The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared double eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles, and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted, gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for her children. My mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations by learning through their stories. They displayed that even during the lowest, vulnerability contains underestimated power, and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of the millions suffering from mental health issues every day. When interning at a dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. In closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin's 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got, but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care and holistic exams. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. This year, I finally visited my relatives in China during Qingming, a tradition called tomb-sweeping after years of missing home. After paying respects to my ancestors and those who passed since I last visited, it came last to my grandma. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of mental health, fearing I would suffer the same fate. As I stood before her engraved picture on the black tile, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared double eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. I felt a connection to my family’s history and battles with depression. As we left, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I felt responsible for making a difference and turned frustration into action. At my local hospital, I pioneered floater positions, helped nurses treat ER patients, and founded special service projects. I persisted at a local dialysis center personally connecting with patients, and sitting down with those struggling with housing in Austin. I also found myself coaching young kids who couldn’t attend swim clubs because of mental disorders or affordability. Over more than 2 years, I was able to coach over 200 swimmers, mentor 15+ coaches, and create a community of diverse backgrounds crossing barriers of age. Aayush, who was on his fifth coach due to autism, can now swim the pool’s length. Jasper, who started by almost drowning, has now broken summer league records and qualified for TAGS, the most competitive Texas meet for young swimmers. As I look to pursue a healthcare career, I look to apply the same patience and creativity I developed as a swim coach and program founder interacting with patients, colleagues, and interns of all ages. Furthermore, with my work as a news and mayor-recognized nonprofit CEO in high school, I look to expand on this movement in college being a nurse, serving them on medical trips and weekly catering services in collaboration with local nonprofits. Through these efforts, I look to foster a passionate environment for all, with college professors who view students as numbers, but individuals with potential to change the world.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared double eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

I took a shaky breath as I ventured into the treacherous parts of Austin, where known drug dealers and mobsters reside. At the solemn street intersection, my friend, Andrew, and I set up a quick table, dragging a big plastic bag of hot cocoa and a half-filled relatively hot tub of water. Our plan to give hot cocoa to the homeless was only formed the day before, spawned from an excess of hot cocoa packets from swim parties. We took advantage of MLK Day, coincidentally one of the coldest days of the year. As we handed out cups of hot cocoa, people accepting them weren’t just strangers, but homeless families and ex-gang members, who seemed tough on the outside but had warm hearts with genuine lives. Soon, hours passed and we ended up giving hundreds of cups of warm water and hot coca. This reminded me of Martin Luther King Jr.’s message: his speech and vision weren’t just about fair civil rights; it was also about giving everyone the equal opportunity to pursue happiness. Through sharing this little cup of warmth, the cold day became more than just bearable. It became a reminder of compassion, and creating hope for those often overlooked. From volunteering at St. David’s, I’ve seen firsthand how nurses provide this hope — helping patients regain a sense of self through personal connections: moments often overlooked in other healthcare spaces. Their ability to make change through small acts of kindness reminded me of how simple high schoolers stood at the intersection with nothing but packets of cocoa powder and a desire to make change. Becoming a nurse allows me to go beyond handing out hot cocoa; it can turn that shaky breath I took that day into a career of transforming simple gestures into lasting support.

I am my team’s number-one trash picker-upper. Swimming is often viewed as an individual sport. However, relays, team cheering, and garbage cleanup prove this view wrong. Having scrubbed toilets and bathrooms as chores since moving to America, I put pride in keeping corners spotless, as well as maintaining spaces clean and organized. After swimming pasta parties and swim meets, our team spaces were often left messy, and that is where I shine, leading teammates to take accountability and responsibility by picking up red solo cups and plates with tomato residue. Though a small contribution, I’ve understood that leading by example or even making a small impact can inspire growth and discipline that can carry into all areas of life for both others and myself. Working with the homeless and creating service projects have surprising similarities. Much like discipline from swimming, work in the fight against homelessness requires constant effort. As I connected Project Red, a student nonprofit, first contact with the homeless through giving hot cocoa on MLK day, it was only a start to food drives totaling over 600 sandwiches and over 200 cooked meals, now developing into a monthly event. However, each project, just like a stroke or kick towards the finish line, is simply one of many to achieve a final goal. I established clear communication with officer teams and collaborative organizations nearby, and Project Red became more well-known, officially recognized by the Round Rock mayor and frequenting the news. I also started a swim program that raises money for my swim team, after hearing about potential roster cuts due to district budget. When I first started, my first swimmers were Jasper and Felix, but they were terrified of the water. Over a span of 2 years and training over 15 coaches who in turn helped others, I have been able to coach over 200 students, from 4-13, raise over $10k through directing weekly group lessons, and $2.5k going to scholarships for swimmers at my swim team. Felix, who clung to walls terrified of water, is now refining his last stroke. Jasper, who started by almost drowning, is now breaking records and qualifying for TAGS, the most competitive meet for Texan swimmers under 15. I discovered that real leadership is found in quiet moments: seeing a child who was scared of water finally gain confidence, or when a coach I mentored gets praise from parents. Ripple Swimming became not a profiting business, but a platform for others to make a lasting impact. Leading with trash picking and community service events, though not as glorious as winning international competitions, has become one of my biggest passions. Seeing individuals struggling with homelessness smile with meals creates hope in tough situations. Sitting down with them, though stereotypically seen as skeptic acts, has taught me how resilient and under pressure they truly are. One conversation taught me that those with homelessness are often laughed at and shamed, even though they are all human, just like those privileged with housing and food on their plates. In college, I look to continue this ambition of serving the community and creating simple change for those in need, one step at a time. Being involved in local clubs and organizations such as ASAS Club and Haven Animal Care Shelter can be a start, and implementing my leadership experience at my own clubs will maximize my impact in these organizations. Through leading initiatives at clubs and swimming, participating in medical and community-giving organizations, and creating personal connections with those in need, I look to become a component of future inspiration for anyone with ambition.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared double eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared double eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

