Giving back to others has never felt like an obligation to me, nor something I do to strengthen a resume. It is simply something that feels natural. Service is one of the few things in my life that consistently brings clarity, grounding, and perspective. Among the different ways I contribute to my community, my work with Feeding Westchester has been the most impactful and transformative experience. While working at the library and volunteering at the Feeding Westchester pantry, I began to witness a side of society that is often invisible. At the pantry, I help distribute food, organize supplies, and assist patrons with registration. What struck me most was not just the diversity of people seeking support, but the shared vulnerability that connected them. I saw families, elderly individuals, students, and working adults, people from all backgrounds,united by a basic human need: food. Food insecurity opened my eyes in a profound way. It forced me to confront how fragile stability can be and how easily circumstances beyond one’s control can disrupt daily life. Hunger does not discriminate. It does not care about education, pride, or past success. It is deeply human. In many ways, food is our first connection to the world. When we are born, the first thing we cry for is nourishment. Food sustains life, but it also carries dignity, comfort, and belonging. Seeing how something so fundamental could be a source of struggle for so many reshaped how I understand empathy. This experience changed the way I view service. It is not about “helping the less fortunate” from a distance. It is about recognizing shared humanity. It is about meeting people where they are without judgment. At the pantry, moments that seem small, offering a warm greeting, carrying a bag, and explaining the application can ease someone’s day more than we realize. Service, I learned, often lives in these quiet interactions. Looking toward the future, I plan to carry this commitment to service into my career in medicine. My goal is not only to treat illness but to advocate for equity in healthcare. Food insecurity, housing instability, and access to resources are deeply tied to health outcomes. I hope to work in underserved communities where I can combine clinical care with education, prevention, and outreach. I want to be the kind of physician who understands that healing extends beyond prescriptions and procedures. Service has taught me patience, humility, and awareness. It has reminded me that meaningful impact is not always loud or visible. Sometimes it is steady, consistent presence. As I continue my academic and professional journey, I remain driven by the belief that compassion, when practiced intentionally, has the power to change lives ,including my own.

When I was confronted with one of the most painful adversities of my life, the loss of my grandmother, I felt as though my entire world had collapsed. My grandmother was not only a family member; she was my primary caregiver, my source of comfort, and the person who shaped much of who I am today. She raised me, nurtured me, and instilled in me the values of perseverance, compassion, and education. Losing her was not simply losing someone I loved it was losing a foundational part of my life. In the months following her passing, I struggled deeply. Grief consumed me in ways I had never experienced before. I lost my appetite and often went through entire days without eating. Activities that once brought me joy such as painting, studying, socializing no longer held meaning. I withdrew from life, emotionally and mentally. My motivation declined, my energy faded, and even basic daily tasks felt overwhelming. It was a period marked by sadness, numbness, and an internal battle I fought largely in silence. However, amid that darkness, I gradually began to recognize something my grandmother had always taught me: strength is not the absence of pain, but the decision to move forward despite it. While grief did not disappear, I knew I had to find ways to continue honoring both her memory and my own aspirations. The first step I took was allowing myself to acknowledge my pain rather than suppress it. I watched the Life of Pi and it inspired me to look within. I began reflecting on my emotions and understanding that grief is not linear. I sought healthier coping mechanisms, including journaling and speaking openly with trusted friends and mentors. Reconnecting with others helped break the isolation that grief had created. Secondly, I made a conscious effort to rebuild my routines. I started with small, manageable goals , eating regular meals, attending classes consistently, and engaging in activities I once loved. Returning to painting, even when inspiration felt distant, became symbolic. It reminded me that healing often begins with simply showing up. Most importantly, I re-centered myself on my long-term career aspirations. As a student pursuing a path in healthcare, I realized that my experience with loss deepened my empathy and resilience. I began channeling my grief into purpose, using it as motivation rather than paralysis. My grandmother’s sacrifices and unwavering belief in my education became a driving force. I reminded myself that continuing my journey was, in many ways, a tribute to her. Adversity tested my mental and emotional endurance, but it also reshaped my understanding of perseverance.I learned that progress can coexist with pain, that healing requires patience, and that strength often appears in quiet, persistent efforts. While losing my grandmother was devastating, the steps I took afterward seeking connection, restoring structure, and reaffirming my goals allowed me to move forward with renewed determination. Her absence will always be felt, but her lessons remain embedded in my resilience, my ambition, and my commitment to achieving my dreams.

1) As I have entered my 20s I look back to a time where life was all about going to school, recess, lunches, and racing my brothers to and from the bus stop. As an adult now, there have been a plethora of books that have occupied spaces in my mind and heart. One of those books was The Great Kapok Tree by Lynne Cherry. I was about 10 when I read this, although I was not so sure about my future I had aspiration to join the STEM field. That book planted one of the first seeds. In the story, a man enters the rainforest planning to cut down a giant kapok tree. As he rests and falls asleep under it, the animals that live in and around the tree come down one by one to plead with him. A boa constrictor, a bee, a frog, monkeys, a jaguar—they all explain how cutting the tree will destroy their home, and that more destruction will follow. Toward the end, a young native child appears and says, “Senhor, when you wake, please look upon us all with new eyes.” That moment really stuck with me. When the man wakes, he sees the animals and the child, puts the axe down, and walks away. That story made me think differently about the natural world. We humans too are part of nature not separate from it. The little child in the story reminds us that when we "other" ourselves from nature, we stop appreciating the balance and wholeness that exists all around us. That book helped me understand that nature isn’t just something we use or visit it’s something we belong to. And that’s a big part of why I was drawn to biology: to better understand the systems that connect all living things, including us. 2) One cool science fact I love is about a muscle called the palmaris longus. You can test if you have it by touching your thumb and pinky together and slightly flexing your wrist if a tendon pops up in the middle of your forearm, that’s it. Not everyone has it! It was useful for better grip when climbing, but now it’s pretty much useless. What’s cool is that surgeons often use it for reconstructive surgeries, since it can be removed without affecting strength. I just think it’s fascinating that our bodies still carry little pieces of evolutionary history like that. P.S I have it on both hands.