Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

I remember being in my aunt’s kitchen, sitting close to her, my small fingers tracing the embroidery on her apron as she made shiro for dinner. She’d give me a spoonful to taste, waiting for my satisfied nod. I don’t know if it was the warmth of the stove, the light taps of her feet, or the savory smell of garlic and cardamom, but that kitchen was my place of comfort. From ages five to ten, after my father passed and my mother left for America, it was just me and my aunt.Every morning, she’d sit me on her lap, singing softly as she fixed my hair. Every birthday, she’d bake tiny cakes, watching my face light up as she placed candles on top. In the kitchen, she showed me how to make injera, laughing when I made it too thick. I didn’t see it then, but she was gradually shaping me into the person I’d become. When I reunited with my mom in America, my aunt’s influence stayed with me. I see her in every dish I make, every braid I fix, and every birthday I celebrate. She may not know it, but she’s in the smallest details of my life. She taught me my culture, how to be independent, and to show my best self. This spring, after ten years, she’ll be here to watch me graduate. I hope she’ll see that the little girl who once never left her side is all grown up because of her.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

An elderly woman came up to our table at the diabetes ribbon drive, her hands shaking as she reached for a blue pin. “Thank you... for doing this,” she said in broken English. “In my country we lost my husband to diabetes.Here, seeing young people care... it ...gives hope.”Her words simple but her eyes full of emotion and as she pinned the ribbon to her worn denim jacket I realized through our conversation that advocacy isn’t just about sharing info; it’s about understanding the challenges and emotions behind each story.That moment changed how I viewed our diabetes awareness campaign I co-founded through HOSA. At first I measured success through numbers: funds raised, ribbons distributed, presentations delivered.But that grandmother’s story and many others like hers taught me that true advocacy is about making people feel heard and supported. That realization gave us a new direction for our campaign.We started bilingual health discussions so language wouldn’t be a barrier for families to get the information they needed. These conversations helped us reach underserved communities and their specific concerns.Young people with diabetes also found a voice through our podcast, featuring Ivy, a teenager with diabetes. Her story generated hundreds of responses from other young diabetics, a platform for connection across cultures and generations. Moments like these reminded me that change starts with small things: a ribbon handed out, a conversation with a parent or a child inspired to be healthier. I’ll continue this work in the small everyday moments that matter in advocacy.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. This experience also changed my approach to leadership. I learned to listen before I acted, to center the needs of the people I was advocating for and to see challenges as opportunities for growth. Mental health battles are the toughest ones to overcome. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps individuals navigate these struggles. For me, it is more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation.However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids.One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation.However Abagutu vanished one day.I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed.But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia.This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community.I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program.Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

40 years ago in a small village in Geter, Ethiopia a young boy was always running. He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and ran from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers so his blind mother and younger siblings wouldn’t go hungry. Despite being blind, his mother saw her son’s love for running, she felt it in every step he took. One day after saving every coin she made from selling bread she gave him a pair of shoes – shoes that replaced the worn sandals that barely clung to his feet. From that moment on he ran not just out of necessity but out of a burning desire to be more – to be an athlete. That boy, Dejene Berhanu, became one of Ethiopia’s Olympic long distance runners. From my father I inherited more than just a love for running; I learned the power of never giving up, making the most out of nothing and sacrificing for those we love. Across Ethiopia in a time of war with Eritrea, a young girl was the youngest of two. She helped her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses, trading dreams for survival after her father died in the war. Her comfort was in running, a solo escape where every step pushed the grief further behind her. She joined a local running team and met a boy whose life was similar to hers, their shared struggles allowed them to bond. But life was cruel – she lost him to suicide, became a young widow before she even got to live. Her story could have ended in despair but it didn’t. Instead she chose to live apart from her only daughter in America, a country unknown to her, for five long years, to provide a better life for her child. When she finally reunited with her daughter she gave her two siblings and turned her story of loss into one of hope and renewal. From my mother Ayelech Assefa I learned that success is not measured by diplomas or certificates but by the ability to get up after every fall. She taught me to find beauty and purpose in my own life by honoring those who came before me. But more specifically, she taught me to love my culture, to be proud of being Ethiopian and to carry her father's name and legacy with the same dedication and respect I admire in the military.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation.However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

When I was a child in Ethiopia, I thought cow poop was magical. One afternoon, I watched my neighbor casually collecting it in a basket, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Naturally, I was curious (and slightly horrified), so I asked what she planned to do with a pile of poop. Completely unfazed, she explained that it was for her house. First, you build the foundation with sticks and mud, then you cover it with cow dung to smooth the walls and polish the floors. Of course, the smell isn’t exactly pleasant, so you burn incense to mask it. The finished result? Gleaming walls and shiny floors that could rival any polished tile. That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that things most people see as waste (literally) could be turned into something beautiful and useful. I always wanted to try it myself, but now I live in Texas. While I’m not helping the cowboy stereotype, much to my neighbors’ relief, there are no cows nearby. One of my favorite memories of Ethiopia is hearing the call of kuralew! echo through the neighborhood. The kuralew, a worker collecting old or unused items, would walk through the streets announcing their arrival. People would step outside with broken pots, scraps of metal, or worn-out plastic, trading them for a small payment or something useful in return. After gathering the items, the kuralew sold them to organizations that transformed them. Broken pots became beautiful planters, worn-out plastic was melted into practical tools, and even zenbaba (palm leaves) transformed into delicate jewelry like rings and headpieces for religious celebrations, such as Hosanna, commemorating Jesus’ walk into Jerusalem. This tradition not only created jobs but also reduced waste and helped communities by turning discarded items into valuable goods. That resourceful mindset stayed with me as I grew older, even as my materials and methods changed. Today, I channel my creativity through blackout poetry, giving forgotten pages a second life as art. Thrifting lets me uncover hidden gems, transforming old clothes into unique expressions of my style. Collages made from magazines, books, and photographs allow me to piece together fragments of a story only I can tell. And every Hosanna, I still create zenbaba jewelry, honoring my heritage while celebrating the joy found in tradition. This also ties into my commitment to veganism, a lifestyle that’s been a part of me since I was a kid. Ethiopia’s cuisine is naturally vegan. Injera, lentils, chickpeas and various veggie stews are not only delicious but plant based. This reminds me how our ancestors knew how to make the most of the earth’s resources; these meals are proof of sustainability, simplicity and creativity to nourish body and soul. Repurposing has taught me to honor my roots, strengthen my religion, express myself and appreciate the beauty others overlook. Honestly, who needs a blank canvas when the best art begins where others see an ending?

