Growing up, the thing that made me stand out was my nose. Or so I thought. I was the only Iranian in my school, and I looked different. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but over time, small comments accumulated. Without really realizing it, I was internalizing them. In my early twenties, I decided to get a nose job. It felt like a logical step at the time - something that would make me feel more confident, more accepted, more aligned with how I was “supposed” to look. But the surgery was misguided, negligently performed, and went horribly wrong - it altered the trajectory of my life. I struggled to recognize myself, and that disconnect had a significant impact on my mental health. What I didn’t fully understand at the time was that I had developed body dysmorphia, which the surgery ultimately made worse. It developed into obsessive thought patterns and anxiety that were difficult to manage, and for a period of time, I found myself in a very dark place. What followed was a long process of trying to understand what had happened and rebuild a sense of self. I started therapy, began learning more about body dysmorphia, and slowly worked on changing the way I saw myself. It wasn’t quick or linear, but it forced me to confront how much of my identity had been shaped by external perceptions rather than my own. Over time, my perspective shifted. I started to see my old nose differently - not as something that needed to be fixed, but as something that was part of my identity, my heritage, and my story. In many ways, I began to miss it. More importantly, I began to understand how easily we can internalize standards that were never meant for us in the first place. That experience has shaped a lot of what I do now. I volunteer with the Body Dysmorphic Disorder Foundation, where I share my lived experience as part of their Schools Project, delivering training sessions to teachers and education staff. The aim is to help them recognize early signs of body dysmorphia and appearance-related anxiety in young people - particularly those who might otherwise go unnoticed. A lot of what we focus on is early intervention: helping teachers understand how these patterns develop, what to look out for, and how to support students before it escalates into something more severe. This work feels particularly important because BDD often develops in adolescence, and it is still widely misunderstood. Many young people are dismissed as simply being “insecure” or “vain,” when in reality they may be dealing with something far more complex. Being able to step into those rooms and speak from lived experience - not just theory - is something I take seriously. It’s also made me more aware of how many people are quietly struggling with similar issues, without the language or support to articulate it. Alongside this, I’m developing a documentary project exploring the cosmetic surgery industry and the impact of beauty standards on mental health, particularly for women from Middle Eastern and Asian backgrounds. Looking back, what once felt like something I needed to fix has become one of the most defining parts of my perspective. It’s shaped how I think about identity, representation, and the responsibility we have to challenge harmful narratives. If I could go back, I wouldn’t have made the same decision. But I’ve learned to take that experience and use it to help someone else pause, question, and choose differently.

I’ve spent much of my life thinking about connection and community - not because it came easily to me, but because I know what it feels like to go without it. I grew up in a low-income, single-parent household shaped by instability and disconnection. By sixteen, I was financially independent, navigating life largely on my own. That experience made me deeply aware of what it means to lack stable connections, and how powerful it can be when people feel supported. At sixteen, I started a social impact initiative at my college, which led to my selection for a global development placement in South Africa, funded by the UK’s Department for International Development and UK Aid for high-potential students from low-income backgrounds. At eighteen, while studying law and literature, I volunteered at a pro bono legal clinic, helping marginalized communities access free legal support. Those experiences showed me that connection is not just emotional - it can be practical, protective, and life-changing. That belief shaped my career. In my twenties, I built a creative production team from the ground up, growing from just myself to a team with direct reports, multiple clients, and a network of freelancers. It taught me how to create environments where people feel valued and supported, so they can do their best work. Alongside this, I was selected by the Communications Council of New Zealand to provide pro bono creative consulting and mentorship to young professionals who lacked access to guidance. I also helped rebuild CreativeMornings Wellington after it had been dismantled during the pandemic. What began as an effort to reconnect people became something deeper - intentional third spaces where people could come together, share ideas, and feel part of something again. This focus on community, culture, and connection also sits at the heart of my documentary work. Since starting at Columbia’s Graduate School of Journalism to study documentary filmmaking, my last three films have explored these themes in different ways. In my first semester, I made a documentary on how the Rockaway Initiative for Sustainability and Equity (RISE) and their Dune Squad are rebuilding community and creating nature-based solutions after Superstorm Sandy - a film now set to screen at the Rockaway Film Festival. In my second semester, I worked on Heal, which follows a local Rockaways community and groups like the Salty