My passion for mental health stems from a lifetime of navigating systems that often overlook nuance. Growing up as a Filipino-American in a military household, I constantly adjusted to new environments, cultures, and expectations. That upbringing taught me adaptability and the emotional toll of feeling unseen. I’ve struggled with dermatillomania, a skin-picking disorder I didn't have a name for until years after it began. I thought I just needed medication to make my acne disappear, so the shame and discomfort would stop. But over time, I realized the issue wasn’t skin-deep, but it was my response to anxiety, perfectionism, and control. Healing came slowly through learning to treat myself with care instead of criticism. Going to the gym, staying hydrated, and being mindful helped reduce my urge to pick, but more importantly, they helped me feel more connected to myself. The disorder hasn’t disappeared, but my relationship with it has changed, and that shift, to me, is healing. When my younger brother was misdiagnosed with autism, I witnessed the ease with which providers can overlook context. No one considered how years of military moves, cultural dislocation, or pandemic isolation might have influenced his development. This experience opened my eyes to the perils of reductionist care. A misdiagnosis isn’t just a medical error; it’s a failure to listen truly. It was then that I realized my calling: to become a psychiatrist who sees the whole person, not just a set of symptoms, and is committed to providing holistic care. During my internship with the 18th Medical Group’s True North branch at Kadena Air Base, I experienced that kind of care in action. I assisted psychologists, chaplains, and social workers, supporting morale events, distributing resources, and speaking at burnout retreats. I also had the chance to interview providers directly, learning that the most impactful work often happens outside the clinical setting. Presence, trust, and community are as vital as any diagnosis. Mental health is not just a personal issue; it’s deeply intertwined with politics and culture. As a woman of color and daughter of immigrants, I've experienced firsthand what it's like to feel misrepresented or overlooked in healthcare spaces. This is why I'm committed to change. I aspire to be a voice for underrepresented communities, particularly military families, children of color, and youth with misunderstood or invisible disorders. I want to be a provider who mirrors the people I serve, listens without rushing to fix, and builds trust before treatment. My academic path in psychology has given me the language to describe what I once felt only intuitively: the impact of systemic barriers, the need for culturally competent care, and the importance of early intervention. But it is my personal experiences that continue to anchor my resolve. I do not want to fix people. I want to understand them. One of my chaplain supervisors once told me that, and I now live by this philosophy. This desire to understand and respect my future patients is at the core of my approach to psychiatry. As I move forward, I plan to pursue psychiatry through a lens of equity, empathy, and education. I want to treat and advocate: to be a provider who reflects the communities I serve and helps others see their strength in the process. My commitment to advocacy is a testament to my determination to make a difference in mental health care.

My relationship with mental health has never been abstract. I have lived beside, cared for, and sought to understand it through personal experiences and structured learning. Surrounded by individuals navigating emotional challenges, I believe my ability to be present, empathetic, and adaptable, coupled with my academic achievements, is often as valuable as any clinical solution. This philosophy continues to guide my desire to become a psychiatrist. In third grade at Makalapa Elementary School in Hawaii, I was known for standing up for others. I attempted to launch an anti-bullying campaign, a significant step for a young student, before relocating to Seoul American Middle School. There, I again observed how silence often accompanies emotional suffering. From a young age, I developed a sense of responsibility toward those who struggled to advocate for themselves, especially in mental and emotional contexts. That awareness extended into my home life, where personal relationships played a crucial role in shaping my understanding of mental health. While my father was deployed, I helped support my mother as she balanced pregnancy and caring for a toddler. Though I lacked the language then, I recognized the emotional strain she carried and tried, in small ways, to ease her burden. More recently, I’ve supported my younger brother, who was initially misdiagnosed with autism, in developing his speech and communication skills. His progress has been significant to me, and my relationship with his speech therapist, Ms. Hazel, an exceptionally thoughtful professional, has further deepened my understanding of care that is flexible, patient, and tailored. My internship with the 18th Mission Support Group and Medical Group at Kadena Air Base reinforced these values. I engaged with psychologists and social workers directly, gaining firsthand insight into the daily work of mental health professionals. Beyond observation, I participated in unit engagement, distributed morale-boosting resources, spoke at burnout retreats, and supported administrative tasks. This immersive experience revealed the multifaceted nature of mental healthcare: it extends beyond clinical environments and includes logistical, emotional, and interpersonal forms of support. As I continue my academic journey in psychology, I aim to cultivate a long-term career in military psychiatry that integrates scientific expertise with cultural competence and human sensitivity. My goal is not simply to diagnose and treat but to create spaces where service members and their families feel acknowledged, empowered, and genuinely supported, particularly in the moments that often go unseen.