I took a shaky breath as I ventured into the treacherous parts of Austin, where known drug dealers and mobsters reside. At the solemn street intersection, my friend, and I set up a quick table, dragging a big plastic bag of hot cocoa and a half-filled relatively hot tub of water. Our plan to give hot cocoa to the homeless was only formed the day before, and we took advantage of MLK Day, the coldest day of the year. As we handed out cups of hot cocoa, people accepting them weren’t just strangers, but homeless families and ex-gang members, who seemed tough on the outside but had warm hearts with genuine lives. Soon, hours passed and we ended up giving hundreds of cups of warm water and hot coca. This reminded me of Martin Luther King Jr.’s message: his speech and vision weren’t just about fair civil rights; it was also about giving everyone the equal opportunity to pursue happiness. Through sharing this little cup of warmth, the cold day became more than just bearable. It became a reminder of compassion, and creating hope for those often overlooked. Over 3 years of volunteering at Project Red and nonprofits in Austin, I’ve seen the pathetic lack of care and compassion for those struggling with homelessness. Through talking and interviewing with individuals struggling with mental issues, housing, or other extenuating circumstances in Austin as well as sending them food and essential products, I’ve personally seen how those with the luxury of homes and food treat them in inhuman ways. One individual even got laughed, beat, and shamed one night, shedding tears during my conversation with him. Those with homelessness are still human, and have opportunities just like any other person on this ball of rock we live in. Cooking food, collaborating with other nonprofits benefitting those with homelessness, and fundraising for their causes have taught me more than just about giving back. It’s about the power of one act, influencing others to do the same, and spreading the voice. Through organizing monthly sandwich projects totaling over 600 sandwiches and 200 cooked meals along with hygiene products so far, I’ve been more proud of the recent campaigning actions for those with homelessness. Surprisingly, Austin is one of the only cities without an official homelessness advocating organization; many local systems only involve people behind a phone, without true action. As a result, Project Red has frequented local news, including KXAN and Austin Statesman in our actions and events, looking to spread the word and inspire action. Today, I am looking to do even more, hoping to appear with bigger news networks and collaborate with bigger nonprofits to maximize impact and encourage true action. Through this journey, I’ve seen how warm cups of hot cocoa can kindle hope. With every conversation, I’ve seen individuals with homelessness light up with hope, and I’ve had the pleasure of seeing them facing adversity, providing further motivation for me to act. This sense of purpose has not only fueled my desire to keep giving but also to be more involved in the medical field. A mere student can only do so much; however, being a trained professional who can have proper training and credibility can provide much more aid. As a nurse, I look to work with rural and underprivileged communities, regardless of background, to continue with the opportunity to share compassion, motivation to act, and most of all, transform the shaky breath I took on Martin Luther King Jr. Day into a career of committing to lasting impact.

I took a shaky breath as I ventured into the treacherous parts of Austin, where known drug dealers and mobsters reside. At the solemn street intersection, my friend, and I set up a quick table, dragging a big plastic bag of hot cocoa and a half-filled relatively hot tub of water. Our plan to give hot cocoa to the homeless was only formed the day before, and we took advantage of MLK Day, the coldest day of the year. As we handed out cups of hot cocoa, people accepting them weren’t just strangers, but homeless families and ex-gang members, who seemed tough on the outside but had warm hearts with genuine lives. Soon, hours passed and we ended up giving hundreds of cups of warm water and hot coca. This reminded me of Martin Luther King Jr.’s message: his speech and vision weren’t just about fair civil rights; it was also about giving everyone the equal opportunity to pursue happiness. Through sharing this little cup of warmth, the cold day became more than just bearable. It became a reminder of compassion, and creating hope for those often overlooked. Over 3 years of volunteering at Project Red and nonprofits in Austin, I’ve seen the pathetic lack of care and compassion for those struggling with homelessness. Through talking and interviewing with individuals struggling with mental issues, housing, or other extenuating circumstances in Austin as well as sending them food and essential products, I’ve personally seen how those with the luxury of homes and food treat them in inhuman ways. One individual even got laughed, beat, and shamed one night, shedding tears during my conversation with him. Those with homelessness are still human, and have opportunities just like any other person on this ball of rock we live in. Cooking food, collaborating with other nonprofits benefitting those with homelessness, and fundraising for their causes have taught me more than just about giving back. It’s about the power of one act, influencing others to do the same, and spreading the voice. Through organizing monthly sandwich projects totaling over 600 sandwiches and 200 cooked meals along with hygiene products so far, I’ve been more proud of the recent campaigning actions for those with homelessness. Surprisingly, Austin is one of the only cities without an official homelessness advocating organization; many local systems only involve people behind a phone, without true action. As a result, Project Red has frequented local news, including KXAN and Austin Statesman in our actions and events, looking to spread the word and inspire action. Today, I am looking to do even more, hoping to appear with bigger news networks and collaborate with bigger nonprofits to maximize impact and encourage true action. Through this journey, I’ve seen how warm cups of hot cocoa can kindle hope. With every conversation, I’ve seen individuals with homelessness light up with hope, and I’ve had the pleasure of seeing them facing adversity, providing further motivation for me to act. This sense of purpose has not only fueled my desire to keep giving but also to be more involved in the medical field. A mere student can only do so much; however, being a trained professional who can have proper training and credibility can provide much more aid. As a nurse, I look to work with rural and underprivileged communities, regardless of background, to continue with the opportunity to share compassion, motivation to act, and most of all, transform the shaky breath I took on Martin Luther King Jr. Day into a career of committing to lasting impact.