Sisters, who use ocean and surf therapy to create safe, offline spaces for women of color in a sport where they have historically been underrepresented. More recently, I made a documentary about my birth country of Iran, exploring both the fractures created by political turbulence and the connections being forged by artists - musicians, poets, and creatives - using shared culture to bring the Iranian diaspora together during one of the most turbulent periods in the country’s modern history. Across all this work, one thing has become clear to me: people are actively seeking spaces where they can connect in more meaningful ways. I think the future of human connection depends on creating more of these spaces. Technology has made communication faster, but not always deeper. We are constantly online, yet many people feel increasingly isolated. I don’t believe the answer is to reject technology, but to use it more intentionally - as a tool to bring people into real community, not replace it. I recently explored this in an article titled Nature is the New Nightclub, where I looked at the growing shift away from traditional nightlife and toward more intentional, grounded forms of connection through nature, wellness, and shared interests. I’ve included this piece in my application, as it reflects something I’ve been noticing more and more: people are craving spaces that feel human and real. That same thinking informs my work now. Through a part-time role with the Brown Institute for Media Innovation’s Media and Community Lab at Columbia University, I'm exploring how to help communities bridge the gap between media and the public. I'm particularly interested in creating more meaningful, two-way relationships between newsrooms and communities - shifting from reporting on people to involving them. For me, the future of connection isn't about more platforms or more content. It’s about building safe, intentional spaces where people feel seen, heard, and able to belong. As a documentary filmmaker, people person and community builder who gets energy from bringing people together to authentically connect and thrive, that's the future I want to help create.

My experience with debt began long before Columbia. I grew up in a low-income, single-parent home marked by instability and abuse. My mother was herself drowning in debt and unable to care for us. By sixteen, I was financially independent. From then on, I supported myself through school while managing ADHD, complex PTSD, and chronic anxiety. With no safety net, I had to learn how to survive on my own. At sixteen, I was selected for a UK Aid and Department for International Development program for high-potential youth from low-income backgrounds, which led to a placement in South Africa. That experience broadened my understanding of inequality and access, and strengthened my commitment to supporting others. During my undergraduate degree, I studied law and literature full-time while working three jobs to survive. The financial pressure was constant and led to severe burnout, worsening my mental health. But I continued to push through because I had no other option. Despite these challenges, I was determined to build a different life for myself. At eighteen, I volunteered at a pro bono legal clinic, helping marginalized communities access free legal advice. I went on to build a career as a writer, then a producer, and eventually a creative director, working across media and tech while supporting myself entirely. In my twenties, I was selected by the Communications Council of New Zealand to provide pro bono creative consulting and mentorship to charities and NGOs who lacked access to guidance and support. These experiences reinforced something that has stayed with me throughout my life - that access, not ability, is often the biggest barrier. Over time, I also became increasingly aware of the lack of diversity in the industry, particularly the absence of people from backgrounds like mine. That led me to pursue a Master’s in Documentary Filmmaking at Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism. To make this possible, I had to take out a substantial private loan. As an international student, I was not eligible for federal financial aid or local loans, leaving me with limited options. This loan is a significant burden, and without any family support or safety net, the responsibility of repaying it falls entirely on me. This pressure has been compounded by the current situation in Iran. Ongoing conflict has displaced members of my family - my father was forced to leave his home in Kuwait - and I have been unable to communicate with relatives in Iran due to internet blackouts. At Columbia, I'm doing everything I can to build a sustainable path forward. I'm working the limited hours permitted under my student visa through part-time work with the Brown Institute for Media Innovation, a collaboration between Columbia Journalism School and Stanford University. However, restrictions on international students make it extremely difficult to earn enough to meaningfully contribute toward my loan while studying, and these earnings will only cover basic living costs in New York. Because of this financial pressure, I am already facing difficult trade-offs. Many opportunities in journalism and documentary filmmaking are low-paid or unpaid, making them financially unviable. Instead, I risk being pushed toward work that prioritizes income over impact, limiting my ability to enter the field I came here to change. This scholarship would ease that burden, helping me make a dent in my debt and giving me more flexibility to pursue work aligned with my goals rather than being constrained by immediate financial pressure. I took on this debt because I believe in the impact of my work. My goal is not only to repay it, but to help others carry less of this burden.

