One of the earliest struggles I faced did not arrive as a single moment of crisis, but as a quiet accumulation of responsibility. As the child of an immigrant family, I grew up understanding that survival often depended on adaptation, sacrifice, and learning things quickly because there was no one else to do them. That understanding became real when illness entered my household and childhood gave way to caregiving. When my grandfather suffered a stroke and my grandmother’s dementia progressed, daily life changed abruptly. I found myself responsible for tasks far beyond what most children my age experienced, organizing meals, assisting with bathing and dressing, and managing routines that required patience and emotional restraint. My family did not frame this as a hardship. In immigrant households, responsibility is often assumed rather than discussed. Still, balancing these obligations alongside school was overwhelming. There were nights I studied late, exhausted but determined, because failure felt like something my family could not afford. What I lacked in resources, I compensated for with problem-solving. I learned how to manage my time with precision, completing assignments early, studying during small windows of free time, and teaching myself how to prioritize efficiently. When I struggled academically, especially in STEM courses that demanded sustained focus, I sought help independently. I used online resources, attended extra help sessions, and practiced until concepts made sense. Rather than seeing challenges as signs of inadequacy, I treated them as problems to solve. This mindset followed me into my academic path. Pursuing STEM as a first-generation college student meant navigating unfamiliar systems without guidance. Course selection, laboratory expectations, and academic rigor required constant adjustment. I responded by becoming resourceful, seeking mentors, enrolling in challenging coursework, and involving myself in research and leadership roles that strengthened my confidence. STEM taught me that persistence and iteration are just as important as intelligence, a lesson I had already learned at home. Being raised in an immigrant family shaped my sense of responsibility deeply. Education was never just personal achievement, it was collective progress. Every success felt shared, and every setback felt urgent. This perspective pushed me to maintain academic discipline and pursue opportunities that would allow me to give back, particularly in healthcare and science, fields where service and impact intersect. This struggle reshaped who I am as a student and future professional. It taught me how to remain calm under pressure, how to adapt quickly, and how to carry responsibility with care rather than resentment. In my future career in STEM and healthcare, I hope to bring this same resourcefulness and empathy to my work. I understand what it means to navigate systems without support and to persist when circumstances are uncertain. My immigrant background did not make my path easier, but it made me resilient. The struggle I faced did not slow me down. It taught me how to move forward with purpose.

I am Vietnamese, but some of the strongest lessons that have shaped my education and values have come from the Filipino and Filipino American community around me. My closest friendships, my school experiences, and my understanding of what it means to live for others have been deeply influenced by Filipino culture, not as something I observe from a distance, but as something I have been welcomed into. Growing up, I found familiarity in Filipino households that felt strikingly similar to my own. The warmth of extended family, the insistence that no one leaves hungry, and the quiet expectation that you show up for one another without needing to be asked were constants. During Lunar New Year celebrations shared with Filipino friends, I learned how traditions adapt across cultures while holding the same core values. Respect for elders, gratitude for sacrifice, and pride in heritage were always present, whether expressed through food, prayer, or stories passed down at the table. At school, these values came alive during multicultural events and performances. Preparing for multicultural shows alongside Filipino friends taught me how culture can be both personal and collective. We shared rehearsals, costumes, and conversations about what it meant to represent our communities authentically. Watching Filipino dances rooted in history and resilience made me reflect on my own heritage and the responsibility that comes with carrying it forward. These moments reinforced that cultural pride is not about being separate, but about standing together with confidence and mutual respect. The Filipino concept of bayanihan, the idea that community strength comes from collective support, has deeply influenced how I approach my education and service. I see this value reflected in how my Filipino friends support one another academically, emotionally, and financially, often prioritizing family and community needs alongside personal goals. Witnessing this has shaped my desire to pursue an education that is not solely for my own advancement, but for the betterment of others. It has reinforced my belief that success means lifting those around you, especially those who are overlooked or underserved. Financially, higher education represents both opportunity and responsibility for my family. Like many Asian American households, resources are carefully balanced, and educational decisions affect more than just one person. This scholarship would not only help ease the financial burden of tuition and educational expenses, but it would allow me to continue engaging in leadership, service, and academic opportunities without placing additional strain on my family. In the long term, it would empower me to give back to the communities that have shaped me, including the Filipino American community that has treated me as one of their own. Though I am Vietnamese, the Filipino community has taught me what it means to belong through action rather than labels. Their culture, values, and generosity have shaped my educational journey and strengthened my commitment to building a future rooted in compassion, equity, and collective progress. Carrying these lessons forward, I hope to make the world better by leading with empathy, honoring shared humanity, and never forgetting the power of community.