If fortunate enough to receive this scholarship, I would channel the funds into my tuition expenses. Growing up in a low-income immigrant family from the Philippines, we encountered various challenges while adjusting to life in the United States, especially as a military-dependent family. My family has always instilled in me the paramount importance of education. My mother's inspiring words, "Anyone can take anything away from you, but they do not have the right to take away your education," have become my guiding mantra. This belief drives my ambition to pursue my studies at the University of Hawaii while managing the financial responsibilities that come with it. With the support of the GI Bill and my family, I aspire to lighten the financial load for my siblings in the future. This scholarship would not only ease my educational journey but also empower me to give back to my community. As an ROTC student, I am passionate about service and leadership. I intend to become a military psychiatrist, enhancing the mental health of service members. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to concentrate on my studies without the added stress of financial constraints. In essence, this scholarship represents more than just financial assistance; it signifies a chance to honor those who have supported me. I am grateful for the opportunity to be considered and am committed to striving for excellence in my academic and service pursuits.

“Providers are not meant to fix people; they are meant to understand them.” This insight, shared by my Air Force chaplain supervisor during a conversation that deeply resonated with me, has shaped my approach to healthcare; regardless of one’s specialty, whether psychology, radiology, or any other field, the essential role of a provider is to see and listen to the whole person behind the symptoms. This understanding crystallized my aspiration to become a psychiatrist who prioritizes empathy, context, and authentic connection, especially within the military community, which has profoundly influenced my life. My interest in military psychiatry is profoundly personal and rooted in lived experience. I have struggled with dermatillomania, a compulsive skin-picking disorder, for much of my life. Initially, I believed the solution to my distress was purely medical; treating my acne would resolve my pain and anxiety. However, through time and self-reflection, I realized the core of my struggle was not merely physical but psychological. I was coping with anxiety, insecurity, and the emotional weight of chronic imperfection in ways I did not fully understand. By committing to healthier habits: regular exercise, increased hydration, and daily self-care rituals, I transformed my relationship with my body and mind. While my dermatillomania remains a challenge, these experiences have fostered resilience and self-compassion, teaching me that healing often requires more than medication; it requires holistic care addressing both the body and mind. This nuanced understanding of care deepened through witnessing my sibling’s misdiagnosis of autism during childhood. I observed how healthcare providers often focused narrowly on clinical labels without fully appreciating the broader context of my sibling’s life. The frequent relocations inherent to military life, cultural adjustments, and the isolating effects of the COVID-19 pandemic were all factors influencing his behavior and language, yet were largely overlooked. This experience illuminated the critical importance of understanding each patient’s narrative rather than relying solely on diagnostic categories. It underscored how easily individuals can be misunderstood or marginalized when care lacks empathy and context, reinforcing my commitment to practicing psychiatry with a holistic, person-centered approach. My internship with the True North program at the 18th Medical Group offered invaluable opportunities to witness this philosophy of care in action. Collaborating with psychologists, social workers, and chaplains, I observed professionals prioritizing deep listening, trust-building, and genuine human connection. Even in my supporting roles, distributing snacks and facilitating morale events, I recognized how empathy and presence are foundational to fostering healing and resilience. My supervisors, many of whom were chaplains, exemplified the provider role beyond traditional medical boundaries, demonstrating that care encompasses spiritual, emotional, and psychological support. This experience clarified my desire to pursue psychiatry within the military context, where I can integrate clinical expertise with compassionate care tailored to the needs of service members and their families. Growing up in a military household instilled in me adaptability, perseverance, patience, and an acute awareness of barriers that impede timely access to healthcare. Frequent moves, changing environments, and complex healthcare systems necessitated resilience and resourcefulness but highlighted the disparities and challenges within military healthcare. These experiences strengthened my determination to become a provider who treats illness and actively works to reduce systemic obstacles, ensuring care is accessible, respectful, and person-centered. In medicine, as in life, healing frequently begins not with fixing but with understanding. This philosophy drives me toward psychiatry, a discipline uniquely poised to address the intertwined physical, emotional, and social dimensions of human suffering. Combining my personal experiences, commitment to holistic care, and dedication to serving military communities, I aspire to become a psychiatrist who embodies empathy and expertise, fostering spaces where patients feel genuinely valued.