I took a shaky breath as I ventured into the treacherous parts of Austin, where known drug dealers and mobsters reside. At the solemn street intersection, my friend, and I set up a quick table, dragging a big plastic bag of hot cocoa and a half-filled relatively hot tub of water. Our plan to give hot cocoa to the homeless was only formed the day before, and we took advantage of MLK Day, the coldest day of the year. As we handed out cups of hot cocoa, people accepting them weren’t just strangers, but homeless families and ex-gang members, who seemed tough on the outside but had warm hearts with genuine lives. Soon, hours passed and we ended up giving hundreds of cups of warm water and hot coca. This reminded me of Martin Luther King Jr.’s message: his speech and vision weren’t just about fair civil rights; it was also about giving everyone the equal opportunity to pursue happiness. Through sharing this little cup of warmth, the cold day became more than just bearable. It became a reminder of compassion, and creating hope for those often overlooked. Over 3 years of volunteering at Project Red and nonprofits in Austin, I’ve seen the pathetic lack of care and compassion for those struggling with homelessness. Through talking and interviewing with individuals struggling with mental issues, housing, or other extenuating circumstances in Austin as well as sending them food and essential products, I’ve personally seen how those with the luxury of homes and food treat them in inhuman ways. One individual even got laughed, beat, and shamed one night, shedding tears during my conversation with him. Those with homelessness are still human, and have opportunities just like any other person on this ball of rock we live in. Cooking food, collaborating with other nonprofits benefitting those with homelessness, and fundraising for their causes have taught me more than just about giving back. It’s about the power of one act, influencing others to do the same, and spreading the voice. Through organizing monthly sandwich projects totaling over 600 sandwiches and 200 cooked meals along with hygiene products so far, I’ve been more proud of the recent campaigning actions for those with homelessness. Surprisingly, Austin is one of the only cities without an official homelessness advocating organization; many local systems only involve people behind a phone, without true action. As a result, Project Red has frequented local news, including KXAN and Austin Statesman in our actions and events, looking to spread the word and inspire action. Today, I am looking to do even more, hoping to appear with bigger news networks and collaborate with bigger nonprofits to maximize impact and encourage true action. Through this journey, I’ve seen how warm cups of hot cocoa can kindle hope. With every conversation, I’ve seen individuals with homelessness light up with hope, and I’ve had the pleasure of seeing them facing adversity, providing further motivation for me to act. This sense of purpose has not only fueled my desire to keep giving but also to be more involved in the medical field. A mere student can only do so much; however, being a trained professional who can have proper training and credibility can provide much more aid. As a nurse, I look to work with rural and underprivileged communities, regardless of background, to continue with the opportunity to share compassion, motivation to act, and most of all, transform the shaky breath I took on Martin Luther King Jr. Day into a career of committing to lasting impact.

I am my team’s number-one trash picker-upper. Swimming is often viewed as an individual sport. However, relays, team cheering, and garbage cleanup prove this view wrong. Having scrubbed toilets and bathrooms as chores since moving to America, I put pride in keeping corners spotless, as well as maintaining spaces clean and organized. After swimming pasta parties and swim meets, our team spaces were often left messy, and that is where I shine, leading teammates to take accountability and responsibility by picking up red solo cups and plates with tomato residue. Though a small contribution, I’ve understood that leading by example or even making a small impact can inspire growth and discipline that can carry into all areas of life for both others and myself. Working with the homeless and creating service projects have surprising similarities. Much like discipline from swimming, work in the fight against homelessness requires constant effort. As I connected Project Red, a student nonprofit, first contact with the homeless through giving hot cocoa on MLK day, it was only a start to food drives totaling over 600 sandwiches and over 200 cooked meals, now developing into a monthly event. However, each project, just like a stroke or kick towards the finish line, is simply one of many to achieve a final goal. I established clear communication with officer teams and collaborative organizations nearby, and Project Red became more well-known, officially recognized by the Round Rock mayor and frequenting the news. I also started a swim program that raises money for my swim team, after hearing about potential roster cuts due to district budget. When I first started, my first swimmers were Jasper and Felix, but they were terrified of the water. Over a span of 2 years and training over 15 coaches who in turn helped others, I have been able to coach over 200 students, from 4-13, raise over $10k through directing weekly group lessons, and $2.5k going to scholarships for swimmers at my swim team. Felix, who clung to walls terrified of water, is now refining his last stroke. Jasper, who started by almost drowning, is now breaking records and qualifying for TAGS, the most competitive meet for Texan swimmers under 15. I discovered that real leadership is found in quiet moments: seeing a child who was scared of water finally gain confidence, or when a coach I mentored gets praise from parents. Ripple Swimming became not a profiting business, but a platform for others to make a lasting impact. Leading with trash picking and community service events, though not as glorious as winning international competitions, has become one of my biggest passions. Seeing individuals struggling with homelessness smile with meals creates hope in tough situations. Sitting down with them, though stereotypically seen as skeptic acts, has taught me how resilient and under pressure they truly are. One conversation taught me that those with homelessness are often laughed at and shamed, even though they are all human, just like those privileged with housing and food on their plates. In college, I look to continue this ambition of serving the community and creating simple change for those in need, one step at a time. Being involved in local clubs and organizations such as ASAS Club and Haven Animal Care Shelter can be a start, and implementing my leadership experience at my own clubs will maximize my impact in these organizations. Through leading initiatives at clubs and swimming, participating in medical and community-giving organizations, and creating personal connections with those in need, I look to become a component of future inspiration for anyone with ambition.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared double eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared double eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared double eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a local dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared double eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a local dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared double eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. My mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations by learning through their stories. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to turn frustration into action by volunteering at hospitals and dialysis centers. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