An elderly lady came up to our table at the diabetes ribbon drive, her hands shaking as she reached for a blue pin. "Thank you... for doing this," she said in broken English. "In my country we lost my husband to diabetes. Here, seeing young people care... it ...gives hope." As she pinned the ribbon to her faded denim jacket, I couldn't stop thinking about her story. It made me realize advocacy isn't just about sharing information; it's about connecting with the challenges and emotions behind each story. That one small moment changed how I viewed the All About Diabetes campaign I co-founded through HOSA. At first I measured success in numbers: ribbons distributed, funds raised, presentations delivered. But that grandmother's story, and many others like hers, taught me that true advocacy means making people feel heard and supported. Thus, I wanted to take our campaign in a new direction; I suggested bilingual health presentations and brochures to remove language barriers for families. This idea came to life thanks to my hardworking co-founders. Together, we also designed interactive diabetes kits with tools like meal planners, printable blood sugar trackers and a list of free/ low-cost health resources in the Houston area, packaged in reusable cloth bags. These efforts allowed us to connect with underserved communities through practical tools to manage their health. Young people with diabetes also had a voice through our podcast, featuring Ivy, a teenager with diabetes. To make the podcast relatable I introduced videocasts where guests like Ivy shared "Get Ready With Me" routines, walking viewers through their daily lives with diabetes. Ivy's story alone got hundreds of responses and inspired others to share their own stories. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center a cardiac patient was overwhelmed with anxiety and struggling with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This holistic approach helped him recover and showed me that you can’t just treat the symptoms, you have to treat the whole person. Health battles are personal; you can get out of situations but you can’t get out of your own body. Seeing his journey made me more determined to help people navigate these struggles especially with chronic conditions like diabetes where mental and emotional support is just as important as medical care. This was important to me because of my work in diabetes awareness. Through the campaign I co-founded I’ve seen how diabetes affects not just the body but every part of a person’s life including their mental health. Many struggle to manage the demands of blood sugar testing, dietary changes and the stigma that comes with the diagnosis. Our campaign was advocating for healthier lifestyles while having the conversations about the emotional side of living with diabetes. This experience also taught me about leadership. I learned to listen before I act, to put the needs of those I was advocating for first and to see challenges as opportunities. These lessons will serve me well as I move into healthcare where I hope to continue my work – one ribbon, one story, one conversation at a time – for patients with diabetes and other chronic conditions.

When I was a child in Ethiopia, I thought cow poop was magical. One afternoon, I watched my neighbor casually collecting it in a basket, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Naturally, I was curious (and slightly horrified), so I asked what she planned to do with a pile of poop. Completely unfazed, she explained that it was for her house. First, you build the foundation with sticks and mud, then you cover it with cow dung to smooth the walls and polish the floors. Of course, the smell isn’t exactly pleasant, so you burn incense to mask it. The finished result? Gleaming walls and shiny floors that could rival any polished tile. That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that things most people see as waste (literally) could be turned into something beautiful and useful. I always wanted to try it myself, but now I live in Texas. While I’m not helping the cowboy stereotype, much to my neighbors’ relief, there are no cows nearby. One of my favorite memories of Ethiopia is hearing the call of kuralew! echo through the neighborhood. The kuralew, a worker collecting old or unused items, would walk through the streets announcing their arrival. People would step outside with broken pots, scraps of metal, or worn-out plastic, trading them for a small payment or something useful in return. After gathering the items, the kuralew sold them to organizations that transformed them. Broken pots became beautiful planters, worn-out plastic was melted into practical tools, and even zenbaba (palm leaves) transformed into delicate jewelry like rings and headpieces for religious celebrations, such as Hosanna, commemorating Jesus’ walk into Jerusalem. This tradition not only created jobs but also reduced waste and helped communities by turning discarded items into valuable goods. That resourceful mindset stayed with me as I grew older, even as my materials and methods changed. Today, I channel my creativity through blackout poetry, giving forgotten pages a second life as art. Thrifting lets me uncover hidden gems, transforming old clothes into unique expressions of my style. Collages made from magazines, books, and photographs allow me to piece together fragments of a story only I can tell. And every Hosanna, I still create zenbaba jewelry, honoring my heritage while celebrating the joy found in tradition. This also ties into my commitment to veganism, a lifestyle that’s been a part of me since I was a kid. Ethiopia’s cuisine is naturally vegan. Injera, lentils, chickpeas and various veggie stews are not only delicious but plant based. This reminds me how our ancestors knew how to make the most of the earth’s resources; these meals are proof of sustainability, simplicity and creativity to nourish body and soul. Repurposing has taught me to honor my roots, strengthen my religion, express myself and appreciate the beauty others overlook. Honestly, who needs a blank canvas when the best art begins where others see an ending?

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

An elderly lady came up to our table at the diabetes ribbon drive, her hands shaking as she reached for a blue pin. "Thank you... for doing this," she said in broken English. "In my country we lost my husband to diabetes. Here, seeing young people care... it ...gives hope." As she pinned the ribbon to her faded denim jacket, I couldn't stop thinking about her story. It made me realize advocacy isn't just about sharing information; it's about connecting with the challenges and emotions behind each story. That one small moment changed how I viewed the All About Diabetes campaign I co-founded through HOSA. At first I measured success in numbers: ribbons distributed, funds raised, presentations delivered. But that grandmother's story, and many others like hers, taught me that true advocacy means making people feel heard and supported. Thus, I wanted to take our campaign in a new direction; I suggested bilingual health presentations and brochures to remove language barriers for families. This idea came to life thanks to my hardworking co-founders. Together, we also designed interactive diabetes kits with tools like meal planners, printable blood sugar trackers and a list of free/ low-cost health resources in the Houston area, packaged in reusable cloth bags. These efforts allowed us to connect with underserved communities through practical tools to manage their health. Young people with diabetes also had a voice through our podcast, featuring Ivy, a teenager with diabetes. To make the podcast relatable I introduced videocasts where guests like Ivy shared "Get Ready With Me" routines, walking viewers through their daily lives with diabetes. Ivy's story alone got hundreds of responses and inspired others to share their own stories. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center a cardiac patient was overwhelmed with anxiety and struggling with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This holistic approach helped him recover and showed me that you can’t just treat the symptoms, you have to treat the whole person. Health battles are personal; you can get out of situations but you can’t get out of your own body. Seeing his journey made me more determined to help people navigate these struggles especially with chronic conditions like diabetes where mental and emotional support is just as important as medical care. This was important to me because of my work in diabetes awareness. Through the campaign I co-founded I’ve seen how diabetes affects not just the body but every part of a person’s life including their mental health. Many struggle to manage the demands of blood sugar testing, dietary changes and the stigma that comes with the diagnosis. Our campaign was advocating for healthier lifestyles while having the conversations about the emotional side of living with diabetes. This experience also taught me about leadership. I learned to listen before I act, to put the needs of those I was advocating for first and to see challenges as opportunities. These lessons will serve me well as I move into healthcare where I hope to continue my work – one ribbon, one story, one conversation at a time – for patients with diabetes and other chronic conditions.

