend to apply my skills to foster empathy at both individual and systemic levels. On an individual level, I practice empathy through service. I work with individuals with behavioral and developmental needs, where empathy is essential. I have learned that understanding others requires patience, adaptability, and meeting people where they are. I also volunteer in healthcare outreach programs that expand access to care and nutrition for families. Additionally, I set aside part of my income to support children in need. These actions reflect my belief that empathy is not just a feeling but a consistent practice. On a broader scale, I aim to design systems that demonstrate empathy in practice. Through my studies in economics and healthcare management, I am preparing for a career as a health economist. My goal is to improve healthcare system design to better serve diverse populations. In this context, empathy means creating systems that recognize varied needs and remove barriers to access. It also means ensuring care is timely, coordinated, and available to all communities, not only those with resources or connections. My ability to navigate diverse environments, communicate across differences, and remain committed to service enables me to help build a more connected world. I recognize that empathy involves not only understanding others’ stories but also using that understanding to drive change. As a first-generation student, I am forging my own path while contributing to something greater than myself. I use my education, experiences, and perspective to support a global community that values inclusion, understanding, and equitable opportunity. True empathy is not only about seeing others; it is about creating systems that ensure they are recognized.

I want to build systems that make opportunity and care accessible, not accidental. As a Liberian, African American, first-generation college student pursuing a dual degree in Economics and Healthcare Management, my education is not just a personal milestone; it is a tool. I am building toward a future where healthcare systems are more efficient, equitable, and responsive, especially for underserved and special needs populations who are often left behind. This vision is rooted in loss. I lost my mother at a young age, and years later, I lost my brother to liver failure after a late diagnosis. Both losses exposed the same reality: access to timely, coordinated care is not guaranteed. Delays, lack of information, and limited resources can determine outcomes. For my family, they did. Experiencing that kind of loss did not just shape my perspective; it gave my education a clear purpose. I began asking questions I could not ignore. Why was care delayed? What systems failed to respond in time? What could have been done differently? Those questions became the foundation of what I now want to build. I want to build healthcare systems that reduce delays and increase access to systems that prioritize early diagnosis, ensure consistent communication, and ensure care is not dependent on circumstance. As a future health economist, I plan to work at the intersection of policy, data, and healthcare operations to improve how resources are distributed and how care is delivered. I want to help create systems that prevent more families from experiencing preventable loss. My education is the foundation of this work. Through my studies, I am developing the analytical and operational skills needed to understand how systems function and how they can be improved. But I am not waiting until the future to create impact. I work with individuals with behavioral and developmental needs, where I see how structured care and consistency can stabilize lives. I volunteer in healthcare outreach programs that expand access to care and nutrition for families. I also give from what I have, setting aside part of my income each month to provide food for children in need. These actions reflect what I am building now: not just knowledge, but responsibility. Losing my family did not stop my path it clarified it. It taught me that time, access, and systems matter. It showed me that behind every statistic is a person, and behind every gap is a consequence. These lessons drive both my ambition and my commitment to creating change. This scholarship directly supports that vision. Easing the financial burden of my education allows me to focus more fully on developing the skills needed to design better systems. It is not just an investment in my education; it is an investment in the impact I am preparing to create. I am not just building a future for myself. I am building systems that create access, improve outcomes, and ensure that care does not come too late.