drug dealers and mobsters reside. At the solemn street intersection, my friend, and I set up a quick table, dragging a big plastic bag of hot cocoa and a half-filled relatively hot tub of water. Our plan to give hot cocoa to the homeless was only formed the day before, and we took advantage of MLK Day, the coldest day of the year. As we handed out cups of hot cocoa, people accepting them weren’t just strangers, but homeless families and ex-gang members, who seemed tough on the outside but had warm hearts with genuine lives. Soon, hours passed and we ended up giving hundreds of cups of warm water and hot coca. This reminded me of Martin Luther King Jr.’s message: his speech and vision weren’t just about fair civil rights; it was also about giving everyone the equal opportunity to pursue happiness. Through sharing this little cup of warmth, the cold day became more than just bearable. It became a reminder of compassion, and creating hope for those often overlooked. Over 3 years of volunteering at Project Red and nonprofits in Austin, I’ve seen the pathetic lack of care and compassion for those struggling with homelessness. Through talking and interviewing with individuals struggling with mental issues, housing, or other extenuating circumstances in Austin as well as sending them food and essential products, I’ve personally seen how those with the luxury of homes and food treat them in inhuman ways. One individual even got laughed, beat, and shamed one night, shedding tears during my conversation with him. Those with homelessness are still human, and have opportunities just like any other person on this ball of rock we live in. Cooking food, collaborating with other nonprofits benefitting those with homelessness, and fundraising for their causes have taught me more than just about giving back. It’s about the power of one act, influencing others to do the same, and spreading the voice. Through organizing monthly sandwich projects totaling over 600 sandwiches and 200 cooked meals along with hygiene products so far, I’ve been more proud of the recent campaigning actions for those with homelessness. Surprisingly, Austin is one of the only cities without an official homelessness advocating organization; many local systems only involve people behind a phone, without true action. As a result, Project Red has frequented local news, including KXAN and Austin Statesman in our actions and events, looking to spread the word and inspire action. Today, I am looking to do even more, hoping to appear with bigger news networks and collaborate with bigger nonprofits to maximize impact and encourage true action. Through this journey, I’ve seen how warm cups of hot cocoa can kindle hope. With every conversation, I’ve seen individuals with homelessness light up with hope, and I’ve had the pleasure of seeing them facing adversity, providing further motivation for me to act. This sense of purpose has not only fueled my desire to keep giving but also to be more involved in the medical field. A mere student can only do so much; however, being a trained professional who can have proper training and credibility can provide much more aid. As a nurse, I look to work with rural and underprivileged communities, regardless of background, to continue with the opportunity to share compassion, motivation to act, and most of all, transform the shaky breath I took on Martin Luther King Jr. Day into a career of committing to lasting impact.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and inform them about our recent events to show respect and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared eyelids, flat noses, and eyebrows tapering downward near the end. I could even see our shared dimples when we smiled. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. Her decision was also almost for her survival. I learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide better opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. The mind, a stronghold capable of creation and innovation, is constantly being attacked by negativity and anxiety. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a local dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. At Texas Tech with the UMSI program with this scholarship, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. Combining unique opportunities offered by colleges both within Texas and beyond, I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

I took a shaky breath as I ventured into the treacherous parts of Austin, where known drug dealers and mobsters reside. At the solemn street intersection, my friend, Andrew, and I set up a quick table, dragging a big plastic bag of hot cocoa and a half-filled relatively hot tub of water. Our plan to give hot cocoa to the homeless was only formed the day before, spawned from an excess of hot cocoa packets from swim parties. We took advantage of MLK Day, coincidentally one of the coldest days of the year. As we handed out cups of hot cocoa, people accepting them weren’t just strangers, but homeless families and ex-gang members, who seemed tough on the outside but had warm hearts with genuine lives. Soon, hours passed and we ended up giving hundreds of cups of warm water and hot coca. This reminded me of Martin Luther King Jr.’s message: his speech and vision weren’t just about fair civil rights; it was also about giving everyone the equal opportunity to pursue happiness. Through sharing this little cup of warmth, the cold day became more than just bearable becoming a reminder of compassion, and creating hope for those overlooked.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and inform them about our recent events to show respect and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared eyelids, flat noses, and eyebrows tapering downward near the end. I could even see our shared dimples when we smiled. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. Her decision was also almost for her survival. I learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide better opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a local dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