Some of my earliest memories of my grandmother are from Iran, when she was going through breast cancer treatment. I didn’t fully understand what was happening at the time - I just remember small, confusing details. The bandages on her chest, the way she moved more slowly, and later, the scars. It was my first real exposure to illness, but also to resilience. After she recovered, she came to visit us in the UK after we had moved there. That was the last time I saw her in person. Since then, returning to Iran has been difficult, and over the years her health has declined, meaning she hasn’t been able to travel to visit us either. That distance has always been there, but recently it has become something much heavier. With the ongoing situation in Iran and extended internet blackouts since December, I haven’t been able to contact her. Access to secure communication tools like VPNs is limited and often extremely expensive, and coming from a low-income background, it hasn’t been something my family could afford. For months now, we’ve been in complete darkness, not knowing how she is, or if she is okay. That uncertainty has stayed with me. It’s something I’ve been trying to process through my work, and it has become a central thread in a documentary I’ve just completed about the current situation in Iran. At its core is a question I can’t answer - whether I will see my grandmother again, or even my home country. My relationship to illness doesn’t stop there. My mother was also diagnosed with breast cancer, although thankfully it was caught early and treated successfully. Even so, the cost of treatment placed a significant burden on our family. Growing up in a low-income household, it was something we felt deeply, both financially and emotionally. Watching both my grandmother and my mother go through cancer shaped me in ways I’m still understanding. It taught me strength, but also perspective. It made me more aware of how fragile life is, and how quickly things can change. It pushed me to take better care of my own health - through exercise, mindfulness, and learning to listen to my body - but also to slow down and appreciate the moments that often get overlooked. For me, it reinforced that life is not measured by wealth or possessions, but by connection, by memory, and by the people we love. And right now, it’s the absence of that connection - the not knowing - that I feel most.

What I want to build is something that sits between people and the media. Over the past decade, working across creative, tech, and media, I’ve seen how disconnected journalism can feel from the people it’s meant to serve. Newsrooms often don’t reflect the communities they report on, and at the same time, trust in media is at an all-time low. There’s a gap - not just in representation, but in understanding and access. That’s what I want to work on.Through my Master’s in Documentary Filmmaking at Columbia University's Graduate School of Journalism, and my work with the Brown Institute for Media Innovation, I’ve started to explore how media can become more inclusive and more audience-centered. I’m particularly interested in creating more of a two-way relationship between newsrooms and the public - not just telling stories about people, but building ways for people to be part of the storytelling process. I’m also really interested in media literacy. So much of how we understand the world now is shaped by what we see online, yet most people aren’t given the tools to critically engage with it. I’d like to build initiatives that help people better understand how media works, while also making the industry itself more transparent and accessible. Alongside this, I’m working toward a career in documentary filmmaking, focusing on stories from underrepresented and marginalized communities. For me, storytelling is as much about who gets to participate as it is about the final product. Long term, I see myself building something that brings these things together - part media, part community, part innovation. A space that helps make journalism more representative, more collaborative, and more human. Because if people don’t see themselves reflected in the stories being told (which is too often the case), or don’t feel part of the conversation, they disengage. And I want to build something that brings them back in.

I came to Buddhism in my early twenties, at a time when I was trying to rebuild my life. I had moved to New Zealand to heal from a period of deep personal trauma, following a life-altering surgery that affected both my physical and mental health. I was also carrying the weight of an unstable and abusive upbringing, and years of chronic stress and burnout. At that point, I didn’t have the tools to process what I had been through - I just knew I needed to find a way to ground myself again. It started slowly. I was introduced to yoga, and then to meditation, and from there, to Buddhist philosophy. At first, I found it incredibly difficult. Sitting still with my thoughts felt overwhelming, and I struggled to stay present. But something about it kept pulling me back. The more I learned, the more it began to make sense - not in an abstract way, but in a way that felt deeply practical and lived. Buddhism gave me a framework for understanding suffering, not as something to avoid, but something to move through with awareness and compassion. It taught me how to observe my thoughts rather than be consumed by them, and how to find moments of stillness, even during difficult periods. What began as a personal coping mechanism became a long-term commitment. Since then, I’ve continued to deepen my practice, spending time in monasteries and spiritual communities across New Zealand, Australia, Mexico, London, and now New York. My practice is not perfect or rigid, but it is consistent - it’s something I return to, especially in moments of challenge. This year at Columbia has been one of the most intense periods of my life academically and creatively. The pressure of a high-demand graduate program, combined with ongoing financial and personal stress, has been significant. My Buddhist practice has been essential in helping me stay grounded, regulate my mental health, and move through this experience with a greater sense of awareness and resilience. Looking ahead, my intention is to continue deepening this path. After graduating, I hope to spend time in India and Southeast Asia, immersing myself more fully in Buddhist study and practice. I am particularly interested in learning from monastic communities and exploring how these teachings can be applied in contemporary, real-world contexts. In terms of giving back, I don’t necessarily see my path as becoming a traditional priest or chaplain, but rather integrating Buddhist principles into the work I already do. As a documentary filmmaker, I am drawn to stories that explore mental health, identity, and human suffering. Buddhism has shaped the way I approach these stories - with more compassion, presence, and a deeper understanding of the human condition. I also hope to create spaces, whether through storytelling, community, or future initiatives, where others can access the kinds of tools that helped me. Particularly for people navigating trauma, burnout, or instability, I know how transformative even a simple practice can be. Buddhism didn’t remove my challenges, but it changed my relationship to them. It gave me a way to stay grounded in the middle of uncertainty, and a sense of purpose rooted in compassion. That is something I will carry forward, both in my life and in the way I hope to serve others.