When I was a child in Ethiopia, I thought cow poop was magical. One afternoon, I watched my neighbor casually collecting it in a basket, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Naturally, I was curious (and slightly horrified), so I asked what she planned to do with a pile of poop. Completely unfazed, she explained that it was for her house. First, you build the foundation with sticks and mud, then you cover it with cow dung to smooth the walls and polish the floors. Of course, the smell isn’t exactly pleasant, so you burn incense to mask it. The finished result? Gleaming walls and shiny floors that could rival any polished tile. That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that things most people see as waste (literally) could be turned into something beautiful and useful. I always wanted to try it myself, but now I live in Texas. While I’m not helping the cowboy stereotype, much to my neighbors’ relief, there are no cows nearby. One of my favorite memories of Ethiopia is hearing the call of kuralew! echo through the neighborhood. The kuralew, a worker collecting old or unused items, would walk through the streets announcing their arrival. People would step outside with broken pots, scraps of metal, or worn-out plastic, trading them for a small payment or something useful in return. After gathering the items, the kuralew sold them to organizations that transformed them. Broken pots became beautiful planters, worn-out plastic was melted into practical tools, and even zenbaba (palm leaves) transformed into delicate jewelry like rings and headpieces for religious celebrations, such as Hosanna, commemorating Jesus’ walk into Jerusalem. This tradition not only created jobs but also reduced waste and helped communities by turning discarded items into valuable goods. That resourceful mindset stayed with me as I grew older, even as my materials and methods changed. Today, I channel my creativity through blackout poetry, giving forgotten pages a second life as art. Thrifting lets me uncover hidden gems, transforming old clothes into unique expressions of my style. Collages made from magazines, books, and photographs allow me to piece together fragments of a story only I can tell. And every Hosanna, I still create zenbaba jewelry, honoring my heritage while celebrating the joy found in tradition. This also ties into my commitment to veganism, a lifestyle that’s been a part of me since I was a kid. Ethiopia’s cuisine is naturally vegan. Injera, lentils, chickpeas and various veggie stews are not only delicious but plant based. This reminds me how our ancestors knew how to make the most of the earth’s resources; these meals are proof of sustainability, simplicity and creativity to nourish body and soul. Repurposing has taught me to honor my roots, strengthen my religion, express myself and appreciate the beauty others overlook. Honestly, who needs a blank canvas when the best art begins where others see an ending?

When I was a child in Ethiopia, I thought cow poop was magical. One afternoon, I watched my neighbor casually collecting it in a basket, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Naturally, I was curious (and slightly horrified), so I asked what she planned to do with a pile of poop. Completely unfazed, she explained that it was for her house. First, you build the foundation with sticks and mud, then you cover it with cow dung to smooth the walls and polish the floors. Of course, the smell isn’t exactly pleasant, so you burn incense to mask it. The finished result? Gleaming walls and shiny floors that could rival any polished tile. That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that things most people see as waste (literally) could be turned into something beautiful and useful. I always wanted to try it myself, but now I live in Texas. While I’m not helping the cowboy stereotype, much to my neighbors’ relief, there are no cows nearby. One of my favorite memories of Ethiopia is hearing the call of kuralew! echo through the neighborhood. The kuralew, a worker collecting old or unused items, would walk through the streets announcing their arrival. People would step outside with broken pots, scraps of metal, or worn-out plastic, trading them for a small payment or something useful in return. After gathering the items, the kuralew sold them to organizations that transformed them. Broken pots became beautiful planters, worn-out plastic was melted into practical tools, and even zenbaba (palm leaves) transformed into delicate jewelry like rings and headpieces for religious celebrations, such as Hosanna, commemorating Jesus’ walk into Jerusalem. This tradition not only created jobs but also reduced waste and helped communities by turning discarded items into valuable goods. That resourceful mindset stayed with me as I grew older, even as my materials and methods changed. Today, I channel my creativity through blackout poetry, giving forgotten pages a second life as art. Thrifting lets me uncover hidden gems, transforming old clothes into unique expressions of my style. Collages made from magazines, books, and photographs allow me to piece together fragments of a story only I can tell. And every Hosanna, I still create zenbaba jewelry, honoring my heritage while celebrating the joy found in tradition. This also ties into my commitment to veganism, a lifestyle that’s been a part of me since I was a kid. Ethiopia’s cuisine is naturally vegan. Injera, lentils, chickpeas and various veggie stews are not only delicious but plant based. This reminds me how our ancestors knew how to make the most of the earth’s resources; these meals are proof of sustainability, simplicity and creativity to nourish body and soul. Repurposing has taught me to honor my roots, strengthen my religion, express myself and appreciate the beauty others overlook. Honestly, who needs a blank canvas when the best art begins where others see an ending?

When I was a child in Ethiopia, I thought cow poop was magical. One afternoon, I watched my neighbor casually collecting it in a basket, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Naturally, I was curious (and slightly horrified), so I asked what she planned to do with a pile of poop. Completely unfazed, she explained that it was for her house. First, you build the foundation with sticks and mud, then you cover it with cow dung to smooth the walls and polish the floors. Of course, the smell isn’t exactly pleasant, so you burn incense to mask it. The finished result? Gleaming walls and shiny floors that could rival any polished tile. That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that things most people see as waste (literally) could be turned into something beautiful and useful. I always wanted to try it myself, but now I live in Texas. While I’m not helping the cowboy stereotype, much to my neighbors’ relief, there are no cows nearby. One of my favorite memories of Ethiopia is hearing the call of kuralew! echo through the neighborhood. The kuralew, a worker collecting old or unused items, would walk through the streets announcing their arrival. People would step outside with broken pots, scraps of metal, or worn-out plastic, trading them for a small payment or something useful in return. After gathering the items, the kuralew sold them to organizations that transformed them. Broken pots became beautiful planters, worn-out plastic was melted into practical tools, and even zenbaba (palm leaves) transformed into delicate jewelry like rings and headpieces for religious celebrations, such as Hosanna, commemorating Jesus’ walk into Jerusalem. This tradition not only created jobs but also reduced waste and helped communities by turning discarded items into valuable goods. That resourceful mindset stayed with me as I grew older, even as my materials and methods changed. Today, I channel my creativity through blackout poetry, giving forgotten pages a second life as art. Thrifting lets me uncover hidden gems, transforming old clothes into unique expressions of my style. Collages made from magazines, books, and photographs allow me to piece together fragments of a story only I can tell. And every Hosanna, I still create zenbaba jewelry, honoring my heritage while celebrating the joy found in tradition. This also ties into my commitment to veganism, a lifestyle that’s been a part of me since I was a kid. Ethiopia’s cuisine is naturally vegan. Injera, lentils, chickpeas and various veggie stews are not only delicious but plant based. This reminds me how our ancestors knew how to make the most of the earth’s resources; these meals are proof of sustainability, simplicity and creativity to nourish body and soul. Repurposing has taught me to honor my roots, strengthen my religion, express myself and appreciate the beauty others overlook. Honestly, who needs a blank canvas when the best art begins where others see an ending?

An elderly lady came up to our table at the diabetes ribbon drive, her hands shaking as she reached for a blue pin. "Thank you... for doing this," she said in broken English. "In my country we lost my husband to diabetes. Here, seeing young people care... it ...gives hope." As she pinned the ribbon to her faded denim jacket, I couldn't stop thinking about her story. It made me realize advocacy isn't just about sharing information; it's about connecting with the challenges and emotions behind each story. That one small moment changed how I viewed the All About Diabetes campaign I co-founded through HOSA. At first I measured success in numbers: ribbons distributed, funds raised, presentations delivered. But that grandmother's story, and many others like hers, taught me that true advocacy means making people feel heard and supported. Thus, I wanted to take our campaign in a new direction; I suggested bilingual health presentations and brochures to remove language barriers for families. This idea came to life thanks to my hardworking co-founders. Together, we also designed interactive diabetes kits with tools like meal planners, printable blood sugar trackers and a list of free/ low-cost health resources in the Houston area, packaged in reusable cloth bags. These efforts allowed us to connect with underserved communities through practical tools to manage their health. Young people with diabetes also had a voice through our podcast, featuring Ivy, a teenager with diabetes. To make the podcast relatable I introduced videocasts where guests like Ivy shared "Get Ready With Me" routines, walking viewers through their daily lives with diabetes. Ivy's story alone got hundreds of responses and inspired others to share their own stories. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center a cardiac patient was overwhelmed with anxiety and struggling with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This holistic approach helped him recover and showed me that you can’t just treat the symptoms, you have to treat the whole person. Health battles are personal; you can get out of situations but you can’t get out of your own body. Seeing his journey made me more determined to help people navigate these struggles especially with chronic conditions like diabetes where mental and emotional support is just as important as medical care. This was important to me because of my work in diabetes awareness. Through the campaign I co-founded I’ve seen how diabetes affects not just the body but every part of a person’s life including their mental health. Many struggle to manage the demands of blood sugar testing, dietary changes and the stigma that comes with the diagnosis. Our campaign was advocating for healthier lifestyles while having the conversations about the emotional side of living with diabetes. This experience also taught me about leadership. I learned to listen before I act, to put the needs of those I was advocating for first and to see challenges as opportunities. These lessons will serve me well as I move into healthcare where I hope to continue my work – one ribbon, one story, one conversation at a time – for patients with diabetes and other chronic conditions.