I am my team’s number-one trash picker-upper. Swimming is often viewed as an individual sport. However, relays, team cheering, and garbage cleanup prove this view wrong. Having scrubbed toilets and bathrooms as chores since moving to America, I put pride in keeping corners spotless, as well as maintaining spaces clean and organized. After swimming pasta parties and swim meets, our team spaces were often left messy, and that is where I shine, leading teammates to take accountability and responsibility by picking up red solo cups and plates with tomato residue. Though a small contribution, I’ve understood that leading by example or even making a small impact can inspire growth and discipline that can carry into all areas of life for both others and myself. Working with the homeless and creating service projects have surprising similarities. Much like discipline from swimming, work in the fight against homelessness requires constant effort. As I connected Project Red, a student nonprofit, first contact with the homeless through giving hot cocoa on MLK day, it was only a start to food drives totaling over 600 sandwiches and over 200 cooked meals, now developing into a monthly event. However, each project, just like a stroke or kick towards the finish line, is simply one of many to achieve a final goal. I established clear communication with officer teams and collaborative organizations nearby, and Project Red became more well-known, officially recognized by the Round Rock mayor and frequenting the news. I also started a swim program that raises money for my swim team, after hearing about potential roster cuts due to district budget. When I first started, my first swimmers were Jasper and Felix, but they were terrified of the water. Over a span of 2 years and training over 15 coaches who in turn helped others, I have been able to coach over 200 students, from 4-13, raise over $10k through directing weekly group lessons, and $2.5k going to scholarships for swimmers at my swim team. Felix, who clung to walls terrified of water, is now refining his last stroke. Jasper, who started by almost drowning, is now breaking records and qualifying for TAGS, the most competitive meet for Texan swimmers under 15. I discovered that real leadership is found in quiet moments: seeing a child who was scared of water finally gain confidence, or when a coach I mentored gets praise from parents. Ripple Swimming became not a profiting business, but a platform for others to make a lasting impact. Leading with trash picking and community service events, though not as glorious as winning international competitions, has become one of my biggest passions. Seeing individuals struggling with homelessness smile with meals creates hope in tough situations. Sitting down with them, though stereotypically seen as skeptic acts, has taught me how resilient and under pressure they truly are. One conversation taught me that those with homelessness are often laughed at and shamed, even though they are all human, just like those privileged with housing and food on their plates. In college, I look to continue this ambition of serving the community and creating simple change for those in need, one step at a time. Being involved in local clubs and organizations such as ASAS Club and Haven Animal Care Shelter can be a start, and implementing my leadership experience at my own clubs will maximize my impact in these organizations. Through leading initiatives at clubs and swimming, participating in medical and community-giving organizations, and creating personal connections with those in need, I look to become a component of future inspiration for anyone with ambition.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a local dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a local dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a local dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

Throughout my life, the piano has always been played in our house. Whether it be in China or America, the piano has always been the centerpiece of our living room. Precisely after coming home from swimming at 9 pm sharp, I would practice Hanon, Scales, and my music pieces for my upcoming competitions. When my ladybug timer sounded, my two-hour piano session would come to an end, and I would retreat to my bed for the next day. During my freshmen year, my piano teacher and I decided my skills were proficient enough to prepare for the ABRSM test, a recognized test worldwide and the first step to many inspiring musicians going to perform at a professional level. From then, I’ve worked the most I’ve ever done. I pushed my body and my fingers beyond my limits, to the point where my piano had to be retuned and piano pages restapled due to overuse. Then, it came to perform in front of the judges. Hours of practice, sleepless nights, and doubt all depended on this one day. As I played, I poured all these emotions into precision, dynamics, and every staccato harnessing my past months’ hours upon hours of grueling practice. A few weeks later, I received an email that would change everything. I couldn’t believe it – I passed, and also with merit. After months of preparation and years of piano, I felt on top of the world. After mere minutes of pure elation, my heart felt empty. All these years of practicing piano, and months of preparing, have all gone to receiving this piece of paper, yet I was not feeling the emotions I was supposed to feel. All my problems did not go away, neither did I suddenly become on top of the world. As I held and framed my certificate when it came through the mail, I hung it on my mom’s office wall. Among it was pictures of my childhood: our family’s first camping trip, trips to China, and my first day in high school. I was confronted with the idea that the true reward isn’t the piece of paper or an award, but the journey, experiences, and the people who went through it with me. As I stared at the certificate alongside these memories, the piano wasn’t just an instrument that filled the living room with beautiful music; it was a reminder of countless hours of triumph and failure, the discipline, and my family who held rehearsals and feedback for me. This realization reshaped my view on interpreting success. It isn’t about the level of recognition or the high accolade. It is the growth, transformation, and change one goes through to achieve a goal–whether it be big or small. For me, the worn-out pages covered with notes and finger-imprinted notes became the real trophy, showing my advancement in resilience, perseverance, and change. Though I’ve never continued to pursue professional piano, this taught me a new approach to life: one based less on test scores and results, but one based on learning skills. As I look ahead to pursuing a career in medicine, I understand the stressful path ahead of me. I understand now that the true reward doesn’t lie in the perfect grades, or the piece of paper that comes with completing the courses. It lies in my interactions with my patients, colleagues, and teachers. It lies in the compassion and care that I develop in medicine.Ultimately, the certificate in my mom’s office symbolizes both realization and reminder – that the true treasure isn’t the destination, but the journey that led to it.