Selflessness, to me, has never been a single act - it’s been a consistent thread running through my life, often shaped by my own experiences of hardship and lack of access. At sixteen, while navigating financial independence and an unstable home environment, I started a social impact initiative at my college. At the time, I was still figuring out how to support myself, but I felt a strong pull to create something that extended beyond me. That initiative led to my selection for a global development program funded by the UK’s Department for International Development and UK Aid, designed to support high-potential youth from low-income backgrounds. Through this, I spent four months in South Africa working with local communities on education and sustainability projects. It was my first real experience of seeing how small actions, when rooted in care, can create meaningful change. At eighteen, while studying law and literature, I volunteered with a pro bono legal clinic, supporting individuals from low-income and marginalized backgrounds in accessing free legal advice. Many of the people we worked with were navigating complex systems without support, and I often saw reflections of my own experience in them. It reinforced something I had already begun to understand - that access is often the biggest barrier, not ability. As I progressed in my career, that commitment to supporting others continued. I was selected by the Communications Council of New Zealand to provide pro bono creative consulting and mentorship to a young communications manager who lacked access to guidance and industry support. Having navigated my own path without mentorship, I understood how transformative even small amounts of support can be. That experience shifted how I thought about success - not just as something to achieve individually, but something to share. I also played a key role in rebuilding CreativeMornings Wellington after it had been dismantled during the pandemic. What started as a small effort to reconnect people grew into a thriving creative community once again. For me, it was never just about the events themselves, but about creating a space where people felt seen, supported, and part of something larger. Now, as a graduate student at Columbia University, I remain actively involved in Iranian community spaces in New York. At a time when Iran is going through significant upheaval, these communities have become even more important - not just as places of cultural connection, but as spaces of support, solidarity, and shared understanding. I contribute through storytelling, community events, and by helping amplify voices that are often overlooked or misrepresented. Across all of these experiences, what connects them is a belief that showing up for others matters. Selflessness doesn’t always look like grand gestures - often, it’s about consistency, about making time, and using whatever skills you have to support someone else. My work today, particularly in documentary filmmaking, is a continuation of that. I see storytelling as a form of service - a way to give visibility to experiences that might otherwise go unseen, and to create empathy and understanding across communities. For me, selflessness is not something I step into occasionally - it’s something I try to live by, every day.