An elderly lady came up to our table at the diabetes ribbon drive, her hands shaking as she reached for a blue pin. "Thank you... for doing this," she said in broken English. "In my country we lost my husband to diabetes. Here, seeing young people care... it ...gives hope." As she pinned the ribbon to her faded denim jacket, I couldn't stop thinking about her story. It made me realize advocacy isn't just about sharing information; it's about connecting with the challenges and emotions behind each story. That one small moment changed how I viewed the All About Diabetes campaign I co-founded through HOSA. At first I measured success in numbers: ribbons distributed, funds raised, presentations delivered. But that grandmother's story, and many others like hers, taught me that true advocacy means making people feel heard and supported. Thus, I wanted to take our campaign in a new direction; I suggested bilingual health presentations and brochures to remove language barriers for families. This idea came to life thanks to my hardworking co-founders. Together, we also designed interactive diabetes kits with tools like meal planners, printable blood sugar trackers and a list of free/ low-cost health resources in the Houston area, packaged in reusable cloth bags. These efforts allowed us to connect with underserved communities through practical tools to manage their health. Young people with diabetes also had a voice through our podcast, featuring Ivy, a teenager with diabetes. To make the podcast relatable I introduced videocasts where guests like Ivy shared "Get Ready With Me" routines, walking viewers through their daily lives with diabetes. Ivy's story alone got hundreds of responses and inspired others to share their own stories. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center a cardiac patient was overwhelmed with anxiety and struggling with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This holistic approach helped him recover and showed me that you can’t just treat the symptoms, you have to treat the whole person. Health battles are personal; you can get out of situations but you can’t get out of your own body. Seeing his journey made me more determined to help people navigate these struggles especially with chronic conditions like diabetes where mental and emotional support is just as important as medical care. This was important to me because of my work in diabetes awareness. Through the campaign I co-founded I’ve seen how diabetes affects not just the body but every part of a person’s life including their mental health. Many struggle to manage the demands of blood sugar testing, dietary changes and the stigma that comes with the diagnosis. Our campaign was advocating for healthier lifestyles while having the conversations about the emotional side of living with diabetes. This experience also taught me about leadership. I learned to listen before I act, to put the needs of those I was advocating for first and to see challenges as opportunities. These lessons will serve me well as I move into healthcare where I hope to continue my work – one ribbon, one story, one conversation at a time – for patients with diabetes and other chronic conditions.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day through this scholarship. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

An elderly lady came up to our table at the diabetes ribbon drive, her hands shaking as she reached for a blue pin. "Thank you... for doing this," she said in broken English. "In my country we lost my husband to diabetes. Here, seeing young people care... it ...gives hope." As she pinned the ribbon to her faded denim jacket, I couldn't stop thinking about her story. It made me realize advocacy isn't just about sharing information; it's about connecting with the challenges and emotions behind each story. That one small moment changed how I viewed the All About Diabetes campaign I co-founded through HOSA. At first I measured success in numbers: ribbons distributed, funds raised, presentations delivered. But that grandmother's story, and many others like hers, taught me that true advocacy means making people feel heard and supported. Thus, I wanted to take our campaign in a new direction; I suggested bilingual health presentations and brochures to remove language barriers for families. This idea came to life thanks to my hardworking co-founders. Together, we also designed interactive diabetes kits with tools like meal planners, printable blood sugar trackers and a list of free/ low-cost health resources in the Houston area, packaged in reusable cloth bags. These efforts allowed us to connect with underserved communities through practical tools to manage their health. Young people with diabetes also had a voice through our podcast, featuring Ivy, a teenager with diabetes. To make the podcast relatable I introduced videocasts where guests like Ivy shared "Get Ready With Me" routines, walking viewers through their daily lives with diabetes. Ivy's story alone got hundreds of responses and inspired others to share their own stories. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center a cardiac patient was overwhelmed with anxiety and struggling with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan. This holistic approach helped him recover and showed me that you can’t just treat the symptoms, you have to treat the whole person. Health battles are personal; you can get out of situations but you can’t get out of your own body. Seeing his journey made me more determined to help people navigate these struggles especially with chronic conditions like diabetes where mental and emotional support is just as important as medical care. This was important to me because of my work in diabetes awareness. Through the campaign I co-founded I’ve seen how diabetes affects not just the body but every part of a person’s life including their mental health. Many struggle to manage the demands of blood sugar testing, dietary changes and the stigma that comes with the diagnosis. Our campaign was advocating for healthier lifestyles while having the conversations about the emotional side of living with diabetes. This experience also taught me about leadership. I learned to listen before I act, to put the needs of those I was advocating for first and to see challenges as opportunities. These lessons will serve me well as I move into healthcare where I hope to continue my work-one ribbon, one story, one conversation at a time-for patients with diabetes and other chronic conditions.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

When I was a child in Ethiopia, I thought cow poop was magical. One afternoon, I watched my neighbor casually collecting it in a basket, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Naturally, I was curious (and slightly horrified), so I asked what she planned to do with a pile of poop. Completely unfazed, she explained that it was for her house. First, you build the foundation with sticks and mud, then you cover it with cow dung to smooth the walls and polish the floors. Of course, the smell isn’t exactly pleasant, so you burn incense to mask it. The finished result? Gleaming walls and shiny floors that could rival any polished tile. That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that things most people see as waste (literally) could be turned into something beautiful and useful. I always wanted to try it myself, but now I live in Texas. While I’m not helping the cowboy stereotype, much to my neighbors’ relief, there are no cows nearby. One of my favorite memories of Ethiopia is hearing the call of kuralew! echo through the neighborhood. The kuralew, a worker collecting old or unused items, would walk through the streets announcing their arrival. People would step outside with broken pots, scraps of metal, or worn-out plastic, trading them for a small payment or something useful in return. After gathering the items, the kuralew sold them to organizations that transformed them. Broken pots became beautiful planters, worn-out plastic was melted into practical tools, and even zenbaba (palm leaves) transformed into delicate jewelry like rings and headpieces for religious celebrations, such as Hosanna, commemorating Jesus’ walk into Jerusalem. This tradition not only created jobs but also reduced waste and helped communities by turning discarded items into valuable goods. That resourceful mindset stayed with me as I grew older, even as my materials and methods changed. Today, I channel my creativity through blackout poetry, giving forgotten pages a second life as art. Thrifting lets me uncover hidden gems, transforming old clothes into unique expressions of my style. Collages made from magazines, books, and photographs allow me to piece together fragments of a story only I can tell. And every Hosanna, I still create zenbaba jewelry, honoring my heritage while celebrating the joy found in tradition. This also ties into my commitment to veganism, a lifestyle that’s been a part of me since I was a kid. Ethiopia’s cuisine is naturally vegan. Injera, lentils, chickpeas and various veggie stews are not only delicious but plant based. This reminds me how our ancestors knew how to make the most of the earth’s resources; these meals are proof of sustainability, simplicity and creativity to nourish body and soul. Repurposing has taught me to honor my roots, strengthen my religion, express myself and appreciate the beauty others overlook. Honestly, who needs a blank canvas when the best art begins where others see an ending?