I took a shaky breath as I ventured into the treacherous parts of Austin, where known drug dealers and mobsters reside. At the solemn street intersection, my friend, and I set up a quick table, dragging a big plastic bag of hot cocoa and a half-filled relatively hot tub of water. Our plan to give hot cocoa to the homeless was only formed the day before, and we took advantage of MLK Day, the coldest day of the year. As we handed out cups of hot cocoa, people accepting them weren’t just strangers, but homeless families and ex-gang members, who seemed tough on the outside but had warm hearts with genuine lives. Soon, hours passed and we ended up giving hundreds of cups of warm water and hot coca. This reminded me of Martin Luther King Jr.’s message: his speech and vision weren’t just about fair civil rights; it was also about giving everyone the equal opportunity to pursue happiness. Through sharing this little cup of warmth, the cold day became more than just bearable. It became a reminder of compassion, and creating hope for those often overlooked. Over 3 years of volunteering at Project Red and nonprofits in Austin, I’ve seen the pathetic lack of care and compassion for those struggling with homelessness. Through talking and interviewing with individuals struggling with mental issues, housing, or other extenuating circumstances in Austin as well as sending them food and essential products, I’ve personally seen how those with the luxury of homes and food treat them in inhuman ways. One individual even got laughed, beat, and shamed one night, shedding tears during my conversation with him. Those with homelessness are still human, and have opportunities just like any other person on this ball of rock we live in. Cooking food, collaborating with other nonprofits benefitting those with homelessness, and fundraising for their causes have taught me more than just about giving back. It’s about the power of one act, influencing others to do the same, and spreading the voice. Through organizing monthly sandwich projects totaling over 600 sandwiches and 200 cooked meals along with hygiene products so far, I’ve been more proud of the recent campaigning actions for those with homelessness. Surprisingly, Austin is one of the only cities without an official homelessness advocating organization; many local systems only involve people behind a phone, without true action. As a result, Project Red has frequented local news, including KXAN and Austin Statesman in our actions and events, looking to spread the word and inspire action. Today, I am looking to do even more, hoping to appear with bigger news networks and collaborate with bigger nonprofits to maximize impact and encourage true action. Through this journey, I’ve seen how warm cups of hot cocoa can kindle hope. With every conversation, I’ve seen individuals with homelessness light up with hope, and I’ve had the pleasure of seeing them facing adversity, providing further motivation for me to act. This sense of purpose has not only fueled my desire to keep giving but also to be more involved in the medical field. A mere student can only do so much; however, being a trained professional who can have proper training and credibility can provide much more aid. As a nurse, I look to work with rural and underprivileged communities, regardless of background, to continue with the opportunity to share compassion, motivation to act, and most of all, transform the shaky breath I took on Martin Luther King Jr. Day into a career of committing to lasting impact.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a local dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a local dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

A simple noodle soup consists of broth, noodles, and sauce. The soup isn’t complete with the other. This is what I thought until I made them myself. During my trip to China last summer, we discovered a Chinese beef and noodle shop near my apartment to relive my childhood. Over three weeks, it became one of my favorite places to eat. Upon returning home, I looked to replicate the recipe for my brother, as it was our family tradition to cook homemade noodles for relatives on birthdays, representing longevity and fortune. When I searched for the recipe online, the results were promising: carefully measured sauces, specific temperatures, and guaranteed authenticity. However, the result was mediocre at best. Recipe after recipe, recipes became worse than the last. It was either too bland, dry, or not palpable for human consumption. When my brother’s birthday rolled around, I was pressured to give them the perfect meal. This time, instead of measuring out the precise proportions of each ingredient, I completely used my intuition to the dish. I added my secret ingredients: American brisket, diced tomatoes, and parsley. This bowl of soup didn’t just include a random assortment of misplaced american food, but years of replacing chopsticks with sporks and Peking duck with barbecue pork. As I watched my brother take their first bite, I anxiously waited for their reaction. To my surprise, he lit up and smiled. The soup was not just a meal but a connection for a blend of cultures. Growing up, I felt torn between these two cultures: one that emphasized family, and another that emphasized individualism and innovation. However, over time, I realized I didn’t have to pick a side. Through years of exploration and numerous failed recipes, I learned that the true richness of my life comes from a mixture of ingredients: my family I’ve grown up with, the values I adopted in America, and the personal experiences that helped me grow. A simple noodle soup also taught me the importance of experimenting with something new and never hesitating to explore. Instead of only choosing one program of study at my high school, I took both engineering and health science. Only through three years of taking these classes did I find my passion in medicine. Finding opportunities, such as volunteering at St. David’s and coaching swimming lessons to kids, always came with failure. There were many times when I had to embarrassingly ask hospital workers for directions when lost with my own patients in the vastness of the hospital space. During the chaos of directing many coaches and swimmers during the group lessons, I had to find order through quick thinking in assigning roles and decisions. In doing so, I created opportunities for others: referring my friends to volunteer at hospitals, and creating scholarships for swimmers. A dish of your liking is composed of everything most intimate to you. Personally, the broth, representing family, is always the foundation of my experience in life. The toppings, whether it be American barbecue or baby bok choy, are interests such as healthcare and cooking that enhance my intercultural passions in life. The noodles represent the interactions between my cultures, connecting them to create a mix of creativity and innovation I seek to create in daily life. The perfect beef noodle soup can be different for everyone. For me, the perfect authenticity of Chinese culture wasn’t fit, neither was following a rigid recipe. What truly made it perfect came from my story behind it, the way it brings diverse components of my life -family, individuality, and experiment- into something unique to me.