Farsi was the first language I learned, spoken at home and deeply tied to my identity, culture, and sense of belonging. But growing up as an Iranian immigrant in the UK, English quickly became the language I had to operate in - at school, in public, and eventually in my career. From a young age, I found myself moving between the two, often acting as a bridge between cultures, ideas, and ways of thinking. Being bilingual has never just been about language - it’s about perspective. Farsi carries emotion, nuance, and cultural context that doesn’t always translate easily into English. At the same time, English became the tool I needed to navigate education, build a career, and communicate in global spaces. Learning to exist between these languages taught me how to adapt, but also how to listen more closely - to what is said, and what isn’t. There were challenges. Growing up, I was often aware of the gap between how I expressed myself in English and how I thought or felt in Farsi. I often found myself translating - not just language, but meaning - for family members navigating unfamiliar systems. That came with responsibility at a young age. But over time, I’ve come to see this as a strength. Being bilingual has given me a deeper sensitivity to people, to culture, and to the complexity of identity. It’s shaped how I connect with others and, ultimately, the kind of stories I want to tell. I feel that responsibility now more than ever. Iran is going through one of the most turbulent periods in its modern history, with ongoing conflict, economic instability, and widespread disruption affecting everyday life. Being outside of Iran, while watching these events unfold and seeing their impact on my own family and community, has reinforced the importance of voice, representation, and truth. This has directly influenced my path. After building a career as a writer, producer, and creative director, I am now pursuing a Master’s in Documentary and Investigative Journalism at Columbia University. I am currently developing a documentary exploring identity, memory, and cultural preservation within the Iranian diaspora. Post-graduation, I plan to build a career in documentary filmmaking that centers multilingual and multicultural perspectives - particularly stories from immigrant and diaspora communities. I want to create work that bridges understanding across cultures and ensures that stories like those from Iran are not simplified, misunderstood, or ignored. Being bilingual has taught me that language is not just a tool for communication - it’s a way of seeing. For me, it carries a responsibility: to translate, to represent, and to tell stories that might otherwise go unheard.

I’ve spent much of my life as an immigrant. I was born Iranian and raised in the UK, then at 21, I moved to New Zealand and stayed long enough to become a Kiwi. Now, I’m an immigrant again in the United States. Each move has meant starting over - learning new systems, new cultures, and constantly figuring out where I fit. Alongside that, my upbringing wasn’t stable. I grew up in a single-parent household shaped by abuse and financial insecurity, and by sixteen, I was financially independent, supporting myself through school. There wasn’t a safety net, so I learned early how to adapt, how to work hard, and how to keep going even when things felt overwhelming. Being Iranian right now adds another layer to that experience. The ongoing conflict has displaced many people, including my own family - my father was recently forced to leave his home in Kuwait due to regional instability. Inside Iran, daily life has been deeply affected, with widespread disruption, internet blackouts, and economic strain. Being in the U.S. as an Iranian student during this time has also come with its own challenges - navigating uncertainty, stigma, and the emotional weight of watching events unfold from afar. These experiences have shaped how I see the world. I’ve lived between cultures, often feeling like I don’t fully belong to one place, while carrying a deep connection to another. It’s made me acutely aware of inequality, access, and the importance of whose stories get told. Even while focused on survival, I was drawn to work that helped others. At sixteen, I started a social impact initiative at my college, which led to a development placement in South Africa. Later, while studying law and literature during my undergraduate degree, I volunteered in a pro bono legal clinic, supporting low-income and marginalized communities. That commitment to social impact has been a constant thread throughout my life. I went on to build a career as a writer, producer, and creative director, but over time, I felt a growing pull toward more meaningful work. That led me to pursue a Master’s in Documentary and Investigative Journalism at Columbia University, where I’m currently working on a documentary exploring identity, memory, and cultural preservation within the Iranian diaspora in New York. Long term, I want to build a career in documentary filmmaking that centers underrepresented voices - particularly immigrant and diaspora communities - and creates pathways for others from backgrounds like mine. Being an immigrant has taught me how to navigate uncertainty and keep moving forward. But more than anything, it’s given me a sense of responsibility - to use my voice and my work to create impact, and to help others find theirs.

Growing up as a first-generation Iranian immigrant in a single-parent, low-income household, I didn’t have the kind of stability many people take for granted. My upbringing was shaped by abuse, financial insecurity, and constant unpredictability. By sixteen, I was financially independent, supporting myself through school and learning to navigate life on my own. That experience forced me to grow up quickly. I learned resilience, adaptability, and how to keep going even when things felt overwhelming. More than anything, I learned what it feels like to lack access - to opportunities, support, and a safety net. That perspective has shaped both my values and the direction of my work. Even while focused on survival, I was drawn to helping others. At sixteen, I started a social impact initiative at my college, which led to a development placement in South Africa. Later, while studying law and literature during my undergraduate degree, I remained committed to supporting others from backgrounds similar to my own, including volunteering in a pro bono legal clinic supporting low-income and marginalized communities. Despite these challenges, I built a career as a writer, producer, and creative director, consistently drawn to work that merges storytelling with social impact. Today, I’m pursuing a Master’s in Documentary and Journalism at Columbia University, actively creating work that amplifies underrepresented voices. However, beyond tuition and housing, the hidden costs of education - textbooks, equipment, and basic living expenses - remain a constant challenge without family support. This scholarship would directly help me sustain my studies and continue producing meaningful work. Long term, I want to create pathways for others from low-income backgrounds - through mentorship, funding, and storytelling platforms that expand access and opportunity. I know what it feels like to be on the outside of opportunity; my goal is to help change that.