When a client first trusted me to follow a new routine, I realized that progress in the special needs community is often quiet but transformative. That experience shaped my understanding of care and my definition of impact. I work in behavioral and developmental care as a Youthcare Professional at Nexus Family Healing and previously as a Direct Care Professional at ACR Homes. In these roles, I create structured environments, document clinical and behavioral changes, and collaborate with teams to provide consistent support. I have learned that individuals with special needs do not lack ability; they often lack systems that fully support their potential. I have seen what happens when those systems fall short. A missed staff update can disrupt progress. Limited resources delay interventions. Inconsistent care plans create confusion rather than stability. These issues determine whether someone improves, regresses, or remains overlooked. This is why my goal is not only to provide care, but also to redesign how care is delivered. I am pursuing a dual degree in Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota to prepare for a career as a health economist focused on improving care systems. My work is guided by the understanding that outcomes depend not only on effort, but also on structure: how services are funded, coordinated, and prioritized. I aim to design systems that ensure early intervention, consistent care, and equitable access for individuals with special needs. This mission is also personal. I lost my brother to liver failure after a late diagnosis, which showed me how gaps in systems can have irreversible consequences. It reinforced my belief that better systems do not just improve outcomes; they save lives. My perspective is shaped by both experience and identity. As a Liberian, African American, and first-generation college student, I often navigate spaces where I am underrepresented. In male-dominated economics classrooms, I am frequently the only woman or the only person with my background. No one speaks my language or shares my exact experience. Instead of shrinking, I have learned to lead with my perspective. This allows me to ask questions that focus on access, equity, and real-world impact. Service is not something I wait to practice in the future; it is how I live now. I support families through food programs and contribute part of my own income to provide meals for children in need. These actions reflect my belief that impact is built through consistency, not convenience. My long-term goal is to transform how systems serve individuals with special needs by shifting from reactive care to proactive, coordinated, and equitable support. I want to help create a future where individuals are empowered by the systems around them, not limited by them. The special needs community does not lack potential; it lacks systems to recognize and support it. I am committed to building those systems because dignity should never depend on circumstance.

My experience as an immigrant has influenced both the way I approach my education and how I see its importance. As a Liberian, African American woman and the child of immigrants, I am pursuing goals that were once out of reach for my family. Education was never guaranteed; it was something we had to earn. This perspective guides me in every classroom, decision, and challenge. As a first-generation college student, I am forging my own path. Without guidance on navigating college or balancing finances and academics, I have learned by doing: managing my time, advocating for myself, and persevering through uncertainty. My immigrant background has shaped how I navigate different environments. As a Liberian woman studying Economics, I am often one of the few women in my classes and sometimes the only one with my background. No one speaks my language or shares my perspective. In these moments, I have learned to speak up, even when it feels unfamiliar. Although it can be challenging, I recognize that my perspective is valuable, especially in fields where representation is limited. My immigrant experience has brought both financial and personal challenges. I have worked full-time while attending school and taken on responsibilities for others. At one point, I left a full-time job to focus on my studies. This difficult decision required sacrifice, but it was necessary to remain committed to my long-term goals. These challenges have not held me back; they have made me stronger. These experiences have taught me discipline, resilience, and the importance of purpose. I am pursuing a dual degree in Economics and Healthcare Management to become a health economist. My goal is to address disparities in healthcare access and outcomes, especially in communities like mine. My brother’s death from liver failure after a late diagnosis showed me how systemic barriers can impact lives. I am committed to helping create systems that are fair, efficient, and responsive. My immigrant experience also shapes how I support others. I volunteer in healthcare settings such as Children’s Dental Services, assisting with outreach to improve access to care. I support families through food programs and contribute part of my income to help children in need. I also remain connected to Liberia by sending supplies to communities in need. These actions reflect my belief that education is not only for personal growth but also a means to create positive change. My immigrant experience has not made my path easier, but it has made it clearer. It has shown me that success is earned through persistence, sacrifice, and determination, even when nothing is guaranteed. I am not only working toward a degree; I am creating opportunity, representation, and change.