I am my team’s number-one trash picker-upper. Swimming is often viewed as an individual sport. However, relays, team cheering, and garbage cleanup prove this view wrong. Having scrubbed toilets and bathrooms as chores since moving to America, I put pride in keeping corners spotless, as well as maintaining spaces clean and organized. After swimming pasta parties and swim meets, our team spaces were often left messy, and that is where I shine, leading teammates to take accountability and responsibility by picking up red solo cups and plates with tomato residue. Though a small contribution, I’ve understood that leading by example or even making a small impact can inspire growth and discipline that can carry into all areas of life for both others and myself. Working with the homeless and creating service projects have surprising similarities. Much like discipline from swimming, work in the fight against homelessness requires constant effort. As I connected Project Red, a student nonprofit, first contact with the homeless through giving hot cocoa on MLK day, it was only a start to food drives totaling over 600 sandwiches and over 200 cooked meals, now developing into a monthly event. However, each project, just like a stroke or kick towards the finish line, is simply one of many to achieve a final goal. I established clear communication with officer teams and collaborative organizations nearby, and Project Red became more well-known, officially recognized by the Round Rock mayor and frequenting the news. I also started a swim program that raises money for my swim team, after hearing about potential roster cuts due to district budget. When I first started, my first swimmers were Jasper and Felix, but they were terrified of the water. Over a span of 2 years and training over 15 coaches who in turn helped others, I have been able to coach over 200 students, from 4-13, raise over $10k through directing weekly group lessons, and $2.5k going to scholarships for swimmers at my swim team. Felix, who clung to walls terrified of water, is now refining his last stroke. Jasper, who started by almost drowning, is now breaking records and qualifying for TAGS, the most competitive meet for Texan swimmers under 15. I discovered that real leadership is found in quiet moments: seeing a child who was scared of water finally gain confidence, or when a coach I mentored gets praise from parents. Ripple Swimming became not a profiting business, but a platform for others to make a lasting impact. Leading with trash picking and community service events, though not as glorious as winning international competitions, has become one of my biggest passions. Seeing individuals struggling with homelessness smile with meals creates hope in tough situations. Sitting down with them, though stereotypically seen as skeptic acts, has taught me how resilient and under pressure they truly are. One conversation taught me that those with homelessness are often laughed at and shamed, even though they are all human, just like those privileged with housing and food on their plates. In college, I look to continue this ambition of serving the community and creating simple change for those in need, one step at a time. Being involved in local clubs and organizations such as ASAS Club and Haven Animal Care Shelter can be a start, and implementing my leadership experience at my own clubs will maximize my impact in these organizations. Through leading initiatives at clubs and swimming, participating in medical and community-giving organizations, and creating personal connections with those in need, I look to become a component of future inspiration for anyone with ambition.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a local dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. With each ancestor, we would burn gold papers, bow three times, and wish prosperity for them in heaven. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery. Though decades passed and tombs nearby had spider webs and edges filled with dust, her picture and tomb looked as young as ever. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared eyelids, flat noses, and tapering eyebrows. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. I also learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”, she admitted gazing at an old picture of her mother. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide opportunities for my brother and me. By learning through her story, my mother and grandmother became my biggest inspirations. They displayed that even during the lowest of lows, vulnerability contains underestimated power and even those closest may have mental battles beyond comprehension. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into patient care to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a local dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives. One patient owns a band performing at Austin 6th Street 5 times a week; another asks me jokes that I never got but always explained to me every single time when looking at my confused expression. In college, I envision a future where mental health becomes a cornerstone of standard care. I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.

I am my team’s best trash picker. My time strikes best as the swim meet dials down and the stands start to empty. Beneath the bleachers lay boxes of Jimmy Johns and half-drank Gatorade bottles, waiting to be picked up. Quietly, I would pick up the scattered remains. After a while, I notice others helping out: at first, only picking up a couple of bottles. Over time, it became a team effort. It evolved to be more than just trash picking. Whether jumping into the pool in the early morning or simply showing up, a ripple effect can turn individual effort into a group movement. When I learned budgets limited our swim team’s competitions, I created Ripple Swimming, showing that small acts of coaching youths can oscillate to bigger contributions. I expanded the campaign by inviting coaches from club teams and other high schools and raised over $10,000 over the summer. However, I realized that the money raised wasn’t the end goal, but the rippling impact it could make. I then developed a new sponsorship tier for businesses to give back as scholarships and created a decade-old scholarship foundation worth over $5,000. Over time, it totaled to over $17k after seeking sponsorships and directing fundraising events. Seeing young swimmers build a passion for swimming gave me a passion of my own. My oldest swimmer Jasper was on bigger success. When he was nervous at the last chance to break his summer league’s 50-yard breaststroke record, I taught him my technique: 5 seconds through the nose, 5 out the mouth. His shoulders loosened as he went through the breathing exercises while on the blocks. At the whistle, Jasper quickly dived in. The swimmers beside him were slow off the blocks, but gaining fast. He had to nail the turn to hold them off. I held my breath with an unbearable silence after the turn, but Jasper’s head appeared first. As the scoreboard flashed, Jasper had destroyed the previous record by .3 seconds! His mom and I cheered like never before, and I raised Jasper high when I met him behind the blocks; he was my trophy, and his victory felt like my own. Dedication to the community goes beyond the pool. After experiencing the homeless issue in Austin, I became part of Project Red, a student-led nonprofit, now becoming CEO. However, it all started on a cold Monday. I took a shaky breath as I ventured into the treacherous parts of Austin, where known drug dealers reside. At the solemn street intersection, a friend and I set up a quick table, dragging bags of hot cocoa and a half-filled relatively hot tub of water. We took advantage of MLK Day, the coldest days of the year. As we handed out cups of hot cocoa, people accepting them were homeless families and ex-gang members, who had warm hearts with genuine lives. Soon, we ended up giving hundreds of cups of warm water and hot cocoa. This reminded me of Martin Luther King Jr.’s message: his speech and vision weren’t just about fair civil rights; it was also about giving everyone the equal opportunity to pursue happiness. Through sharing cups of warmth, the cold day became a reminder of compassion, and creating hope for those often overlooked. Since joining this organization, Project Red frequented the news, and was recognized by Mayor Morgan as I created sandwiches straight to the homeless I served on MLK day. Success as a leader became better measured by empowering others to find their rhythm. For me, it was one breath and one Gatorade bottle at a time.

