They told me to "stay in my lane," but I was too busy building new roads. I come from a community where ambition isn't handed to you — you have to carve it out with bare hands. My academic and professional goals aren’t just about making it out; they're about reaching back, lifting up, and leaving no one behind. This fall, I’ll be majoring in International Relations and Public Policy. I want a career where I can stand up for the communities that raised me — whether that’s in diplomacy, public service, or some path I haven’t even discovered yet. Honestly, a lot of my dreams still scare me. They feel bigger than me sometimes. But I think that’s the point: if your dreams don’t scare you a little, you’re not dreaming big enough. Along the way, I’ve stayed rooted in the people and places that made me. In high school, I served as the Youth Lead for my City Councilmember’s office, helping launch participatory budgeting projects to fund things like library renovations and school improvements. I testified before the New York City Council on affordable housing — something that hits home when you’ve watched people you love get priced out of their neighborhoods. I started my school's Culture Day to honor the identities that too often get erased, and organized a student-led Palestinian Solidarity Statement because staying silent felt like betrayal. None of these projects were perfect. I made mistakes, doubted myself, sometimes wondered if it even mattered. But each time, my community showed me that trying matters — that showing up, even imperfectly, can still spark something real. Giving back wasn’t some polished resume builder for me; it was messy, personal, and necessary. Those experiences lit a fire in me that hasn’t gone out. I want to be part of building a world where no kid feels like they have to be "the exception" to succeed. Where dignity isn’t something you have to earn, but something you’re always owed. Higher education is my next step toward that future. It’s where I’ll sharpen my tools — learning how policies are written, power is negotiated, and change is scaled. But scholarships like the Sunshine Legall Scholarship are what make that next step possible. I’m determined to not just be another statistic of what could have been. I want to be proof that when students of color are given a fighting chance, we don’t just succeed — we transform everything we touch. I'm not here because the path was easy. I’m here because even when the road broke apart, I kept walking.

“Politics is personal. Geography is survival. History is memory. Culture is resistance.” I’ve learned these truths not from textbooks alone, but from my own life as a Bengali-American Muslim girl growing up in Kensington, Brooklyn. The streets I walk are layered with migration stories. The food carts on my corner trace global trade routes. The tenants in my building organize rent strikes using the same tactics once used in anti-colonial movements. In my world, every bus route, rezoning hearing, and protest chant is a living lesson in geography, politics, and culture. These aren’t just academic fields—they are the air I breathe. When I was ten, I voted in my first NYC City Council Participatory Budgeting cycle with my mom translating to others beside me. I didn’t know it then, but that was civic engagement and democracy in action. By middle school, I was helping shape project proposals, and by high school, I became a Steering Committee Member, Budget Delegate and founding member of my City Councilmember’s Youth Leadership Council. I worked with the NYC Department of Education to design real policy proposals for school improvements. That experience taught me how local geography within such a big city has the ability to determine opportunity, and how local governance can disrupt or reproduce inequality. History has been a mirror in my life. My grandmother, who passed away last year, lived through the Partition of India, a historic rupture that still defines South Asia’s borders and traumas. Listening to her stories about loss, migration, and resilience helped me understand how “history” is never over—it lives in our languages, our trauma, and our diasporas. That intergenerational grief deepened my understanding of displacement and belonging, which inspired me to lead my school’s Solidarity Statement for the current conflict in the Middle East, a statement that received citywide media attention and allowed for the implementation of Restorative Justice protocols within all NYC Public Schools with he support of DOE Chancellor David Banks. Later on, I had the privilege to testify before the NYC City Council in support of affordable housing in my neighborhood. Both moments grounded my advocacy in the global struggle for justice and the urgent need for policy that centers the lived experiences of marginalized communities. As a future International Relations and Political Science major, I want to build a career at the intersection of policy, culture, and human rights. My goal is to work in diplomacy and urban policy—specifically advocating for immigrant and displaced communities around the world. Whether through a Fulbright program, the U.S. State Department, or grassroots partnerships, I plan to use the frameworks of history, geography, and anthropology to ask better questions: Who gets to belong? Who writes the rules? And how can we rewrite them together? Ryan T. Herich believed in learning from the past to shape a better future. I carry that same belief. I study systems not to memorize them, but to change them. To me, understanding the world is the first step to transforming it—and I’m just getting started.