When I was a child in Ethiopia, I thought cow poop was magical. One afternoon, I watched my neighbor casually collecting it in a basket, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Naturally, I was curious (and slightly horrified), so I asked what she planned to do with a pile of poop. Completely unfazed, she explained that it was for her house. First, you build the foundation with sticks and mud, then you cover it with cow dung to smooth the walls and polish the floors. Of course, the smell isn’t exactly pleasant, so you burn incense to mask it. The finished result? Gleaming walls and shiny floors that could rival any polished tile. That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that things most people see as waste (literally) could be turned into something beautiful and useful. I always wanted to try it myself, but now I live in Texas. While I’m not helping the cowboy stereotype, much to my neighbors’ relief, there are no cows nearby. One of my favorite memories of Ethiopia is hearing the call of kuralew! echo through the neighborhood. The kuralew, a worker collecting old or unused items, would walk through the streets announcing their arrival. People would step outside with broken pots, scraps of metal, or worn-out plastic, trading them for a small payment or something useful in return. After gathering the items, the kuralew sold them to organizations that transformed them. Broken pots became beautiful planters, worn-out plastic was melted into practical tools, and even zenbaba (palm leaves) transformed into delicate jewelry like rings and headpieces for religious celebrations, such as Hosanna, commemorating Jesus’ walk into Jerusalem. This tradition not only created jobs but also reduced waste and helped communities by turning discarded items into valuable goods. That resourceful mindset stayed with me as I grew older, even as my materials and methods changed. Today, I channel my creativity through blackout poetry, giving forgotten pages a second life as art. Thrifting lets me uncover hidden gems, transforming old clothes into unique expressions of my style. Collages made from magazines, books, and photographs allow me to piece together fragments of a story only I can tell. And every Hosanna, I still create zenbaba jewelry, honoring my heritage while celebrating the joy found in tradition. This also ties into my commitment to veganism, a lifestyle that’s been a part of me since I was a kid. Ethiopia’s cuisine is naturally vegan. Injera, lentils, chickpeas and various veggie stews are not only delicious but plant based. This reminds me how our ancestors knew how to make the most of the earth’s resources; these meals are proof of sustainability, simplicity and creativity to nourish body and soul. Repurposing has taught me to honor my roots, strengthen my religion, express myself and appreciate the beauty others overlook. Honestly, who needs a blank canvas when the best art begins where others see an ending?

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

“Seventeen”, I typed into my laptop screen, “a sister seventeen years younger than me?”. The words spun around in my head as I scrolled through all the Facebook groups and subreddits, hoping someone somewhere had a sister that young. I lay awake most of that night thinking about what my life would be like. Just hours before my mom had walked into my room and surprised me – she was pregnant. That was not what I had planned for a normal Thursday night after school. As the “good” eldest daughter, my life had a routine: studying at my desk, family dinners, and weekends helping my stepdad run errands. Everything had its place. But my mom’s announcement rocked that structure. Selfishly I wanted my senior year to be about me—college visits, prom, graduation. For once I wanted the spotlight. But in the months that followed baby items started to fill our home – a new crib that took over our quiet reading spot, diapers in the linen closet, and tiny clothes that mixed with our laundry. Each new item reminded me of the change that was coming to our family. Relatives would coo about the baby and I would sit in my room feeling guilty for not being as excited as they were. Some nights I’d see my mom smiling as she rubbed her belly and I’d look away feeling bad for not being as thrilled. Everything changed one night. I was knee deep in my precalculus homework when my mom tapped my shoulder. “Can you help me?” she asked, holding up her half-packed hospital bag. As we folded tiny onesies, she pulled out a pink knit hat barely big enough for a grapefruit. “I’m scared,” she said quietly, her voice breaking. “Starting over at my age… this isn’t what I planned.” For the first time I saw her vulnerable. For the first time I realized I wasn’t the only one adjusting. We were both just… adjusting. Just differently. The day my sister was born they put her in my arms and I was sure I’d drop her. My arms felt stiff and clumsy, unsure how to hold something so small. Then her little fingers wrapped around mine and suddenly everything felt different. She was so tiny, like a doll, and all I wanted to do was protect her. Those first few months were crazy but sweet. At 5 a.m. half asleep and messy haired I’d sing her lullabies while rubbing her back. Sometimes I’d catch my dad looking at me with that soft surprised face. One time she used my history textbook to pull herself up, her determined little face turning my boring study session into something I’ll never forget. I just laughed, in awe of her. Through my sister, I learned that connection trumps perfection. When I co-founded Pages for Progress, a mental health campaign for Ethiopian youth, I realized the impact wasn’t in perfect lesson plans but in creating authentic moments. Sometimes that meant an impromptu game; other times, it was simply listening deeply. What mattered most was being present and open. As I prepare for college, I see how my sister’s arrival prepared me, too. She taught me to embrace the unexpected, to let go of rigid plans, and to find growth in change. I now imagine video calls where I share my college experiences while she shows off her latest preschool drawings, or weekend visits where I teach her the Amharic alphabet. The seventeen-year gap that once felt overwhelming has become one of my greatest gifts. My sister has taught me more about adaptability, patience, and unconditional love than any classroom ever could. She wasn’t part of my carefully planned senior year, but she’s shown me that life’s most beautiful chapters are often the ones we never saw coming.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