When Malgorzata Kwiecien moved to the United States alone, she brought not only ambition but also uncertainty, isolation, and a determination to succeed without support. I understand that experience. As a Liberian woman studying in the United States, I have learned to build a life in unfamiliar environments. At times, I am the only person in the room who looks or sounds like me, or who shares my experiences. No one speaks my language or shares my story. Yet, like Maggie, I move forward not because it is easy, but because I refuse to let difficulty define my limits. Maggie was described as intellectually bold, someone who pursued knowledge deeply and refused to remain within boundaries. I see myself reflected in these qualities. I am pursuing a dual degree in Economics and Healthcare Management, fields that require analytical thinking, discipline, and resilience. As a woman in economics, I am often one of the few women in male-dominated classrooms and the only Liberian student. Speaking up in these settings requires confidence, especially when my voice is unfamiliar. I have learned to trust my perspective. I do not wait for permission to contribute; I prepare, engage, and lead with intention. Like Maggie, I believe knowledge is powerful only when applied. My academic goal is to become a health economist so I can address systemic gaps in healthcare access and outcomes. This ambition is deeply personal. I lost my brother to liver failure after a late diagnosis, which showed me how system failures can have irreversible consequences. I want to help build systems that are more efficient, equitable, and responsive so fewer families experience preventable loss. Maggie faced challenges beyond academics, building her life in a new country without a support system and relying on her own strength. I relate to that independence. As a first-generation college student, I have navigated higher education without a roadmap. I have balanced work, financial responsibilities, and rigorous coursework, often making difficult choices to prioritize long-term goals over short-term stability. One such decision was stepping away from full-time work to focus on my studies, a choice rooted in the same determination Maggie demonstrated. Beyond academics, I challenge myself through service. I volunteer in healthcare settings, support families through food programs, and contribute resources to help children in need. Like Maggie, I believe strength is not only intellectual; it is shown through action, consistency, and a willingness to move beyond comfort. What I admire most about Maggie is not only her accomplishments, but her fearlessness and willingness to embrace challenges rather than avoid them. That is how I choose to live. I am not waiting for the world to make space for me. I am preparing to step forward with knowledge, purpose, and resilience. Like Maggie, I am building from the ground up, with no guarantees but with unwavering determination.

My commitment to service is shaped by my identity and experiences. As a Liberian, African American, and first-generation college student, I have seen that opportunity is not equally available and that meaningful change requires both action and intention. I am pursuing a dual degree in Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota. My goal is to become a healthcare leader and health economist dedicated to improving systems for vulnerable and underserved populations. I have witnessed how gaps in access, delayed care, and limited resources impact individuals and families. These experiences shape both what I study and my motivation for doing so. Service is not occasional for me; it is a guiding principle in my life. I volunteer in healthcare settings, including Children’s Dental Services, supporting outreach that expands care for families who might otherwise go without treatment. I also assist with farmers’ market programs that help new parents use food vouchers to provide healthier meals for their children. These programs address essential needs, such as healthcare and nutrition, which are often overlooked but critical to long-term well-being. Beyond organized programs, I believe service means giving what you can, even when resources are limited. I set aside part of my paycheck each month to provide food for children in need and collect supplies for local shelters. These actions may seem small, but I believe impact is built through consistency rather than convenience. I also maintaI maintain strong ties to my roots through Holiday’s Hope & Smiles, an initiative I lead that provides food, clothing, and essential supplies to underserved communities in Liberia. This work connects my background to my purpose and reminds me that the impact I seek extends beyond a single community or country.I support, healthcare access, food security, and community support, are important to me because I understand what it means to live in spaces where resources are limited. I have seen how a lack of access can shape outcomes, and I am committed to being part of the solution. My future goals focus on creating systemic change. I aim to work at the intersection of healthcare administration and economics to improve how care is delivered, funded, and accessed. I am especially interested in addressing disparities in early diagnosis and preventive care, having seen how treatment delays can have lasting consequences. Through policy, data, and leadership, I want to help design systems that are more equitable and effective. Being an African American woman in a male-dominated field like economics has shaped my perspective. I am often one of the few women, and sometimes the only person with my background, in the room. I view this not as a barrier but as a responsibility. Representation matters, and I am committed to demonstrating what is possible. Addie James Hamerter believed in using education as a tool for justice. I share that belief. I am not only pursuing a degree but also preparing to use my knowledge to create access, opportunity, and change for others.