The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. After paying our respects to each of my ancestors, it came last to my grandma. My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared eyelids, flat noses, and eyebrows tapering downward near the end. Though I’ve never met her, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were due to mental health. My mother too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. The mind, a stronghold capable of creation and innovation, is constantly being attacked by negativity or anxiety. As a nurse, I look to delve more into each patient’s life and thoughts to help them grow out of this trap, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. Through my efforts, I want to honor my grandmother’s memory by contributing to a world where mental health is more than recognized, just as she would have wanted for me. This scholarship can expand my learning to extend a helping to all patients and making mental health a cornerstone of standard patient care. Additionally, being able to continue creating special service projects is a big product of pursuing higher education. It started at volunteering in St. David’s for 100+ hours, working at the ER and front desk, as well as being the first floater volunteer. Seeing gratitude from both patients and colleagues cemented my decision to pursue a career in healthcare. It continued as I raised 1,500+ books for socially isolated patients at St. David’s and creating the ‘moving stories’ initiative, decorating bookshelves as well as being selected to be in a volunteer appreciation video. Then, to be more direct with seeing my impact, I held a leadership position at a local nonprofit to raise sandwiches, money, and foods for the homeless, hearing their first-hand experiences in Austin. While campaigning for the fair treatment of those struggling with housing and food, I led several toy drives for two years giving more than $1,500 worth of toys to both St David’s and Dell Children’s, and the smiles from the recipients and staff gave me all but more motivation. Being privileged to serve the community while growing became a passion of mine, and I look to continue this as I walk the path of college and career through the Jim Coots Scholarship.

Bullying and cyberbullying have been thought to be retrospective, but it is still present in today's world. I am currently working for Project Red as a CEO, raising money and foods for the homeless in Austin as a student-led nonprofit. With this experience, I look to further advocate for change through the social media accounts from my clubs and leadership roles, as well as raising money for mental health awareness. I have already been raising over $16k+ for my local swim team due to budget cuts by encouraging others to coach alongside me for aspiring swimmers. As a result, having this platform to spread awareness is integral for the future defeat of bullying. The tombs were constructed with a beautiful marble plaque, finished with polished edges, and inscribed with golden Chinese letters. These last few years were not easy. Our family endured migration limitations, changes in education, and the loss of several family members. This year, I was finally able to visit my relatives in China during Qingming, a Chinese tradition for tomb-sweeping. It came last to my grandma. Her tomb was one of the first to be placed in the cemetery.My mom revealed to me that her mother had been fighting depression for years, and took her life before I was born. My parents wanted to protect me from the complexities of death and the truths of mental health. As I stood before her engraved picture, I could see a reflection of myself: we shared eyelids, flat noses, and eyebrows tapering downward near the end. I could even see our shared dimples when we smiled. She also shared my mother’s smile, the way her eyes lit up when I joined her in her late nights spent studying medical terminology to become a medical provider after moving to America, hiding her inner battles and a testament to her strength with each day. My mother recounted that during her education, she felt overwhelmed balancing both her passion and raising two children by herself. As a result, she decided to choose family over her dream. Her decision was also almost for her survival. I learned that she was battling her own mental health. “It felt like I was living for everyone but myself”. Her whole life was serving others: following engineering for my dad, working to support her dad, and moving to America to provide better opportunities for my brother and me. Though I’ve never met my grandmother, I felt a sense of connection to my family’s history and its battles with depression. Too many deaths on my mother's side were cut short due to mental health. My mother, too, was also almost a victim. As we started leaving, the hurt from my parents’ deceit shifted into the frustration of being blinded to the ones closest to me. Upon return, I looked to stop this seemingly endless chain of casualties to mental health. As an aspiring physician, I look to delve more into the mental aspect of patient care, as well as remind myself of millions suffering from mental health every day. When interning at a local dialysis center, I realized that many healthcare professionals treat patients as just hopeless individuals hooked up to machines, telling me to escape their rants. At closer conversation, though, they had beautiful lives.I look to honor my grandmother’s memory and my mother’s sacrifice by contributing to a world where the healthcare system sees patients not as diseased patients but as patients with sickness in need of a simple push to thrive, all deserving of compassion and care.