I used to be the kid who never sat still. Rollerblading down the driveway, jumping stairs two at a time, dancing for hours. Movement was instinct; it was how I existed. My body felt light, and I was flying through life. But somewhere along the way, I traded that version of myself for someone who sat. Sat at a desk. Sat on a couch. Sat chasing grades, leading clubs, submitting assignments, fixing everything for everyone, except myself. And it wasn’t even efficient. I wasn’t disciplined or balanced, I was just reacting, spuddling through hours of study that felt productive but rarely were. I got ahead anyway, somehow. Yet, I knew deep down: this wouldn’t last. This wasn’t sustainable. And eventually, it caught up to me. The pacer test is the single stupidest thing ever, second only to the class itself. I never cared about it. But this time -- my first year of high school, after two years of this lifestyle -- it broke me. My lungs burned way too early. My legs felt like they were dragging through cement. I was heavy. Sluggish. The body I thought would always carry me… didn’t. That test, which used to be a throwaway, exposed everything I had been too afraid to admit. At first, I told myself what I always did: it’s just a hard week. Just a test. Just one more event. But “just one more thing” became constant fatigue, splitting headaches, and a kind of frustration that built until it exploded. I snapped at people I cared about. I zoned out in classes. My joints ached just getting out of bed. I barely recognized myself. And the saddest part? It didn’t even work. I wasn’t excelling, I was decaying. I started to notice things. My classmates and friends, light on their feet, doing with ease, laughing in shorts and skirts as summer approached, still moving with the freedom I used to have. And I felt behind. Not just academically or socially, but existentially. I had given that energy away, piece by piece. For what? I knew I had to change. So I tried. Not dramatically. Just one step. I started walking. First the long way to class, then on treadmills. I restarted yoga; the flows that were effortless became inconceivable. It was humbling and extremely humiliating. But I couldn’t keep fooling myself. So I began running again, short, slow, painful, but real. It reminded me I was still here. Still trying. I danced again. Not on stage. Just in my room. For me. I deleted homework after midnight instead of spiraling. I let myself sleep. And slowly, movement came back, not just in my limbs, but in my mind. I wasn’t flying yet. But I wasn’t sinking anymore. This experience changed everything about how I prepare for my future. I still dream big. I'm pursuing a career in medicine, focusing on research to address real-world problems and impact people. But now I know I can’t do that if I’m breaking myself in the process. My wellness isn’t optional. It’s the root of everything. I’ve learned that self-care isn’t soft, it's not just letting go, it's forcing your body and mind. It's Painful. It’s facing the mess you made of yourself and choosing to rebuild anyway. It’s saying no when everything screams yes. It’s admitting you’re not okay yet, but refusing to give up. I’m still not “back.” Some days, the weight returns. But I’m fighting for myself now. And I won’t stop. The pacer test? Still dumb. But it woke me up. And I’ll never let go of that feeling.

If awarded the KC MedBridge Scholarship, I would invest the funds strategically to build a foundation for my future in medicine. First, I would enroll in an advanced pre-med shadowing and certification program such as a local EMT course or a university-led summer medical academy. These programs cost several hundred dollars but provide invaluable exposure to real clinical environments and early medical training that will help me stand out when applying to college pre-med tracks and future internships. Second, I would invest in high-quality digital tools and learning resources: protein modeling apps, CRISPR kit, and lab-grade equipment to support my ongoing neuroscience research project. I am currently working on a proposal involving genetic variants and resistance to neurodegeneration, and this funding would allow me to test ideas more thoroughly before entering a formal lab space and during the wet lab, setting up the experiment without relying solely on university resources. Lastly, I would reserve part of the funds to support my nonprofit work, teaching dance and STEM to younger students, allowing me to continue and expand my work and outreach to more underserved communities around me, while keeping classes completely free. This small investment in others would ripple far beyond me, planting the seed of healthcare and values in Bharantyam and Bollywood dance. This scholarship wouldn’t be a one-time award, it would be a launchpad. I plan to utilize every dollar to develop skills, make a positive impact, and prepare myself to lead in healthcare with both knowledge and passion.