My commitment to serving individuals with special needs is rooted in hands-on experience. As a Youthcare Professional at Nexus Family Healing and previously a Direct Care Professional at ACR Homes, I worked daily with individuals whose needs often exceeded the capacity of traditional care systems. These roles taught me that effective support is measured not by routine tasks, but by the ability to foster stability, dignity, and trust in environments where consistency is vital. Each day, I maintained structured routines, documented behavioral and clinical observations, and collaborated with multidisciplinary teams to ensure continuity of care. Beyond these duties, I saw firsthand how systems communication, staffing, funding, and coordination directly affect the quality of life for individuals with special needs. These experiences clarified my purpose. I am committed not only to serving individuals within the system, but also to improving the system itself. This clarity led me to a difficult decision. While working full-time at ACR Homes, I realized that creating meaningful, long-term impact required a deeper investment in my education. I chose to leave my full-time role to focus on academic training. This was a strategic step to gain the knowledge and skills needed to address the systemic gaps I had observed. As a first-generation college student pursuing dual degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management at the University of Minnesota, I am preparing to lead at the intersection of care delivery and system design. My focus is health economics, specifically how funding, policy, and resource allocation influence access to care and outcomes for individuals with special needs. My perspective is shaped by both my professional experience and my identity. As a Liberian, African American woman, I often navigate underrepresented spaces, such as male-dominated economics classrooms where I am frequently the only person with my background. These experiences have strengthened my independence, leadership, and ability to contribute perspectives often missing in policy discussions. My volunteer work reinforces this commitment. Through Children’s Dental Services, I support outreach efforts to expand care for underserved communities. I assist programs that help families access nutrition resources and personally set aside part of my income to provide food for children in need. These actions reflect my belief that service is defined by responsibility, not position. My experiences have taught me that individuals with special needs do not require “fixing”; they need systems that are responsive, inclusive, and designed to support their full potential. I have seen how gaps in coordination and access create barriers, while thoughtful, consistent care can transform lives. My long-term goal is to become a healthcare leader and health economist focused on improving access, early intervention, and coordinated care systems. I aim to design systems that guarantee quality care, not by circumstance but by structure. Stepping away from full-time work to focus on my education has required sacrifice. This scholarship would allow me to continue developing the skills needed to lead meaningful change. I have learned that care is not only delivered, but it is designed. I intend to design it better.

I learned early on that being different is not always a choice. Sometimes, it is something you grow into over time. As a Liberian, African American, and first-generation college student, my story is shaped by resilience, responsibility, and purpose. I am creating a path that is new for my family. I will be the first to graduate from college, and I am doing this while working toward a dual degree in Economics and Healthcare Management. My journey is defined not by what I was given, but by what I continue to build. What sets me apart is not just my identity. It is also how I show up for others. I am present and willing to help, even when there is no reward. I volunteer in healthcare settings, including Children’s Dental Services, where I help with outreach and patient care without pay because I believe everyone should have access to healthcare, no matter their income. I also help with farmers’ market programs that support new parents in using food vouchers to provide healthier meals for their families. I give what I can by setting aside part of my paycheck each month to buy food for children in need. I also collect towels and supplies for animal shelters because I believe service should reach every part of the community. Being true to myself means I do not wait for recognition before doing meaningful work. I act because it matters. As a Youthcare Professional, I support people with behavioral and developmental needs. I help create stable environments, keep records of care, and work with teams to make sure support is consistent. These experiences have taught me that service is often quiet, but its impact lasts. There might be someone watching me, someone who notices that I am balancing school, work, and service without making excuses. Maybe they will see that giving back is possible, even if you do not have much. I may never know who that person is, but I know that leadership often shows through steady action. My ambition is about more than personal success. I am preparing for a career in healthcare administration and health economics to address gaps in access to care, especially in communities like mine. I want to help build systems that work better for people who are often overlooked. What makes me different is not just my story. It is also my actions. I choose to give, to lead, and to keep moving forward. I am becoming someone who does not wait for change, but creates it, even when no one is watching.

