For My Parents, Whose Love Made Me Fierce: I am a fourth-year medical student and single mother pursuing a dual DO/MPH degree, working toward a future where healthcare is more compassionate, more equitable, and more humane. My decision to become a physician is deeply rooted in loss. I lost both of my parents to terminal illness, but even more so, my path is rooted in love. Love for them, love for my son, and love for the people who are still being left behind by a system not built for them. My mother was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, and everything changed. She slowly lost her vision, her mobility, her independence. She went on dialysis. Her body grew weaker, but her spirit remained bright. Joyful, proud, always quick to laugh. In the final photo I have of her with my son, she’s holding him close with her eyes closed, soaking in the moment. Not long after, her body could take no more. A heart attack and stroke ended her life far too soon. Years later, during my first week of medical school, I lost my father to metastatic colon cancer, just ten weeks after diagnosis. He had spent most of his life facing barriers to care, including poverty and addiction, but had found sobriety in his final years. We were healing, reconnecting, rebuilding. And then he was gone too. I buried him and went to lecture the next day. Those losses changed everything. I didn’t just want to study medicine. I needed to understand why things happened the way they did. I needed to know what had failed them and how I could do better for others. Their illnesses, and the silence and confusion that surrounded them, made me hungry to learn. Not just the clinical facts, but how to treat people with dignity and presence. I am studying medicine to ensure no family feels abandoned the way mine did. My lived experiences have shaped my voice, my empathy, and my determination. I carry them with me in my work, conducting public health research on cancer screening and LGBTQ+ health disparities, serving as a volunteer doula, and contributing to a CPRIT-funded project aimed at increasing preventive care access in marginalized communities. I am not just becoming a physician. I am becoming a bridge between people and the care they deserve. Balancing medical school, grief, and single parenthood has been incredibly hard, and financially daunting. The costs of education, paired with the lingering medical debt and lack of generational support, make every step forward feel heavier. But I keep going, not in spite of it, but because of it. Because I want my son to see that healing is possible. And because I want to be the kind of doctor who sits with patients through the hard moments, who listens deeply, and who fights for the care every family deserves. Receiving the Tamurai’s Adventure Scholarship would mean more than financial relief. It would be a recognition of the road I’ve walked and a vote of confidence in the impact I hope to make. One patient, one story, and one act of care at a time.

My understanding of mental health was not shaped in a therapist’s office or by reading a textbook. It was shaped by the quiet moments I’ve spent trying to hold myself together while raising a child alone, navigating grief, and trying to become a doctor in a system that often demands silence from those who are struggling. My father passed away during the first week of medical school. He had been diagnosed with metastatic colon cancer just ten weeks earlier. He died quickly, and I entered one of the most challenging chapters of my life without him. His death wasn’t just the loss of a parent. It was the loss of a future we were just beginning to reclaim. He had found sobriety five years before his passing, and we had been rebuilding a fractured relationship. For the first time in my adult life, we had open conversations, forgiveness, connection. And then it was gone. I showed up to anatomy lab the day after his funeral. I told no one. That silence, that suppression of pain... it is something I know deeply. It’s something that’s rewarded in medicine. In many ways, it is still rewarded in our society, particularly among Black and brown families, working-class families, and those of us who grow up believing that strength is something we must earn by not breaking. But I broke. Quietly. Privately. More than once. As a single mother in medical school, I’ve often had to choose between showing up fully for my son or showing up fully for my education. In trying to do both, I’ve often shown up for myself last. The stress, the financial strain, the lack of a safety net. It wears you down. But what wore me down most was pretending I was okay. For a long time, I believed that if I just kept going, I could outpace the weight I was carrying. But mental health doesn’t work that way. It catches up. And when it did, I had to finally acknowledge what I’d been avoiding: that it is not weak to feel, to grieve, to ask for help. It is not weak to say, “I’m not okay.” In fact, it’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done. That shift... from silence to honesty... has shaped everything. It has changed how I see the world. I no longer look at people and assume anything about their circumstances. I know what it’s like to appear fine and be falling apart inside. I know what it’s like to hold it together for your child, for your job, for your classmates, because you think you’re not allowed to fall apart. My empathy now is sharper. It’s not just theoretical. It’s lived. It has changed my relationships. I parent differently. I listen more closely to my son, and I make space for his big feelings because I know what it’s like to be told to shrink them. I show up for my friends with more care. I forgive more easily. I love more freely. And I check on people, even when they say they’re fine. It has changed my goals, too. I entered medicine to care for people, but I now know that caring has to go beyond physical illness. I want to practice full-scope family medicine in underserved communities and offer trauma-informed, affirming care that includes mental health at the center, not as an afterthought. I want to create clinical spaces where people don’t have to pretend they’re okay to be taken seriously. I want to listen for what’s not being said, and offer care that sees the whole person. I am currently working on a Cancer Prevention and Research Institute of Texas (CPRIT) grant to expand access to cervical cancer screening and HPV vaccination for LGBTQ+ patients, another group that faces high rates of mental health challenges due to systemic discrimination and lack of affirming care. I’ve volunteered as a doula, led public health outreach during the pandemic, and conducted qualitative research on barriers to care for people who are often left out of clinical guidelines. Every step of my work is guided by one belief: people deserve to feel safe in their bodies and in the systems meant to care for them. This scholarship means more to me than I can say. I think often about what it means to carry grief, how it never really leaves you, but it changes you. I didn’t know Ethel Hayes personally, but I carry mothers like her with me. I carry sons like Dr. Hayes with me. I carry patients who feel overwhelmed by a world that tells them to be strong instead of asking how they’re doing. And I carry my own story. Not with shame, but with a quiet kind of pride. Mental health is part of all of us. And when we bring it into the light, we don’t just help ourselves. We help everyone else find their way forward too.