Most people think Pennsylvania is quiet. Suburban. Predictable. But from inside, it’s loud, especially if you’re in the middle of a science competition group chat at midnight the night before States. That’s the version of PA I know: where rival pa schools trash talk, support each other, and just yap before every Olympiad, where Indian aunties carpool half the high school to violin lessons, and where ambition lives inside AP textbooks, Red Cross events, and five-page lab reports. I grew up in Delco, where 20 of the 400 students at my school are Indian. It’s enough to find a group chat where people get your references, but definitely not enough to fade into the background. That in-between space has shaped how I both connect and deal with people. I’ve learned to lead with clarity, humor, and effort, whether that’s starting a nonprofit to teach Bharatanatyam and Bollywood to local kids, or winning science competitions where every decimal point is life or death (at least for the rankings spreadsheet). Here in Pennsylvania, school rivalry isn’t just about football. It’s about who’s sending the most kids to ISEF, who’s winning Anatomy at States, and who’s "quietly" working on research they aren't supposed to talk about until the journal publishes. That pressure could’ve crushed me. Instead, it clarified what matters: persistence, community, and using the advantages I have to make space for others. When I started volunteering at the library, it wasn’t glamorous, just helping elementary kids with science and math. But over time, I realized I wasn’t just tutoring. I was becoming the person I needed when I was their age, someone who could help them feel like they belonged here, even if they were still dressed by aunties and rolled their R’s. Pennsylvania has taught me how to navigate through various rooms: science labs, dance stages, hospitals, and local temple events. Each one shows me something about what it means to lead. I’ve learned how to help a five-year-old fix their costume before their first performance, how to explain blood typing at a Red Cross booth, and how to ask real questions during job shadowing at a hospital. None of this was in a textbook. All of it matters. I want to go into medicine because of what I’ve seen here, not just in labs, but in people. Families who hesitate to seek help because of language, green cards, or trust. Students burn out because they don’t know how to ask for support. Girls like me who juggle culture, ambition, and identity every single day. But also the group chats without gate keeping, the good natured banter between schools, the watching out for how many PA students made it in each level up, the local library that let me conduct dance classes for my nonprofit for free after hearing my mission, and so much more PA has given me, all making me believe that no matter what my goal is, I'll make it and I'll be ok. Growing up in Pennsylvania gave me the chance to try big things, weird things, and hard things. It made me someone who says “yes” to challenges, but also someone who pulls others up with me. Whether it’s coaching younger students, running a dance fundraiser, or navigating college apps with no blueprint, I’m here because of this place. And I’m just getting started.

I’ve danced Bharatanatyam since I was five, a form as demanding as it is beautiful, that has shaped my mindset, discipline, and resilience more than anyone ever could. My teacher was terrifying at first: strict, sharp, and absolutely unrelenting. Bharatanatyam is an ancient Indian classical dance form that demands not just grace but years of rigorous physical and emotional training. My teacher didn’t smile often, never handed out compliments, and pushed me to the edge of what I thought I was capable of, again and again. When I was younger, I dreaded her strictness. While my friends had dance teachers who brought snacks and cheered, mine circled like a hawk, correcting every gesture, every step. I cried after practices. I once begged my parents to let me quit. But they told me to wait and see. So I stayed. Over time, I stopped flinching at corrections and started internalizing them. Slowly, something changed. I began to see the full picture: how she would stay late after every single class, unpaid, to help us perfect our routine. How she went any length for any student. How she would always be mentally dancing with us on stage, seeing our journeys from toddlers to seniors, with pride in her eyes. And how, underneath the tough exterior, was someone who fiercely believed in us and never let us settle for average. The turning point came at a major solo performance. I had practiced endlessly, but I froze onstage and forgot the middle portion of my routine. I finished the routine, swearing I wouldn't join another performance for the rest of the season. Afterward, I expected disappointment, refusing to meet anyone's eye. But she looked straight at me and said, “You failed. And if you’re going to fall apart every time something goes wrong, maybe you’re not meant for this.” That sentence hit like a slap. But it's also when she taught me what failure meant, not as a dead end, but as a challenge to grow from. Now, I run a nonprofit with a few friends where we teach Bollywood and Bharatanatyam to younger kids in communities. We donate proceeds to support children’s education in rural India. I teach them dance, but more importantly, I teach them what my coach taught me: discipline, perseverance, and pride in your progress. I’m not always soft. I expect them to work hard. But I never let them give up on themselves. I stay late. I go over tough sections again and again. I show up, the way she always showed up for me. Dave Sutton was known for being a tough coach with a huge heart. He believed in lifting his athletes both on and off the field. He expected the best from them because he cared deeply. That is exactly the kind of coach I had, and the kind of mentor I’m trying to be. Whether I’m teaching dance, mentoring peers, or organizing events at school, I try to lead with purpose, heart, and resilience. What I once thought was criticism, I now see as the highest form of belief. My coach taught me that greatness isn’t built through comfort, but through challenge. She gave me the tools to overcome fear, doubt, and failure, and passed on a legacy that I now get to continue. This scholarship honors a coach who changed lives by challenging and believing in his students. I’m proud to say I’ve been shaped by someone like tha, and that I now carry those same values forward. Not just in dance, but in how I lead, how I teach, and how I live.