The challenge of navigating a world with few college-educated role models has been both my greatest obstacle and my most powerful motivator. As a first-generation college student from a Bengali immigrant family, I often felt isolated by financial, academic, and informational barriers. With no mentors who had walked this path before, I had to learn early on how to advocate for myself, turning obstacles into opportunities for leadership and personal growth. In my household, the pressure to follow a conventional career path was immense. My mother, whose own education was limited by cultural and economic constraints, dreamt of a secure career in STEM for me, believing it was the only path to financial stability. Yet, I found myself drawn to the social sciences—especially international relations and public policy—fields that promised personal fulfillment and the power to effect meaningful change. This internal conflict pushed me to forge my own path and bridge the gap between my cultural heritage and my aspirations. One pivotal moment in this journey was my role as president of the Muslim Student Association (MSA) at my high school. I spearheaded the creation of the Palestinian Solidarity Statement—a project born from the desire to amplify voices often silenced in mainstream discussions. The process was anything but smooth; I encountered significant pushback from school officials who questioned its political implications. However, I remained steadfast, organizing town hall meetings, engaging in dialogues with administrators, and ensuring our call for justice was both respectful and impactful. The initiative sparked citywide conversations and garnered local media attention, eventually leading to a meeting with the NYC Chancellor and local council members. In recognition of its influence, the movement was formally honored with a NYC City Council Proclamation by local Councilwomen Shahana Hanif—a powerful symbol of our commitment to upholding human rights in our schools. Building on that momentum, I founded my school’s Culture Day to create a platform where students could celebrate their diverse backgrounds. What began as a modest gathering evolved into a vibrant celebration of traditions, foods, and stories—a living example of how education can bridge cultural divides and foster mutual respect. Both the Palestinian Solidarity Statement and Culture Day became platforms through which I could empower others, showing me that leadership is not merely a title but a call to inspire change and nurture community. Beyond school events, my commitment to community advocacy extended into local governance. As a member of the Participatory Budgeting (PB) Steering Committee, I collaborated with city officials to allocate funds for community development projects. This role provided firsthand insight into how public policy impacts everyday lives and underscored the importance of ensuring that underrepresented voices are integral to decision-making processes. Each of these experiences has deepened my commitment to creating systemic change. They have taught me that leadership is about standing up for what is right, engaging in meaningful dialogue, and building bridges between diverse communities. With the education I receive in college, I plan to champion policies that expand access to resources for first-generation students and other marginalized groups, ensuring that no one faces these challenges alone. This scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of college but also empower me to continue my journey of advocacy and positive change—a journey fueled by the resilience and leadership I have cultivated through overcoming personal obstacles.

For years, my grandmother was the only person who truly knew me—deeply and without judgment. She was my anchor in a world where I often felt misunderstood, especially as a Muslim South Asian grappling with my bisexuality. She accepted me, unconditionally, even as I struggled with an identity that felt at odds with the values of my community. She never once told me I had to be anything other than myself. But when she passed away, I felt as though I lost my last safe space. The grief was overwhelming, but what followed was even darker: without her, I felt invisible. I had already been carrying the heavy burden of reconciling my faith and my sexual identity, quietly fearing rejection from my family and faith community. Being Muslim, I knew the pressures of living up to an ideal that seemed to demand perfection, and with my attraction to women, I felt I was failing. After my grandmother’s death, that fear turned into a suffocating weight. The one person who loved me without reservation was gone, and I didn’t know how to keep going. The grief turned inward, fueling feelings of worthlessness and isolation. I found myself questioning if I could continue to live authentically, especially when I no longer had the one person who had always accepted me. Suicide became a constant thought—a way to escape the pain of being someone who didn’t fully fit in anywhere. I felt disconnected from both the faith I had been raised in and the parts of myself I was only beginning to understand. I couldn’t imagine a future where I could be both Muslim and bisexual, without rejection or shame, and I was afraid I would never find peace with either side of myself. But in the darkest moments, I also found the smallest flicker of hope: the realization that I could honor my grandmother’s love for me by continuing to live authentically, even without her physical presence. I began to lean into the parts of myself she had always accepted. I started to speak about my identity more openly, seeking communities that would not only understand me but empower me to exist fully in my truth. I turned to the leadership roles I had in school, like founding Culture Day and organizing a City-Wide Palestinian Solidarity Statement that went to all the NYC public school, which gave me a sense of purpose and reminded me of my capacity to create spaces of belonging. Losing my grandmother was one of the hardest things I’ve ever faced, but it taught me that self-acceptance and resilience are not just choices—they’re acts of love. Even when life felt unbearable, I found a way forward by honoring who I am, in all my complexity. It’s not easy to live authentically in a world that sometimes feels hostile to our differences, but I know now that my journey isn’t defined by my struggles, but by my strength to overcome them.