When I was a child in Ethiopia, I thought cow poop was magical. One afternoon, I watched my neighbor casually collecting it in a basket, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Naturally, I was curious (and slightly horrified), so I asked what she planned to do with a pile of poop. Completely unfazed, she explained that it was for her house. First, you build the foundation with sticks and mud, then you cover it with cow dung to smooth the walls and polish the floors. Of course, the smell isn’t exactly pleasant, so you burn incense to mask it. The finished result? Gleaming walls and shiny floors that could rival any polished tile. That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that things most people see as waste (literally) could be turned into something beautiful and useful. I always wanted to try it myself, but now I live in Texas. While I’m not helping the cowboy stereotype, much to my neighbors’ relief, there are no cows nearby. One of my favorite memories of Ethiopia is hearing the call of kuralew! echo through the neighborhood. The kuralew, a worker collecting old or unused items, would walk through the streets announcing their arrival. People would step outside with broken pots, scraps of metal, or worn-out plastic, trading them for a small payment or something useful in return. After gathering the items, the kuralew sold them to organizations that transformed them. Broken pots became beautiful planters, worn-out plastic was melted into practical tools, and even zenbaba (palm leaves) transformed into delicate jewelry like rings and headpieces for religious celebrations, such as Hosanna, commemorating Jesus’ walk into Jerusalem. This tradition not only created jobs but also reduced waste and helped communities by turning discarded items into valuable goods. That resourceful mindset stayed with me as I grew older, even as my materials and methods changed. Today, I channel my creativity through blackout poetry, giving forgotten pages a second life as art. Thrifting lets me uncover hidden gems, transforming old clothes into unique expressions of my style. Collages made from magazines, books, and photographs allow me to piece together fragments of a story only I can tell. And every Hosanna, I still create zenbaba jewelry, honoring my heritage while celebrating the joy found in tradition. Repurposing is more than a habit; it’s a lens through which I perceive beauty-not just in objects but in people. Growing up, I transformed hand-me-downs into something uniquely mine, learning that even ordinary pieces could become something unique and meaningful. My AP Environmental Science teacher, Ms. Rendon, strengthened this perspective in ways I’ll always cherish. Her passion for sustainability and her ability to connect environmental science with human stories inspired me deeply. Whether discussing primary succession or sharing real-world examples of environmental resilience, Ms. Rendon encouraged us to see the interconnectedness of everything. Her belief in my potential pushed me to see my own work and ideas in a new light. Now, I apply that same belief to the world around me. I find beauty in everyone’s story, even when they don’t see it themselves. Repurposing has taught me to honor my roots, strengthen my religion, express myself and appreciate the beauty others overlook. Honestly, who needs a blank canvas when the best art begins where others see an ending?

When I was a child in Ethiopia, I thought cow poop was magical. One afternoon, I watched my neighbor casually collecting it in a basket, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Naturally, I was curious (and slightly horrified), so I asked what she planned to do with a pile of poop. Completely unfazed, she explained that it was for her house. First, you build the foundation with sticks and mud, then you cover it with cow dung to smooth the walls and polish the floors. Of course, the smell isn’t exactly pleasant, so you burn incense to mask it. The finished result? Gleaming walls and shiny floors that could rival any polished tile. That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that things most people see as waste (literally) could be turned into something beautiful and useful. I always wanted to try it myself, but now I live in Texas. While I’m not helping the cowboy stereotype, much to my neighbors’ relief, there are no cows nearby. One of my favorite memories of Ethiopia is hearing the call of kuralew! echo through the neighborhood. The kuralew, a worker collecting old or unused items, would walk through the streets announcing their arrival. People would step outside with broken pots, scraps of metal, or worn-out plastic, trading them for a small payment or something useful in return. After gathering the items, the kuralew sold them to organizations that transformed them. Broken pots became beautiful planters, worn-out plastic was melted into practical tools, and even zenbaba (palm leaves) transformed into delicate jewelry like rings and headpieces for religious celebrations, such as Hosanna, commemorating Jesus’ walk into Jerusalem. This tradition not only created jobs but also reduced waste and helped communities by turning discarded items into valuable goods. That resourceful mindset stayed with me as I grew older, even as my materials and methods changed. Today, I channel my creativity through blackout poetry, giving forgotten pages a second life as art. Thrifting lets me uncover hidden gems, transforming old clothes into unique expressions of my style. Collages made from magazines, books, and photographs allow me to piece together fragments of a story only I can tell. And every Hosanna, I still create zenbaba jewelry, honoring my heritage while celebrating the joy found in tradition. Repurposing is more than a habit; it’s a lens through which I perceive beauty-not just in objects but in people. Growing up, I transformed hand-me-downs into something uniquely mine, learning that even ordinary pieces could become something unique and meaningful. My AP Environmental Science teacher, Ms. Rendon, strengthened this perspective in ways I’ll always cherish. Her passion for sustainability and her ability to connect environmental science with human stories inspired me deeply. Whether discussing primary succession or sharing real-world examples of environmental resilience, Ms. Rendon encouraged us to see the interconnectedness of everything. Her belief in my potential pushed me to see my own work and ideas in a new light. Now, I apply that same belief to the world around me. I find beauty in everyone’s story, even when they don’t see it themselves. Repurposing has taught me to honor my roots, strengthen my religion, express myself and appreciate the beauty others overlook. Honestly, who needs a blank canvas when the best art begins where others see an ending?

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me. Inspired by their stories, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow. Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

Forty years ago in a small village in Geter,Ethiopia, a young boy was always running.He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and siblings. Despite her blindness, his mother knew her son’s love for running. One day, after saving every coin from selling bread, she gifted him shoes to replace the worn-out sandals clinging to his feet.From that day on, he ran not just out of necessity but to become an athlete. That boy, Dejene Birhnu, went on to become one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long-distance runners, and later, my dad. From my father, I inherited more than a love for running; I learned the value of sacrifice and how to make the most out of nothing. Across Ethiopia, during the Eritrean-Ethiopian War, there lived a young girl, the youngest of two. At age 11, she lost her father to the war and began helping her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses. She found comfort in running. When she joined a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored her own and their shared struggles helped them fall in love. But life was cruel-she lost him to suicide, becoming a widow before she had a chance to fully live. Instead of giving up, she chose to leave for America,a foreign land, to give me a better future. For five years, we were worlds apart—she building a new life for us in the US, and I in Ethiopia waiting for the day we’d be together again.From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that true success isn’t found in diplomas or certificates, but in the courage to rise after every fall. As for me, Siduna Birhnu, I was born in Addis Ababa,Ethiopia where kids ran freely in the streets, playing sword fights with sticks stolen from the carpenter’s shop. We would run home, laughing and looking back, afraid of the “big monster” who might snatch us away...I had so much fun but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different for me.While other kids had their parents watching over them, mine weren’t there. I often wondered why I couldn’t play with them like everyone else. Why weren’t they there to scold me for stealing sticks or call me home before the “big monster” came? These questions bothered me and reminded me of what I missed most, my parents. But little did I know that longing would end five years later when I finally saw my mom again. As I got older my mom started sharing more about her and my dad’s lives.The more I learned about their struggles and victories, the more my perception of them changed. My dad was just a boy who wanted to be an athlete and my mom was once a girl with the same hope.Despite life cutting their dreams short, they still found ways to honor those dreams. Over time, I started to see the same drive from their stories in myself. I'm proud to have grown up in Ethiopia.I'm proud to be Ethio-American. Most of all I'm proud to be the child of two strong parents whose strength inspires me to contribute to something bigger. I wouldn’t have found beauty and purpose in my own life without honoring those who came before me.Inspired by Malgorzata’s story and others, I hope to one day create a path for others to follow.Today, I too run tirelessly, remembering my mother’s courage and the shoes that were once given to my father.