I am an Iranian-British-Kiwi filmmaker currently pursuing a Master’s in Documentary and Journalism at Columbia University. My work sits at the intersection of storytelling and social impact, with a focus on amplifying underrepresented voices and challenging dominant narratives. My journey to this point has been shaped by significant personal and structural obstacles. I grew up in an abusive household and became financially independent at the age of sixteen, supporting myself throughout my undergraduate education while navigating complex mental health challenges caused by chronic burnout and PTSD. Without family support, I worked multiple jobs throughout my studies, often prioritizing survival over academic opportunity. Despite this, I built a career as a writer, producer, and creative director across the UK and internationally. Social impact has been a consistent thread throughout my life. At sixteen, I founded a social impact initiative at my college, which led to being selected for a global development program and a four-month placement in South Africa. At university, I volunteered with a pro bono legal clinic, supporting low-income and marginalized individuals in accessing free legal advice. These early experiences shaped my commitment to equity and access - values that continue to underpin both my academic work and long-term ambitions. Coming to the US to study at Columbia was a pivotal step in transitioning into documentary filmmaking. However, as an international student, I was not eligible for federal financial aid or local loans, leaving me with no option but to take out a substantial private loan to fund my studies. This has placed me under significant financial pressure, with high repayment obligations that I will carry for years to come. I had hoped to offset some of this burden through work while studying, but international student restrictions have made this extremely difficult. Employment opportunities are limited, many roles are prioritized for domestic students, and institutional regulations restrict the types of external work I can undertake. I have also faced unexpected housing challenges, further increasing my financial strain. These pressures have been compounded by the war in Iran. Witnessing the impact of these events on my extended family and community, has been both emotionally and financially challenging. Despite this, I have remained deeply committed to my work and purpose. At Columbia, my focus has been twofold: exploring Iran and the Iranian diaspora, and using storytelling as a tool for social impact, particularly in amplifying marginalized communities. I am currently producing a documentary that weaves together my personal story with those of diaspora artists in New York, examining identity, memory, and what it means to belong in a time of political upheaval. My long-term goal is to build a career in documentary filmmaking that centers underrepresented communities and addresses urgent global issues - particularly those relating to mental health, cultural identity, and systemic inequality. Beyond storytelling, I want to actively create pathways for others from low-income and underrepresented backgrounds to access opportunities that were not readily available to me - whether through mentorship, funding initiatives, or community-led storytelling platforms. This scholarship would not only ease my immediate financial burden, but enable me to fully commit to my studies and creative work at a critical moment in my career. More importantly, it would allow me to continue on a path where I can use storytelling as a tool for empathy, awareness, and change. Having navigated systemic barriers and personal adversity to reach this point, I am determined to pay that opportunity forward - by creating work that opens doors, shifts perspectives, and ensures that others from backgrounds like mine are not limited by circumstance, but supported to realize their full potential.