When I was six, I learned that the people you love most can be gone in an instant. My mother was the first to leave. Ten years later, I lost my brother. Losing my brother, though, was a different kind of loss, a loss that tested me in ways I hadn't experienced before. He was more than my sibling; he was my stability. After my mother died, he took on an unexpected role, supporting me with quiet strength. He became my protector, my guide, and helped me feel safe again. He encouraged me, stayed consistent, and believed in my potential. When he died from liver failure after a late diagnosis, I lost more than a brother; I lost the person who helped me rebuild my life. His death also left me with lingering questions. Why wasn’t his condition found sooner? What prevented his diagnosis? I began to see his loss as evidence of larger healthcare problems. That realization changed the direction of my life. Grief was not new to me, but this time it felt heavier. I already knew how to live with loss, but this demanded more. I had to learn to move forward without the person who kept me strong. For a while, I felt lost and silent. Even in that silence, his influence shaped my choices. He was steady, encouraging, and never let me give up. He worked hard and loved deeply. Because he believed in me, I believed in myself. Giving up would have meant turning away from his faith in me. That understanding and his belief in me pushed me to a decision: I would keep going. I poured my energy into education. Now, I pursue degrees in Economics and Healthcare Management. I aim for a career as a health economist to address the delays and unequal access in healthcare that harmed my brother. Through work with data, policy, and systems, I hope to create solutions for early detection and better patient outcomes. I also supported others facing loss and uncertainty. I didn’t have all the answers, but I knew what it meant to keep going after a life-changing event. I learned perseverance is moving forward while carrying what stays with you. Losing my brother changed how I see time, opportunity, and purpose. I no longer take tomorrow for granted. Knowing how quickly life changes drives me to keep growing and make a difference. The Hazel Joy Memorial Scholarship stands for resilience after loss. Like Hazel’s family, I have learned that grief can either quiet you or help you grow. I have chosen to let it shape who I am. My brother gave me strength when I needed it most. I carry that strength with me in my work, my education, and my purpose. I want to help build a healthcare system where fewer families have to face the same questions I did.

`The biggest influence on my educational experience was my mother. She died when I was six years old. My father left me when I was two years old. She raised me by herself and worked hard so we could have a better life. She taught me about strength and perseverance. She was my first example of resilience. My mother did something incredible, raising me as a single parent. She graduated from high school after having me, and even started college. She wanted better for us, so she pushed through the toughest times, believing in education. She wanted me to know that no matter where you come from, you can expand your opportunities through education. Too soon, we had to say goodbye. My mother died from liver cancer after fighting for years to receive the care she deserved. There was nothing stopping her from getting better, except that the treatment was too expensive. It killed me that she died so young and still haunts me today. How I see the world, including our healthcare system, was shaped by her death. As a child, I couldn't grasp how someone so strong-willed could die due to the inability to pay for healthcare. Even though my mother was only in my life for a brief period, her resilience lives on in me and inspires my choices and ambitions. I pay tribute to her by continuing her legacy of getting an education and never giving up. I am currently studying Economics and Healthcare Management with the hopes of reforming healthcare and increasing access to care for underserved populations. Knowing her story fuels my passion. I hope to one day be part of a healthcare system that doesn’t force families to lose their loved ones just because they can’t afford treatment. I hope no child ever has to question if their parent would still be here if they could receive affordable care. Being raised without either parent taught me to be strong, independent, and motivated early in life. I could have let my struggles defeat me, but it only made me work harder to achieve my goals. Every milestone I reach in my education is a tribute to my mother and everything she sacrificed and dreamed for us. By continuing to work towards my goals and fighting for meaningful change in our broken healthcare system, I can carry on my mother’s legacy of strength, bravery, and faith that education can change lives.