40 years ago in a small village in Geter, Ethiopia a young boy was always running. He ran through fields to cut hay, gathered cow dung with his hands, and sprinted from one wedding house to the next to collect leftovers to feed his blind mother and keep his younger siblings from hunger. . Despite her blindness, his mother felt her son’s love for running, she felt it in every step he took. One day after saving every coin she earned from selling bread, she handed him a pair of shoes – shoes that replaced the worn out sandals that were barely holding onto his feet. From that day on he ran not just out of necessity but out of a burning desire to become something more - to become an athlete. That boy Dejene Berhanu became one of Ethiopia’s proud Olympic long distance runners. From my father I inherited more than just a love for running; I learned the unrelenting power of perseverance, the art of making the most out of nothing and the value of sacrificing for those we love. Across Ethiopia, in a time marked by the scars of the Eritrean-Ethiopian war, lived a young girl, the youngest of two. She helped her mother sell injera and bread in local tej houses, trading dreams for survival after her father died in the war. Her comfort came in running, a solitary escape where each stride pushed the grief further behind her. Joining a local running team, she met a boy whose life mirrored hers, their shared struggles allowed them to forge a deep connection. But life was cruel- she lost him to suicide, becoming a young widow before she even had a chance to fully live. Her story could have ended in despair, but it didn’t. Instead, she chose to live apart from her only daughter in America, a country unknown to her, for five long years, working to provide a better life for her child. When she finally reunited with her daughter, she gave her two siblings, turning her story of loss into one of hope and renewal. From my mother, Ayelech Assefa, I learned that success is not measured by diplomas or certificates but by the strength to rise after every fall. She taught me to cherish my culture, to be proud of my Ethiopian heritage, and to continue her father’s legacy of service and honor with unwavering pride.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation.However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

When I was a child in Ethiopia, I thought cow poop was magical. One afternoon, I watched my neighbor casually collecting it in a basket, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Naturally, I was curious (and slightly horrified), so I asked what she planned to do with a pile of poop. Completely unfazed, she explained that it was for her house. First, you build the foundation with sticks and mud, then you cover it with cow dung to smooth the walls and polish the floors. Of course, the smell isn’t exactly pleasant, so you burn incense to mask it. The finished result? Gleaming walls and shiny floors that could rival any polished tile. That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that things most people see as waste (literally) could be turned into something beautiful and useful. I always wanted to try it myself, but now I live in Texas. While I’m not helping the cowboy stereotype, much to my neighbors’ relief, there are no cows nearby. One of my favorite memories of Ethiopia is hearing the call of kuralew! echo through the neighborhood. The kuralew, a worker collecting old or unused items, would walk through the streets announcing their arrival. People would step outside with broken pots, scraps of metal, or worn-out plastic, trading them for a small payment or something useful in return. After gathering the items, the kuralew sold them to organizations that transformed them. Broken pots became beautiful planters, worn-out plastic was melted into practical tools, and even zenbaba (palm leaves) transformed into delicate jewelry like rings and headpieces for religious celebrations, such as Hosanna, commemorating Jesus’ walk into Jerusalem. This tradition not only created jobs but also reduced waste and helped communities by turning discarded items into valuable goods. That resourceful mindset stayed with me as I grew older, even as my materials and methods changed. Today, I channel my creativity through blackout poetry, giving forgotten pages a second life as art. Thrifting lets me uncover hidden gems, transforming old clothes into unique expressions of my style. Collages made from magazines, books, and photographs allow me to piece together fragments of a story only I can tell. And every Hosanna, I still create zenbaba jewelry, honoring my heritage while celebrating the joy found in tradition. Repurposing is more than a habit; it’s a lens through which I perceive beauty—not just in objects but in people. Growing up, I transformed hand-me-downs into something uniquely mine, learning that even ordinary pieces could become something unique and meaningful. Now, I apply that same belief to the world around me. I find beauty in everyone’s story, even when they don’t see it themselves. Repurposing has taught me to honor my roots, strengthen my religion, express myself and appreciate the beauty others overlook. Honestly, who needs a blank canvas when the best art begins where others see an ending?

The Deceiver of Gods Camus once stated that “one must imagine Sisyphus happy” (212). People tend to put what they see or encounter in a human perspective (Weininger). Although the central theme of the myth of Sisyphus portrays the punishment of one’s deceptive actions, it can be a positive representation of the willpower and persistence of humans. It is important to acknowledge that the background origins of Sisyphus have made a prevalent impact in his myth. Sisyphus is the son of Aeolus and Enarete (“Greek Mythology”). Aeolus is the grandson of the powerful titan, Prometheus (“Greek Mythology”). He is known to be the god of fire as well as a trickster (Cartwright). Prometheus angered the gods by giving fire to humans, so he was punished for eternity by Zeus where an eagle comes and devours his liver daily (Cartwright). Despite of their different purposes, both Sisyphus and Prometheus were forethinkers who were destined to a similar fate of eternal torture (Cartwright). The Myth of Sisyphus provides a great analogy of human life (Fassler). Sisyphus was known for his cleverness and trickery with the gods (“Britannica”). He was the ruler of Corinth, but the kingdom suffered from drought and the shortage of water (“Britannica”). After Sisyphus witnessed the kidnapping of Aegena by Zeus, he decided he could benefit from it (Whelan). Aegena was the daughter of Asopus, a river god who was saddened by the disappearance of his daughter (Whelan). Sisyphus made an offer that will inform Asopus of the whereabouts of his daughter if he supplies his kingdom with water (Whelan). Sisyphus was pleased with the outcome, but Zeus was enraged with Sisyphus’s betrayal and demanded that Thanatos takes Sisyphus’s life (Whelan). Thanatos arrives at the kingdom of Corinth and encounters Sisyphus, but he ends up being tricked and kept as a prisoner (Whelan). Suddenly, no deaths occurred and the kingdom of Hades stopped receiving souls (Whelan). Eventually, Thanatos was freed by Ares and began to search for Sisyphus (Whelan). Before Sisyphus revealed himself to Thanatos, he told his wife not to offer a royal funeral (Whelan). Sisyphus meets Hades and admits his wrongdoings (Whelan). He requested to return to the human world for a day to set up a proper funeral for himself (Whelan). His request was granted, but he ended up escaping within his given day (Whelan). It is said that Sisyphus lived a long life until he encountered death. After reaching the underworld, Hades sent him to the lowest region, Tartarus, where he would have to roll a heavy boulder to the mountaintop for all eternity (Whelan). In the end, Sisyphus escaped death twice, but he was met with his inevitable end, death (Cartwright). It can be interpreted that this sad myth was a way to teach people to accept and follow the orders of the gods (Fassler). It is also possible to look at Sisyphus’s situation in a positive aspect based on the interpretations of the elements featured in the myth (Fassler). There has been a prominent symbol for the myth of Sisyphus. The image is known to be the rolling rock (Whelan). In this symbol, a person is pushing a heavy boulder on top of a steep mountain (Kumar). The image itself raises a lot of questions as to why that person is performing such a difficult and meaningless task, but that image became a symbol for humankind (Fassler). For example, when the boulder reaches the mountaintop, Sisyphus becomes hopeful, but as it falls, he becomes disappointed (Kumar). Similarly, one can think about the mistakes and successes in life (Kumar). People should be able to accept mistakes the same way that they accept success. The symbol can also be a broad representation of life and death (Kumar). In relation to existence, humans are also involved in dull and meaningless tasks. Therefore, just as how Sisyphus embraced the rolling boulder, humans should also recognize and embrace their purpose in life (Weininger). Sisyphus is still a recurring allusion found in modern society. For example, there is a modern term that is called the Sisyphean task or labor of Sisyphus which refers to performing a certain task that is useless and endless (“Britannica”). People can also view the myth of Sisyphus in many literary works such as poems and books, one of the most popular being, the Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus as well as many other movies and shows (Weininger). The Myth of Sisyphus is not bound to one theme. Instead of focusing on the current situation of Sisyphus, one can still imagine and perceive how he can feel about the situation (Camus 212). They can imagine him embracing his journey in a positive light (Weininger). This embodies how humans apply their qualities and interpretations of life in modern society.