Returning to school as a single mother has been one of the most challenging and rewarding decisions of my life. After spending nearly a decade as a hairdresser, I realized that my true calling lay in medicine, inspired by the stories and struggles shared by the women who sat in my chair. Their experiences, coupled with my own, highlighted the disparities in healthcare access and the pressing need for compassionate, patient-centered care. Embarking on this journey was not without obstacles. Balancing the rigors of medical school with the responsibilities of single parenthood demanded resilience and meticulous time management. Financial constraints added another layer of complexity, especially after the loss of both my parents, which left me without a familial support system. Despite these challenges, I remained steadfast in my commitment, driven by the desire to create a better future for my son and to serve communities that have long been underserved. One of the most profound challenges I faced was the emotional toll of grief. My father’s battle with metastatic colon cancer, which he lost shortly after I began medical school, was a stark reminder of the consequences of inadequate healthcare access. His experience fueled my passion for preventive medicine and reinforced my dedication to addressing systemic barriers in healthcare. In addition to my medical studies, I pursued a Master of Public Health to gain a broader understanding of the social determinants of health. This dual-degree approach has equipped me with the tools to advocate for policy changes and to implement community-based interventions. Currently, I am involved in a Cancer Prevention and Research Institute of Texas (CPRIT) grant project focused on increasing access to HPV vaccinations and cervical cancer screenings among LGBTQ+ populations. This work aligns with my commitment to health equity and my desire to ensure that no one is left behind due to systemic shortcomings. The journey has been arduous, marked by sleepless nights, financial strain, and moments of doubt. Yet, each challenge has reinforced my resolve. My experiences have not only shaped me into a more empathetic and determined individual but have also prepared me to be a physician who understands the multifaceted challenges patients face. Receiving the Jerrye Chesnes Memorial Scholarship would be more than financial assistance; it would be an acknowledgment of the struggles and triumphs that come with returning to education as a parent. It would honor the legacy of a woman who, like me, returned to school to pursue her dreams and make a difference. With this support, I will continue to strive toward a future where healthcare is accessible, equitable, and compassionate for all.

I started medical school just days after my father died. He had been diagnosed with metastatic colon cancer only ten weeks earlier. There was no time to prepare, no time to process. One day I was helping him organize his medications, and the next I was sitting in a lecture hall trying to memorize anatomy through blurred eyes. My dad was a veteran. He had not graduated high school, and he struggled with alcoholism for much of my life. But five years before his death, he found sobriety. He chose recovery. And in that space, we began to rebuild a relationship that had been fractured by years of silence and pain. In those final years, we shared long talks, forgiveness, and genuine joy. When he passed, I lost not just my father, but also the future we were just beginning to reclaim. His cancer was preventable. If he had received routine checkups, if he had been screened for colon cancer, if he had access to consistent primary care, he would likely still be here. But like many people in this country, he faced systemic barriers to healthcare. He had limited income, limited education, and limited trust in the medical system. By the time he saw a doctor, it was too late. This loss is one of the core reasons I chose family medicine. I want to be the kind of physician who meets patients where they are, especially those who feel forgotten or unworthy of care. My work already includes public health outreach, volunteer doula service, and research focused on reproductive and LGBTQ+ health disparities. I am committed to dismantling the barriers that kept my father from being seen in time. Becoming a doctor as a single mother, first-generation college graduate, and public health advocate has not been easy. I am currently preparing for board exams while balancing the full weight of parenting and financial strain, with no family support system left to lean on. I have carried the full financial and emotional responsibility of raising my child while pursuing a medical degree. If my dad were still here, I know he would have supported me in any way he could — even if he didn’t have much to give. He would have signed whatever paper I put in front of him just to make sure I could keep going. That kind of love stayed with me. It is one of the many things I carry as I navigate a system that still makes it too hard for people like him, and students like me, to stay afloat. Receiving the Sharra Rainbolt Memorial Scholarship would mean more than financial relief. It would be an act of remembrance. It would honor my father’s life by supporting the mission his death gave shape to. I carry him with me into every clinic, every exam room, every moment I advocate for someone who has been left behind by the system. I could not save him, but I will spend my life making sure others do not fall through the same cracks. This scholarship would allow me to complete my training with less financial instability, and more importantly, to carry forward what I have learned: that access to care should never be a privilege, and that loss can become the root of something deeply healing.