Mental health is significant to me because I have personally experienced just how fragile academic drive can become when faced with mental and physical exhaustion. Throughout my college journey as a first-generation student working two jobs, sometimes with overnight shifts followed by classes, I've experienced burnout that made it difficult for me to focus, feel confident, and feel good overall. Through these experiences, I found that no matter how disciplined you think you are, success is conditional on your mental health and support. Mental illness has always been taboo in my Liberian community, and most of my family's that lives here in the United States. We would downplay emotions or feel like we didn't know what we were going through if we did share. Asking for help was considered weak. I grew up this way, so I would simply bottle up my stress. Until I began working in a Level 5 facility providing care and support to youth facing serious trauma and behavioral health issues. I saw firsthand what untreated mental illnesses do to education, relationships, and outcomes- but most importantly, how therapeutic care can help kids have a sense of normalcy again. Consequently, I practice mental health awareness in my workplace and community. At work, I allow youth space to vent their feelings without judgment, I reinforce coping skills, and advocate for appropriate safety planning during transitions. I remind coworkers to look for burnout and take care of their mental health. I strive to normalize mental health discussions within my Liberian communities and church. I openly discuss my own experiences with burnout and stress. This can help destigmatize the topic and allow others to feel comfortable asking questions. I can let people know it's ok to talk about emotions rather than just brushing them off. In school, I uplift classmates to take advantage of campus counseling and ask for help when they need it. Good mental health allows you to excel. I hope to go beyond just obtaining my degree- I plan to study health policy and healthcare management to help increase access to mental health services that are culturally responsive. I want to help shape policies that understand students and immigrants are under pressure and need resources that are accessible and stigma-free. Promoting mental health awareness isn't just personal for me; it's cultural and systemic. If, through encouraging conversations, destigmatizing mental health in Liberian communities, and empowering vulnerable youth, I can make seeking help normal, then, through empathy, leadership, and grace, I hope to shift the culture of mental health in my community and the world.

Talking used to feel dangerous to me for the majority of my life. I stutter. So speaking felt less like communication and more like undressing when I was growing up. Words that sounded crisp and clear in my head became sluggish, broken, stuck. I quickly learned that some people don't know how to wait for you. They'll interrupt you. Finish your sentences. After a while, it just became easier to remain quiet. I became quieter still after my mother died from our broken healthcare system in Liberia. Mourning, immigration, and assimilation taught me how to live through observation. I studied, played by the rules, and shouldered responsibility, but I avoided opportunities that asked me to voice my thoughts. With my stutter, I doubted if people would ever listen. The day that transformed me occurred during a shift at a Level 5 residential treatment facility for youth with intensive trauma and behavioral health needs. I had pulled an overnight shift and went to class that morning without sleeping. That afternoon, I found out one of the youth I worked with was being discharged/transferred without an adequate safety plan. I knew better. But I also knew if I didn't speak up, someone would get hurt. It was scary to speak up. I recall hyperventilating, trying to organize my thoughts, knowing they might come out disjointed. I took a breath and spoke. I stuttered but didn't stop. I told them what I saw, why this transition was unsafe, and what help was needed. My voice wasn't perfect, but it was steady. And this time someone listened. The plan was altered, and the youth transitioned safely. That changed my perspective on communication. Confidence doesn't mean talking without mistakes. Confidence is talking with conviction. Because of my stutter, I was speaking authentically. It didn't make my point less true; it made it true that I was saying it. I spoke with a voice of authority because I lived it and owned it. I’ve learned to use my voice since. I speak up for kids. I voice concerns clearly. And I say something even when it’s awkward to do so. I realized that being Black and a first-gen college student means my voice has a perspective that these systems lack. If there’s a matter of safety, dignity, or fairness, I don’t wait to be asked to speak. Moving forward, I hope to advocate on a larger scale. I am currently studying Economics and Healthcare Management to one day work in health policy consulting and become a health economist. I hope to speak where the decisions are being made. Using data, lived experience, and clear voices to help shape policies that create fewer disparities within healthcare, mental health accessibility, and economic opportunity. My stutter used to make me think silence was the safer option. My stutter now teaches me that change starts when we bravely use our voice, stuttering or not. I will use my voice to speak up, advocate, lead, and work towards creating a world where everyone feels seen and heard, stuttering or not.