Social impact and an interest in the nonprofit sector have been a central thread throughout my decade-long career and now my postgraduate studies in documentary filmmaking and journalism at Columbia University. That commitment started early. One of my fondest memories is of my sixteen-year-old self, beaming with pride after being awarded a global work placement in South Africa with the Department for International Development and UK Aid, having successfully campaigned for, built, and grown my college’s first social impact committee and its initiatives. That early experience sparked a lasting passion for social justice and the role of media in driving positive change. It grounded my understanding of inequality and the importance of community-led solutions, and shaped the direction of my career. I carried that into my undergraduate degree in Law and English, where I focused on social justice, human rights, and storytelling. Alongside my studies, I volunteered with a pro bono legal support service, supporting individuals who would not otherwise have access to legal guidance. Although I went on to build a career in media and communications, I deliberately focused on the intersection of storytelling and social impact. I progressed from writer to producer to director, and in my most recent role as a Creative Director and corporate responsibility lead, I worked with global brands including Google and YouTube, as well as nonprofits, social enterprises, and charities, to shape campaigns and initiatives that supported social causes. While living in New Zealand, I was also selected by the Communications Council of New Zealand to mentor Kaibosh Food Rescue, where I acted as a communications consultant supporting their work addressing food waste and food insecurity. Now, as a graduate student, I am intentionally transitioning into a career more directly embedded within the nonprofit and public interest space, particularly through communication, education, and advocacy. I believe storytelling is a powerful tool within the nonprofit sector - not just to raise awareness, but to shift narratives, influence policy, and mobilize support. Most recently, I collaborated with RISE (Rockaway Initiative for Sustainability and Equity), creating a documentary highlighting their work and the community’s resilience, which has been entered into the Rockaway Film Festival. As an Iranian-British-Kiwi filmmaker, my perspective is shaped by my heritage. I feel a strong personal connection to Iran and to the ongoing human rights challenges facing the country, particularly at this moment in its modern history. Iranian women continue to face systemic discrimination in both law and everyday life, from restrictions on personal freedoms to unequal legal protections. This has become a central focus in my work and I recently produced a documentary called Azizam (meaning my love), a personal narrative film exploring these themes. I also actively write about human rights and justice in Iran and was recently commissioned by ICON and GRAZIA magazine to write about women’s rights in Iran, using storytelling to humanize complex political realities and bring global attention to these issues. I want to pursue a career in the nonprofit sector because I'm driven by purpose-led work that creates tangible, human impact. Through documentary filmmaking and journalism, I aim to amplify underrepresented voices, challenge harmful systems, and contribute to social change across areas I care deeply about, including mental health, human rights, and environmental justice. Long term, I hope to continue to work with nonprofits, foundations, and public institutions to create work that not only informs, but drives action. Ultimately, I'm motivated by impact over recognition. The opportunity to contribute to meaningful, lasting change in people’s lives is what drives me, and what I am committed to building my career around.

My interest in journalism stems from an enduring desire to tell stories that create meaningful change by shedding light on underrepresented topics and amplifying overlooked voices. This drive began early. At school, I founded our first human rights initiative and led campaigns focused on diversity, equity, and inclusion. At 16, this led to a global placement in South Africa with the Department for International Development and UK Aid, where I worked on humanitarian projects, documented inequality, and supported advocacy efforts. That experience shaped my understanding of journalism as a tool for accountability, awareness, and impact. At the University of Aberdeen, where I studied Law and English, I worked as a journalist for The Tab. One of my investigations into student housing conditions was picked up by BBC Watchdog, helping spark a wider national inquiry. That moment showed me journalism’s real-world impact - not just raising awareness, but driving accountability and change. After graduating, to survive financially, I fell into media and communications and built a career as a writer, producer, and Creative Director, working on documentary-style content for global organizations including Google and YouTube. Throughout my career, I have consistently championed diversity, equity, and inclusion, ensuring the stories I tell reflect a broader range of voices and lived experiences. While this work refined my craft, it also clarified my desire to return to independent journalism - to tell stories driven by truth, social impact, and lived experience. I am now pursuing a Master’s in Documentary Filmmaking and Journalism at Columbia University, where I am developing my voice as a long-form visual storyteller. My work sits at the intersection of documentary and journalism, combining investigative depth with emotional storytelling to explore issues such as identity, mental health, and cultural representation. Currently, I'm working on a short documentary titled Azizam (عزیزم) - a love letter to a homeland under threat. The film explores the current situation in Iran through my story and the stories of Iranian diaspora artists in New York, using creative expression as a form of resistance and cultural preservation. In a media landscape often dominated by reductive narratives, I aim to offer a more nuanced, human perspective. I am also Co-President of the Alliance of Journalists with Disabilities and member of the Columbia Iranian Students Association, where I advocate for more inclusive storytelling and greater representation within the media industry. More broadly, my ambition is to contribute to a more inclusive and representative media landscape. As someone from the Iranian diaspora, I have seen how certain communities are underrepresented or misrepresented in mainstream media. Through my work, I want to challenge these narratives, amplify marginalized voices, and create space for more honest storytelling. My path to this point has not been straightforward. I come from a low-income background and have had no family support, funding my education independently while studying internationally. Navigating financial instability alongside my ambitions has been challenging, but it has shaped my resilience and determination to push through. More than that, these experiences have become my superpower. They have given me a deep sense of empathy that directly informs the kind of filmmaker and journalist I am - someone who listens closely, creates space for honesty, and connects with people on a deeper level. This allows me to tell stories with authenticity and care, contributing to a more human and inclusive media landscape. This scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of continuing my studies, but allow me to fully commit to this path and continue developing work that has meaningful social impact.