Cancer has always existed in my life as a quiet presence, not loud enough to be spoken about openly, but heavy enough to shape the way I see the world. It lives in the pauses during conversations, in the careful way my family avoids certain topics, and in the unspoken understanding that strength often means silence. For me, cancer is not just a disease. It is a whisper passed through generations, something we carry without naming. It runs through my family bloodline. My grandfather was diagnosed with stage three colon cancer. My grandmother battled breast cancer. My mother also faced breast cancer. Knowing this, I have grown up with the understanding that cancer is not a distant possibility. It feels inevitable, like a shadow that follows quietly behind me. I do not say this out loud often, but I fear aging. I fear that any unfamiliar pain in my body could be something more. I know I should not think this way, but fear does not listen to reason. What makes cancer especially difficult in my family is how it is handled. It is hidden, even from relatives, as if acknowledging it would make it stronger. There is an unspoken rule that pain should be private and vulnerability should be masked by resilience. I learned early that strength meant not telling anyone, not asking for help, and pretending everything was fine even when it was not. That silence taught me how to endure, but it also taught me how to internalize fear. I have watched cancer strip my grandparents of their liveliness. Things that once came easily to them, walking, cooking, even holding a conversation without fatigue, became difficult. Their bodies became more vulnerable to the world around them, and I saw how illness can take away independence long before it takes away life. Seeing this has left me with a lingering sense of foreboding, the fear that one day I will recognize myself in those same moments of fragility. Yet cancer has not only taken from me. It has also shaped me. It has made me deeply aware of how precious health is and how quickly it can change. It has taught me to notice suffering, even when it is unspoken, and to be gentle with people who carry invisible burdens. It has influenced the way I approach my education, my interests in science and healthcare, and my desire to understand illness rather than run from it. Cancer has affected my life by forcing me to confront fear earlier than most. But it has also given me empathy, resilience, and purpose. I may not be able to control what exists in my bloodline, but I can control how I respond to it. Instead of letting fear define me, I choose to let it inform me. My story is shaped by cancer, but it is not owned by it.

The phrase "women in male fields" has recently become trendy, but there is truth behind the words. Double standards have impacted women in society, particularly in businesses. While the trend aims to highlight the toxic behavior often exhibited by men, the reality is that there are not enough women in "male fields," and I am determined to change that.  I started working in the food industry when I was 13. Encouraged by my parents to experience the real world, my father encouraged me to learn and gain insight into what a "real job" would feel like; within a week of turning 13, I had a job at my dad's workplace. I began as a busser, wiping down tables whenever available, and eventually became a cashier by the time I was 15. With each year that passed, I got better at interacting with customers and maintaining a flow, and soon enough, I had spent nearly 4 full years working in one place. Through my time working in this restaurant, however, I learned several things.  My boss, Pearl, is a very strong lady, standing at a proud 4 foot 8 inches and a steady 88 pounds; she is someone who should not be underestimated. Despite her age, Pearl is one of the strongest people I know. In Taiwan, she began her entrepreneurship when she was just 13, the same age as me when I began working at her restaurant. Throughout her time as a business owner, she has owned more than 3 restaurants, all of which have succeeded more than the one before. It is Pearl who handles any major problems with the customers. It is Pearl who carries soup pots the size of her torso. It is Pearl who purchases cuts of beef the same weight as her. It is Pearl who I look up to and ask for advice. I want to be like Pearl. Despite the challenges she had to face, again and again, she stood up and fought for where she stands today. No matter who underestimated her or tried to take advantage of her, Pearl always stood her ground, especially since she was in a field that did not welcome her. No matter if she had to face sexism, doubts, or belittlement, Pearl always stood her ground, and it is due to this resilience that allowed her to be where she is today.  I want to model after Pearl. For me, my boss created the standard and the exception. Although not many business owners are women, I want to be able to contribute to the cause and dismiss any doubts people may have in me for being a woman who owns a business. The desensitized toxic behavior that I've witnessed working in the food industry made me realize things need to change. Nothing changes if nothing changes, though, so I want to be the change. I want to be able to open my own business where other girls like me are able to see that women can succeed in "male fields." I want to serve the same role for others as my boss did for me.