Hi! I am Ruth, and I am a BIPOC first-generation college student managing to cover my expenses independently during my education. I am currently double-majoring in Economics and Healthcare Management. My current financial responsibilities demonstrate that college affordability already impacts my everyday life through consistent work and budget management. I have two jobs. I work 34 hours a week overnight at $20/hr and another job 12 hours a week at $16/hr. After paying federal taxes, along with state and payroll taxes in Minnesota, my take-home pay is minimal. I am ineligible for Pell Grants during the next academic year, which adds to my financial responsibilities. I live off campus and pay for all necessities by myself. Rent, gas, food, textbooks, and gas to drive to school Monday-Friday. Even with these limitations, I take steps to minimize my student loan debt as much as possible. I pay $300 towards my student loans from each paycheck. This allows me to chip away at the principal and keep interest from accruing. I choose to do this even when money is short because I do not want to graduate heavily in debt. I also budget and monitor my spending to avoid unnecessary loans. Working and going to school have been physically draining for me. Some nights I work overnight and go straight to class with no sleep. Then I have classes until 5: 00 p.m., sleep for a couple of hours, and work overnight again. I do this all week long. It has made me exhausted and burned out, but I know school is my only chance at stability and opportunity. I also prepare for debt in the future. I diligently search for scholarships to decrease my tuition and select majors that lead to good jobs. Once I graduate, I will have stable employment to pay off any loans. I will utilize income-based repayments and auto-pay to prevent any missed payments and accruing interest. The Ruth Brown Scholarship would lessen the amount of time I spend doing grueling overnight work shifts. It would keep me from taking on more student debt. It would allow me to give 100% of my attention to my classes. It would keep me from harming my health. It would allow me to graduate on time. This scholarship won't be taking the place of my effort - it's supplementing it. I am working. I am paying down debt. I am planning for my future responsibly. With this help, I can finish school debt-free.

The sound of overcrowded waiting rooms echoes in my memory far louder than any relief. Healthcare in Liberia as a child meant lines, whispers of fear, and unanswered questions. Queuing up with your family for hours, hoping you would receive care, but never being guaranteed that you would. Losing my mother later in life to our broken healthcare system, I learned what those moments truly cost. Her death should have been avoided because it happened due to systemic healthcare shortcomings. She died because she couldn’t get care in time. After all, there weren’t enough resources, and systems collapsed at moments of need. I dedicate my professional life to public service because I aim to improve healthcare staffing shortages, timely care, and mental health inequalities. Now, I work directly with those affected by addressing these disparities head-on. I work at a Level 5 residential treatment facility with youth who have been through intense trauma and behavioral health needs. My job allows me to help ensure safety, structure, and continuity of care in times of crisis. I frequently volunteer extra time outside of my schedule to ensure that these youth know someone cares about them and wants them to succeed when they leave our doors. This career path has allowed me to see how inadequate funding for mental health services and a lack of consistency can stunt healing and potential. I also tackle this problem by volunteering within the community. As I work to sustain myself financially, I purposefully allocate the money I earn towards donating during the holiday season to a charity organization that feeds children and elderly people living in underserved communities. Our ability to access necessities during challenging seasonal periods plays a critical role in maintaining health. I also volunteer my time to spread awareness and support for domestic violence survivors, cancer, and women's health. Public service requires sustainability and practical approaches that emphasize maintaining dignity. I am currently double-majoring in Economics and Healthcare Management. Economics allows me to view social problems at the systems level and understand how policy and funding decisions impact access to care. Healthcare management gives me the tools I need to positively impact operations, staffing/planning, and service delivery. My career goal is to go into health policy consulting after graduation and receive advanced training as a health economist. I am combating healthcare and mental health disparities through direct service, community advocacy, and education. I hope to continue Jeannine Schroeder's legacy of utilizing talent, empathy, and initiative to create a more equitable, accessible, and humane world.

