Adaptability. It is always the first word that comes to mind when asked to "describe myself in three words." Being able to adapt doesn’t just mean deciding to change, but choosing to take risks and become better. As a utility softball player competing at the Division III level, I consider myself a professional at adapting on the field. Playing every position, including pitching, has allowed me to contribute wherever my team needs me most. While every position presents a different challenge, each has taught me something new about selflessness, resilience, and putting the needs of others before my own. From a young age, I understood that softball came with risks. The feeling of making a diving play or hitting a home run surpasses any other, but the fear of having seams indented in your skin from being struck by a 12-inch ball is equally terrifying. When I was twelve years old, I watched my best friend, who was pitching, take a line drive directly to the leg, breaking her tibia and ending her season. In that moment, I was not only faced with fear, but distressed at the fact that I saw someone in front of me in pain, and had no idea how to help. That moment stayed with me long after the game ended. On the drive home, I kept thinking about everyone who rushed to her side—the calm bystanders, the EMS workers quickly assessing her injury, and her family who comforted her through reassurance that she would be okay. Their ability to remain composed while providing medical care left a lasting impression on me. I realized I wanted to become someone who could offer that same sense of confidence and compassion during another person's most vulnerable moments. Since then, the lessons I first learned on the softball field have shaped every opportunity I pursue. Growth has consistently required me to step outside my comfort zone and embrace unfamiliar experiences. I moved across the country from Texas to New Jersey to attend college, seeking new opportunities that would challenge me academically. Through shadowing physicians, I have learned how to communicate with patients from diverse backgrounds while balancing the harsh truth with empathy. As a neuroscience research assistant studying the effects of chemotherapy in pediatric cancer survivors, I have learned that scientific discovery requires patience and the ability to adapt when results do not unfold as expected. Each experience has strengthened my ability to navigate uncertainty while remaining focused on serving others. Because softball has shaped so much of who I am, I wanted to give back to the sport that has given me so much. This summer, I embraced a new role coaching a 10u team. My goal extended far beyond teaching proper mechanics or strategy. I wanted my players to understand that success is not defined by the scoreboard, but by their willingness to support one another, persevere through mistakes, and continue improving. Watching their confidence grow over the course of the season reminded me that leadership is not about having every answer, but meeting people where they are, encouraging them, and helping them believe in themselves. Looking back, witnessing my teammate's injury was not simply the moment I decided to pursue medicine, but the moment I understood that adaptability carries a responsibility to help others. Whether I am stepping into a new position on the field, mentoring young athletes, conducting research, or caring for patients, I continue to build on that lesson. Adaptability is no longer just the first word I use to describe myself—it has become the foundation of the physician I hope to become.

Every day after school, I’d climb into the backseat, buckle up, and sit silently while my mother finished her phone call. She never asked, “How was your day?” and I never expected her to. She was always working to build a business from nothing and support us alone. Still, I never felt neglected. I became self-sufficient early on, packing my lunches at seven, staying home alone by eight. My mother didn’t have the time to teach me every little thing, but she didn’t need to. I learned by observation. She moved with purpose, made decisions with confidence, and lived with the kind of resilience that didn’t require explanation. Her actions laid the foundation for who I would become. Strangers often told me, “Your mother is amazing.” I’d smile bright and nod my head, because how else could you respond? I didn’t disagree, but it felt strange hearing people celebrate a version of her I hadn’t fully met. I didn’t know her past, but I knew the mother I had was special. By age ten, I recognized the harsh realities: that people will take advantage if you let them, that success is earned, and that being tired is no excuse for giving up. I didn’t grow up with bedtime stories or gentle life lessons; I grew up surrounded by real life, and I listened to every word that wasn’t meant for me. One of the few silent ties between us was my mother's love of media. Every morning, the Today Show played in the background as I said good morning. It was how I learned about structure and society before I even knew what those words meant. While she cooked in the evenings, the kitchen transformed into a dance floor with Latin jazz. But my favorite moments were the afternoons when she worked from home. She’d stream old movies, not to watch, but as background noise while she took meetings or did paperwork. I would watch while curled up in the plush, well-worn client chair in her office. She never said no, never told me to leave. In those hours, I felt like I belonged in her world, even if I didn’t fully understand it yet. Because she couldn’t afford childcare, we went everywhere together. For business dinners, client meetings, and late-night errands, I sat there quietly listening. There was no iPad to distract me, just voices and negotiations. It felt like being a spy. The same feeling you get when sitting at the “grown-ups” table at Thanksgiving. I discovered that intelligence isn’t limited by age and that learning doesn’t only happen in classrooms. I saw that there’s power in observation, in knowing when to speak and when to listen. And perhaps the hardest part of growing up this way is that once you’ve learned to be independent, letting go of control feels impossible. Even when it's lonely, independence becomes what you know best. My mother may not have been the traditional parent. She didn’t attend every event or sit down for every meal. But she was everything I needed: a leader, a provider, a woman who never let others define her. She showed me strength through action and the purpose of perseverance. Because of her, I became the first in my family to enter healthcare, the first to graduate college early, and the first to do it all without asking for a path to be cleared. I don’t pretend my childhood was easy, but I wouldn't trade it. It shaped me into a woman who leads with empathy, lives with drive, and carries her mother’s lessons in everything she does.

Age 12 1:15 AM Flight 2465 The lights flickered on and the air chilled as all havoc set in. Sitting across the aisle I froze in shock. “Is there a doctor on board?” the attendant stereotypically called out. Two individuals ran over to help; The man grabbing the attendants shoulders in reassurance, while the woman begins to assess the scene. As they lay the patient on the aisle of the cabin, he would begin to endure thirty minutes of CPR, before everyone recognized the unspoken fate. While no one truly knew what caused such unfortunate circumstances, the whispers of nearby passengers, who were more informed than I, would speak of a stroke. I scurried to the computer the moment we arrived back home. Typing in the search bar “stroke,” I would be met with a definition: a cerebrovascular accident where blood is blocked off from the brain, often referred to—as a brain attack. His head had betrayed him. I had never feared death until I realized the mind I came to so highly value could turn on me at any moment. Ruminating on this fact, my mind spun, but my curiosity refused. I reflected back on the methods of my mother, in striving to learn something new each day, and applied this to my life as well. That evening on the plane, from my adolescent view filtered by Pixar and Disney classics, I couldn’t describe the civilians who helped as anything less than superheroes. As I became determined to learn everything possible to achieve this level of knowledge, I gathered my tools. That Christmas I wished for a suture kit, and the upcoming birthday a stethoscope. My hands, no longer just fingers I would use to meticulously paint my nails. My ears, no longer only tuned to the Latin Jazz station my mother plays while cooking dinner. But most importantly my head was no longer limited to its anatomical function. My head—had found its true purpose. A few months ago I obtained an internship with an obstetric surgeon, who has only reaffirmed my love for the medical field. While attending several times a week, I am able to help with minor activities in a clinical setting and learn more about patient care. Similarly, I have had the privilege of witnessing several surgical procedures, and look forward to seeing more. I plan to use this research to conduct a spoken presentation at the end of the school year, where I will present my findings as well as a real-world product I am currently creating to benefit my field. In the end, witnessing death was not merely an end, but a beginning. This reminder of the stark impermanence of life made me appreciate the uniqueness and variety of humanity, while presenting me with my one true passion. It gave me my ultimate goal of attending Columbia University to pursue their Medical Humanities major, attend medical school, and become a surgeon.