If an AI system were trained to understand the Filipino-American experience, it should recognize that this identity involves navigating the tension of never feeling entirely Filipino or American. This recognition is not an attempt to reduce human complexity to data points or algorithms. Instead, it acknowledges that Filipino-American identity means embracing the complexity of hybridity and individuality beyond external expectations. Filipinos represent a spectrum of shades and come from diverse regions, including urban centers like BGC in Metro Manila and rural provinces. This linguistic diversity is reflected in the dialects spoken, from fluent Tagalog to blends of English and Filipino. The concept of kapwa, a shared identity and community, isn't always visible and exists in the complexities of identity negotiation: code-switching, longing for belonging, and navigating resilience. This connection transcends algorithmic quantification. During a visit to BGC, I felt this firsthand. My simple attire and sun-kissed skin made me comfortable, but the staff's indifference changed when I spoke with an American English accent, highlighting acceptance and alienation. While AI may detect differential treatment based on perceived foreignness, it can't capture the emotional weight of performing a foreign accent for acceptance or the irony of feeling estranged in the U.S. While AI may detect patterns of differential treatment based on perceived foreignness, it cannot grasp the emotional weight of performing a foreign accent for acceptance in one's homeland or the irony of feeling estranged in the U.S. In America, I found freedom from rigid Asian beauty standards, embracing my tan skin and voice. Yet, I navigate stereotypes that reduce Filipino identity to narrow tropes. Despite my morenang appearance in the Philippines, I often feel like a coconut: brown outside, white inside. This reflects a more profound truth: Filipino Americans carry layered cultural memories, never fully living the Philippines' realities or understanding whiteness, leading to complex identities. The Filipino-American identity transcends surface perception. Culture is not a checklist but is embedded in individuals across geographies. Regardless of skin color or dialect, authentic existence embodies heritage. There is no single way to be Filipino; simply being is enough. No algorithm can capture the contradictions of pride and shame, conformity and rebellion, fluency and accent. These are profound realities of being Filipino-American, emphasizing the limits of AI in understanding our experiences. Use of AI: Grammarly (errors and formatting), ChatGPT (brainstorming)

My educational journey, deeply shaped by my Filipino American identity, is a tapestry woven from heritage and hope. It blends the vivid warmth of my roots with the American spirit of self-expression. This fusion fuels not just my career ambitions but a deeper purpose: to contribute to the world through empathy, connection, and authenticity. To explain this, I have to start with my favorite word: lore. More than mythology, lore is the sacred wisdom we inherit: the quiet truths passed down through generations. It is how I make sense of who I am, through the choices my family made, the resilience they carried, and the meanings I now hold close. My lore begins in Taguig, Metro Manila, where my parents lived as Bonifacio Global City rose around them in the early 2000s. I was born while my father was in the United States completing military processing, and at two years old, I joined him with my mother for his first duty station in South Korea. My mom often reminisces about life in the Philippines. She talks about how the palengke vendors knew her name, how Market! Market! felt like the heart of home, and how deeply rooted the sense of belonging was. When we moved to a quiet and distant home in Colorado, our first U.S. duty station, everything felt unfamiliar. I did not grow up surrounded by a strong Filipino community. I absorbed the cultures around me, especially while living overseas in Okinawa and Korea, and began to wonder where, or even if, I belonged. For a long time, I accepted that I was Filipino but did not know how to embody it. I did not speak fluent Tagalog. I sometimes felt like a “coconut,” a term used to describe someone brown on the outside but disconnected from their culture. Over time, I realized being Filipino is not about performance or meeting expectations. It’s about how