In December 2016, I made a decision that would change the trajectory of my life. What began as an attempt to “fix” something I had been conditioned to believe was wrong with me led to a series of negligent surgeries that left me physically altered and psychologically fractured. In the aftermath, I developed post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, and depression. After years of therapy, I came to understand that I had been living with body dysmorphia for most of my life, manifesting in different ways throughout my childhood, including disordered eating. In many ways, it was a response to an abusive and traumatic upbringing - an attempt to regain control and feel “good enough.” Following surgical complications, I later developed obsessive-compulsive disorder, something I am still navigating today. At my lowest point, I experienced suicidal ideation, and at times still do - something I am continuously working through. For a long time, I didn’t have the language - or the family support system - to understand what was happening to me. I thought I was simply broken. Growing up in an unstable and abusive household, mental health was never something openly discussed or supported. When my father disappeared when I was 14, I learned to suppress pain rather than process it. That pattern followed me into adulthood - masking distress, pushing forward, and surviving without a safety net. With no family support, everything - from healing to funding my studies - has been something I’ve had to navigate alone. My experience with mental health has shaped both my beliefs and my relationships. For a long time, I struggled with trust, vulnerability, and connection. Through years of therapy and self-work, I’ve begun to rebuild those foundations and now value emotional honesty and depth in the relationships I choose to cultivate. It has also shaped how I see the world. I am deeply attuned to the invisible struggles people carry and the things left unsaid. I’ve been told that my empathy is my superpower - that I make people feel seen, heard, and understood. I listen not just to words, but to what sits beneath them. This sensitivity has transformed how I approach my work. I am not afraid of vulnerability or intimacy - in fact, I seek it. It allows me to capture real, authentic human emotion. My lived experience enables me to create space for honesty, and in doing so, I make films that feel raw, candid, and true. This ability to connect on a deeper level is what distinguishes my voice as a documentary filmmaker. I’m currently pursuing a master’s in documentary filmmaking and journalism at Columbia University. However, due to ongoing financial strain and a lack of family support, my ability to complete my studies is at risk. This scholarship would not only support my education, but enable me to continue creating work that amplifies underrepresented voices and brings conversations around mental health into the open. Through connecting with others in mental health and revision surgery communities, I realised my experience was not isolated. I began to see patterns - particularly among women from Middle Eastern and Asian backgrounds - shaped by cultural pressures, beauty standards, and unspoken trauma. This realisation ignited a deeper purpose: to tell stories that bring these struggles into the light and contribute to a world where mental health is spoken about openly, rather than hidden in silence. This purpose is what brought me to Columbia University. I came here driven by a desire to tell honest, diverse, and underrepresented stories - particularly around mental health and identity - and to use storytelling as a force for social impact, challenging stigma and bringing these conversations out of the shadows and into the open. Alongside my studies, I volunteer with the Body Dysmorphic Disorder Foundation in the UK, supporting efforts to raise awareness and improve early intervention for those struggling with BDD. In the long term, I hope to create a deeply personal documentary about my own experience - not only to process what I went through, but to help others who may be suffering in silence feel less alone. I’m also currently working on a short documentary titled Azizam (عزیزم) - meaning “my beloved.” The film is a love letter to a homeland under threat. It explores the current situation in Iran through my story and the stories of three Iranian diaspora artists in New York, using music, poetry, and art as forms of resistance and cultural preservation. At its core, the film asks what it means to hold onto identity when home begins to disappear, offering a more intimate and human perspective. My mental health journey has held me back and made life significantly harder. But despite these challenges, I have persevered. More than that, it has shaped my purpose, giving me the empathy, sensitivity, and determination to tell stories that matter. There is a quote often attributed to Robin Williams that resonates deeply with me: “I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy because they know what it's like to feel absolutely worthless, and they don't want anyone else to feel like that.” I see myself in that. But today, I channel that instinct into something bigger. And as a Persian woman, I often return to the words of the poet Hafez: “I wish I could show you, when you are lonely or in darkness, the astonishing light of your own being.” That is ultimately what I hope to do - through my work, my story, and my voice. One day, I want to give back by creating opportunities and support for others who, like me, faced the odds stacked against them but found the strength to push through. I want to ensure that fewer people suffer in silence, and that more people feel seen, heard, and understood. If there is one belief that has emerged from my journey, it is this: the more we bring our struggles into the light, the less power they hold.