When I was a child, I thought cow poop was magical. One afternoon, I watched my neighbor casually collecting it in a basket, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Naturally, I was curious (and slightly horrified), so I asked what she planned to do with a pile of poop. Completely unfazed, she explained that it was for her house. First, you build the foundation with sticks and mud, then you cover it with cow dung to smooth the walls and polish the floors. Of course, the smell isn’t exactly pleasant, so you burn incense to mask it. The finished result? Gleaming walls and shiny floors that could rival any polished tile. That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I realized that things most people see as waste (literally) could be turned into something beautiful and useful. I always wanted to try it myself, but now I live in Texas. While I’m not helping the cowboy stereotype, much to my neighbors’ relief, there are no cows nearby. One of my favorite memories of Ethiopia is hearing the call of kuralew! echo through the neighborhood. The kuralew, a worker collecting old or unused items, would walk through the streets announcing their arrival. People would step outside with broken pots, scraps of metal, or worn-out plastic, trading them for a small payment or something useful in return. After gathering the items, the kuralew sold them to organizations that transformed them. Broken pots became beautiful planters, worn-out plastic was melted into practical tools, and even zenbaba (palm leaves) transformed into delicate jewelry like rings and headpieces for religious celebrations, such as Hosanna, commemorating Jesus’ walk into Jerusalem. This tradition not only created jobs but also reduced waste and helped communities by turning discarded items into valuable goods. That resourceful mindset stayed with me as I grew older, even as my materials and methods changed. Today, I channel my creativity through blackout poetry, giving forgotten pages a second life as art. Thrifting lets me uncover hidden gems, transforming old clothes into unique expressions of my style. Collages made from magazines, books, and photographs allow me to piece together fragments of a story only I can tell. And every Hosanna, I still create zenbaba jewelry, honoring my heritage while celebrating the joy found in tradition. Repurposing is more than a habit; it’s a lens through which I perceive beauty-not just in objects but in people. Growing up, I transformed hand-me-downs into something uniquely mine, learning that even ordinary pieces could become something unique and meaningful. Now, I apply that same belief to the world around me. I find beauty in everyone’s story, even when they don’t see it themselves. Repurposing has taught me how I honor my roots, express myself, and discover beauty. Who needs a blank canvas when the best art begins where others see an ending?

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

“Seventeen”, I typed into my laptop screen, “a sister seventeen years younger than me?”. The words spun around in my head as I scrolled through all the Facebook groups and subreddits, hoping someone somewhere had a sister that young. I lay awake most of that night thinking about what my life would be like. Just hours before my mom had walked into my room and surprised me – she was pregnant. That was not what I had planned for a normal Thursday night after school. As the “good” eldest daughter, my life had a routine: studying at my desk, family dinners, and weekends helping my stepdad run errands. Everything had its place. But my mom’s announcement rocked that structure. Selfishly I wanted my senior year to be about me—college visits, prom, graduation. For once I wanted the spotlight. But in the months that followed baby items started to fill our home – a new crib that took over our quiet reading spot, diapers in the linen closet, and tiny clothes that mixed with our laundry. Each new item reminded me of the change that was coming to our family. Relatives would coo about the baby and I would sit in my room feeling guilty for not being as excited as they were. Some nights I’d see my mom smiling as she rubbed her belly and I’d look away feeling bad for not being as thrilled. Everything changed one night. I was knee deep in my precalculus homework when my mom tapped my shoulder. “Can you help me?” she asked, holding up her half-packed hospital bag. As we folded tiny onesies, she pulled out a pink knit hat barely big enough for a grapefruit. “I’m scared,” she said quietly, her voice breaking. “Starting over at my age… this isn’t what I planned.” For the first time I saw her vulnerable. For the first time I realized I wasn’t the only one adjusting. We were both just… adjusting. Just differently. The day my sister was born they put her in my arms and I was sure I’d drop her. My arms felt stiff and clumsy, unsure how to hold something so small. Then her little fingers wrapped around mine and suddenly everything felt different. She was so tiny, like a doll, and all I wanted to do was protect her. Those first few months were crazy but sweet. At 5 a.m. half asleep and messy haired I’d sing her lullabies while rubbing her back. Sometimes I’d catch my dad looking at me with that soft surprised face. One time she used my history textbook to pull herself up, her determined little face turning my boring study session into something I’ll never forget. I just laughed, in awe of her. Through my sister, I learned that connection trumps perfection. When I co-founded Pages for Progress, a mental health campaign for Ethiopian youth, I realized the impact wasn’t in perfect lesson plans but in creating authentic moments. Sometimes that meant an impromptu game; other times, it was simply listening deeply. What mattered most was being present and open. As I prepare for college, I see how my sister’s arrival prepared me, too. She taught me to embrace the unexpected, to let go of rigid plans, and to find growth in change. I now imagine video calls where I share my college experiences while she shows off her latest preschool drawings, or weekend visits where I teach her the Amharic alphabet. The seventeen-year gap that once felt overwhelming has become one of my greatest gifts. My sister has taught me more about adaptability, patience, and unconditional love than any classroom ever could. She wasn’t part of my carefully planned senior year, but she’s shown me that life’s most beautiful chapters are often the ones we never saw coming.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared.When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.

In our neighborhood we had a man we called Abagutu or “the big monster” who roamed the streets collecting scraps, his towering and scary appearance made him feared by all the kids. One afternoon I saw him in an alley breaking breadcrumbs for a stray cat. In that moment the monster I knew disappeared. When I asked my grandmother about him, she dismissed him as a mad person but I felt as though there was more to his story, maybe a family left behind or struggles that led to his isolation. However Abagutu vanished one day. I couldn’t understand why someone like him didn’t get the help he needed. But it wasn’t until I learned about my dad’s struggles with alcoholism and the judgment he faced that I began to understand the tragedy of overlooked mental issues. His depression consumed him and led to his untimely death. I realized how society judges these struggles instead of treating them as serious medical issues. Mental health care is still inaccessible in Ethiopia. This disparity led me to launch Pages for Progress to raise mental health awareness in my community. I taught over 120 Ethiopian elementary students lessons on wellness through activities like coloring, beginner yoga and stress management. We raised 65,000 Ethiopian birr, distributed over 200 supplies and trained 15 educators including my family to sustain the program. Seeing kids prioritize emotional health made me think about how similar support could have helped my father and Abagutu. At Amanuel Mental Hospital I led weekly art therapy sessions for about 30 young patients as a Youth Wellness and Therapy Program Assistant. One teenager who rarely spoke painted a tree in a storm to symbolize his strength. Seeing him use art to process emotions affirmed its role in health and inspired me to self publish on Ethiopia’s psychiatric care system, a personal project I hope to expand one day. At Baylor St. Luke’s Medical Center, a cardiac patient overwhelmed by anxiety struggled with dietary restrictions and rehab until the doctor addressed referred him to counseling and adjusted his care plan.This improved his recovery and showed me what holistic care truly means. Mental health battles are hard. You can escape situations, but you cannot escape your own mind. I want to be a psychiatrist that helps people navigate these struggles. For me, it’s more than a career; it defines the life I want to lead and the impact I want to make.