I first learned what service meant when help arrived too late. As a child in Liberia, communities rallied together when systems broke down. There was limited access to health care and education. Getting by was a struggle, and oftentimes you sacrificed your own needs because you put others first, even if you had nothing to give. Those experiences informed my sense of responsibility long before I knew anything about policy and leadership. Service. Sacrifice. Bravery. Those words took on new meaning for me when my mother died as a victim of our fractured healthcare system. Her death was preventable. It occurred because care was delayed, resources were scarce, and coordination was weak. My mother’s death taught me that bravery is not some vague concept. Bravery is stepping up when the system collapses, and people suffer. My mother’s death taught me that service needs to be sustained and tangible, not symbolic. I have carried these values with me since arriving in the United States. As an African immigrant and first-generation college student, I am a full-time financial independent student studying a double major in Economics and Healthcare Management. I work two jobs and still find time to serve my community because when life gets hard, responsibility shouldn't stop. I work with youth in a Level 5 residential treatment placement battling serious trauma and behavioral health challenges. Many days, I take time off work to volunteer because I feel these kids need someone to ensure they are safe and getting the best care to become stable. On top of that, I save my money to provide for a holiday obligation where we gift children and elderly individuals with food. I believe if you are going to serve, you have to sacrifice. The life of Sgt. Albert Dono Ware fuels my passion for wanting to impact the struggles of people of African descent living in America. There are still gaps in health care, mental wellness, and socioeconomic status for many Africans and African Americans. This is due to under-resourced services, lack of culturally competent care, and misrepresentation within the space of policymaking. Solutions include policy reforms with an emphasis on accessibility, accountability, and long-term solutions. Key policy changes moving forward must include broadening access to affordable healthcare, addressing gaps in mental wellness support and advocacy, and diversifying health and human service leadership. Programs should emphasize preventative care as well as equitable, culturally responsive services with sustained investment in community health and social service providers. Economic policies that address education, housing security, and job growth will be necessary for sustainable advancement in Black communities. Change must be collaborative. Public policy leaders must commit to equitable investments and inclusive policy design. Health and human services systems, schools, must develop pipelines that include Black and Brown professionals and leaders. Community-based organizations and faith institutions are critical to connect and build trust. Most importantly, Black and Brown people must be involved in driving solutions firsthand. Sgt. Albert Dono Ware lived a life of service characterized by bravery and sacrifice. I pay homage to his legacy by pledging my studies, career, and future workplace to building better systems that serve the people of the African diaspora. I promise to transform service into a system, sacrifice into long-term gains, and bravery into reality.

In life, we frequently pass opportunities that appear to brighten up our path and direct us to growth and bliss. This chance before me is not mere luck; it is a blessing directing me to my journey. Growing up, my family broke up at the age of three, and I then lost my mother at the age of six. After the death of her, I become the leftover nobody wanted. All my relatives perceived me as a misfortune, and I do not know why. I saw life hanging me up to the edge of the life where I kept my faith. With all the hardships I have been through, I did not give up faith. I kept faith as my brother and sister walking beside me on the road to success. The book Matthew 21:22 said, “And whatever you ask in prayer, you will receive, if you have faith.” My faith serves as source of strength and resilience because I believe in the highest God who inspire his courage into me to persevere when the odds are unconquerable. Sailing through turbulent times, I faced various challenges along my journey. From academic losses to personal tribulations, each task tested my perseverance. Nevertheless, with unshakeable faith as my compass, I resisted giving in to despair. Rather, I saw these problems as chances for growth and learning, relying on my faith to guide me in illuminating the way. Irrespective of the dilemmas, I experienced moments of glory that made me joyful and blessed. Whether it was accomplishing academic milestones despite the odds or lending a helping hand to those in need, each win strengthened my belief in the power of faith. Through patience and commitment, I found that religion is more than simply a passive belief; it is an active force that enables us to overcome challenges and achieve our goals. Looking ahead, I am devoted to using my faith as a guiding force to achieve even higher heights. I imagine a future in which I may use my education and abilities to positively impact my town and beyond. Whether it's through volunteer work, activism, or choosing a job dedicated to helping others, my faith will inspire and motivate me every step of the way. Ultimately, This scholarship opportunity is more than simply financial help; it represents the realization of my hopes and goals. My path thus far has been a witness to faith's transformational power, helping me through obstacles and enjoying victories. As I embark on this new chapter in my life, I am grateful for the support and encouragement that my faith offers. With faith as my compass, I am confident that I can navigate the journey ahead with courage, resilience, and undying drive.