you live, care, and connect. It’s pakikipagkapwa-tao, the empathy and unity we offer others. It’s lakas ng loob, the courage to walk into the unknown with strength and heart. I now see that I have always carried my culture with me. When I made nilagang baka for my younger siblings by muscle memory, when I sang “Dancing Queen” at four years old in the backseat of our car, I was honoring my culture in quiet, joyful ways. Music remains my emotional outlet while psychology is my intellectual one. In my dream to become a U.S. Air Force psychiatrist, I hope to unite the two by listening, feeling, and healing while carrying the softness and strength of where I come from. The Filipino American community’s resilience and strong emphasis on family and mutual support have shaped not only my identity but also my commitment to helping others heal. Filipino values like bayanihan and pakikipagkapwa-tao inspire my educational goals and fuel my desire to serve as a psychiatrist who understands the importance of connection and empathy. This scholarship would ease the financial burden on my military family, allowing me to dedicate myself fully to my studies and to giving back to both the Filipino and military communities that have supported me throughout my journey.

I used to believe that prioritizing my mental health meant isolating myself from others, but over time, I learned that true healing comes not from solitude alone, but from genuine connection, openness, and joy. When I first watched Drive in August 2022, I didn't expect a film about a silent getaway driver to reframe how I saw myself completely. Ryan Gosling's character, The Driver, speaks only 891 words in the entire movie—compared to the 16,000 people talk in a day. At the time, I could rival that. I was sixteen, newly relocated to Okinawa, and slowly drifting into what I believed was stoic self-reliance. Loneliness had become part of my identity, and I romanticized it. Since age fourteen, I'd buried myself in self-help books and internet philosophies about "putting yourself first" and "mastering the art of not giving a crap." I thought isolating myself was healing: that by not depending on anyone, I was being strong. But in truth, I wasn't growing, but was withering. My detachment didn't elevate my mental health; it quietly eroded it. What I mistook for independence was often fear. Watching Drive was a turning point. At first, I was just drawn to its cult following and its neon-lit aesthetic. But as the film unfolded, I saw myself in The Driver not just because of his silence, but because of his silent understanding of how he actually needed people. Though he helped others and protected them, he remained alone, silently craving a connection he wouldn't allow himself to have. His isolation wasn't admirable; it was tragic. And somewhere inside, I began to realize mine was too. Before moving, I ghosted my closest friend because I selfishly believed she couldn't keep up with me. I convinced myself I didn't need people like her to be by my side because I was "too mature for my age." In retrospect, we were all just trying to get by and carve our own paths, despite our differences. Eventually, at my new high school, I kept my walls up. I avoided vulnerability and wore silence like armor. But eventually, the loneliness overcame. Even my favorite films and music couldn't drown out my ache. And for the first time, I let myself admit that. Slowly, I began to open up again. I reached out to people who truly cared about me. I let myself laugh, have fun, and stop treating friendships like transactions. I began building meaningful connections with people I wanted in my life: not because I needed validation but because I wanted to share experiences. I started engaging with media that celebrated real, healthy bonds instead of glorifying detachment. Now, I approach relationships with intention and care. I invest energy in my closest friendships, especially the ones I've had for the past few months. I've learned that prioritizing mental health isn't about pushing everyone away, but it's about knowing which people bring you peace and allowing yourself to lean into that. As I enter college, I want to cultivate space for honesty, warmth, and dialogue. Connection has made me more grounded, resilient, and humble. I now know that true strength lies not in being untouchable but in being human. To borrow the words from Drive's theme song, I had to become a real human being to be a real hero.