I am a fourth-year medical student and single mother, currently preparing for my board exams while raising my son and rebuilding a life rooted in purpose. I am 37 years old—the same age Christina Taylese Singh was when she passed—and I carry her story with me as I navigate this final stretch of a journey that has tested and shaped me in every way. Before medicine, I spent nearly a decade as a hairdresser. In that chair, I learned how to listen. Clients confided in me about illness, trauma, and fear. I saw firsthand how deeply people longed to feel seen and safe, especially when navigating the medical system. That experience taught me something I never forgot: healing begins with trust. Eventually, I realized I wanted to do more. I wanted to step fully into a role where I could care for people in every sense of the word. Returning to school as a first-generation college student and parent has not been easy. I lost both of my parents during this process, and I have carried the full financial and emotional responsibility of raising my child while pursuing a medical degree. Despite being in good academic standing, I have faced repeated barriers to funding, as financial aid policies often overlook the realities of parenting students. Still, I have persisted—through grief, burnout, and uncertainty—driven by a commitment to the communities I hope to serve. I plan to specialize in family medicine with a focus on maternal health, reproductive justice, and LGBTQ+ affirming care. My work includes volunteering as a community-based doula, conducting research on HPV and cervical cancer screening disparities, and leading public health efforts to reduce COVID-related health inequities. I have also written publicly about the structural challenges student parents face in medicine, most recently in Ms. Magazine, because I believe that storytelling is advocacy, and advocacy saves lives. Christina’s story resonates with me deeply. She was a caregiver. A woman of color. A healthcare professional studying for boards, like I am now. Her legacy reminds me that this path we choose—this path of service, of long hours and quiet sacrifices—is sacred. It demands everything from us. And it is often walked without fanfare. But it matters. Christina mattered. And I carry her spirit with me every time I push through exhaustion to study, show up for my son, or care for someone who feels invisible in the healthcare system. Receiving this scholarship would be a profound honor. It would help ease the financial strain I am navigating while studying for boards, but more importantly, it would allow me to carry Christina’s name with me as I complete this journey. I will never take this opportunity for granted. Like her, I will serve with empathy, courage, and a deep love for those who are too often left behind.

I am a single parent and fourth-year medical student pursuing my dream of becoming a physician who centers compassion, equity, and justice in patient care. I am also a first-generation college graduate, and I have carried the full weight of this journey without a safety net. My parents have both passed away, and while I am grateful to be raising a bright, kind son, the demands of parenting alone while completing medical school are constant and complex. My path to medicine has not been traditional. Before medical school, I worked as a hairdresser. My chair became a space where people shared their fears, their health concerns, and their quiet hopes. I learned how to listen deeply, earn trust, and care for people in ways that often had nothing to do with hair. Over time, I realized what I loved most was being present for others in their vulnerable moments. That realization, paired with my own experiences navigating the healthcare system as a patient and advocate, drew me to medicine, specifically, to women’s health and maternal care. The challenges are not just financial, though those are real and deeply pressing. Due to inequities in federal loan eligibility policies that fail to account for the added financial responsibilities of student parents, I am currently unable to access the aid I need to complete my degree. Even as I approach graduation in good academic standing, I am left piecing together contract work, scholarships, and mutual aid to cover basic expenses for myself and my child. Every month brings difficult decisions, whether to prioritize exam prep or take on extra work to afford groceries, how to keep the lights on while paying board exam fees, and how to give my son the stability he deserves when our future feels so uncertain. Still, I persist. I persist because I want my son to see that it is possible to show up for your dreams, even when it is hard. I want him to grow up knowing that success is not about doing everything perfectly, but about showing up with purpose and heart, even when no one is clapping. I want him to look back and know that he was never a burden to my ambition, but the very reason I kept going. I persist because I believe that the communities I hope to serve deserve physicians who understand hardship, who lead with empathy, and who never forget where they came from. My work in medicine has already included public health outreach, research on LGBTQ+ health disparities, volunteer doula work, and advocacy for maternal and reproductive justice. I’ve supported families through labor, provided education to those navigating complex health systems, and advocated for changes in policy that would improve access to care for the most vulnerable. This is the kind of physician I am becoming, one who meets patients where they are, listens without judgment, and sees the person behind the chart. I want to provide the kind of care I wish my family had access to growing up. I want to build a practice rooted in dignity, trust, and community. This scholarship would be more than financial support. It would be a reminder that people see me, and believe in what I am working so hard to achieve. I recently shared my story in Ms. Magazine to shed light on the invisible barriers that push student parents to the margins, because I know I am not alone in this struggle. I heard from other student mothers who said they finally felt seen. That kind of solidarity keeps me going, even on the hardest days. With your support, I can continue moving forward, not just for myself, but for my son, who has been by my side through every chapter. And it would help clear a path for me to keep showing up, finish strong, and pay it forward. I will carry the weight of this opportunity with gratitude, and one day, I hope to ease the path for others who come after me.