I was 15, standing in a pediatric unit in Lima, Peru, on a mission trip when everything became clear—I want to become a pediatric dermatologist. Watching a doctor care for a scared child with gentleness and confidence showed me that medicine is more than science; it's service. If selected, I would use this scholarship to invest in experiences that bring me closer to that goal. I plan to shadow dermatologists in clinics outside my rural community, using the funds to cover transportation and program fees. I’ll also apply the scholarship toward college application costs, as I’m a first-generation student from a low-income, single-parent household. This support would ease the financial burden on my family and allow me to apply to pre-med programs that align with my dreams. Additionally, I would purchase science prep materials to strengthen my academic foundation and begin preparing for the MCAT. Lastly, I hope to support future medical missions—because I believe in healing not only with knowledge, but with compassion. This scholarship would help me take real steps toward becoming a doctor who listens, understands, and shows up for others—especially children who feel unseen. I’m ready to lead in healthcare, and I just need the opportunity to grow.

Why I Am Worth the Dreams I Aspire to Achieve When I was 14, I wore a pair of donated boys’ uniform shorts to school. At the time, I didn’t think anyone noticed—until a classmate pointed it out and laughed. I laughed too. But deep down, I felt the sting of my reality. That was one of many quiet moments that shaped the girl I’ve become: someone who knows what it means to keep going, even when it’s hard to dream. I’m worth the dreams I aspire to achieve because I’ve fought to keep them alive. I come from a low-income, single-parent household. There were nights I went to sleep hungry and mornings I woke up unsure how we’d pay rent. I worked three jobs at once just to help my family stay afloat, all while staying on top of school and leadership roles. It wasn’t easy, but I never gave up—because I believe I was created with purpose, and I want to live it out. My dream is to become a pediatric dermatologist and a ministry leader. I want to heal—both physically and spiritually. I want to help kids who feel overlooked, families who feel hopeless, and young women who feel like they’re not enough. I want to be the kind of woman I needed when I was younger. More than just my career, I want my life to be about impact. I’ve seen the power of being poured into by other women—mentors, teachers, and leaders who saw something in me before I saw it in myself. I’m worth my dreams because I’m already committed to pouring that same belief into others. Through my mission work in Peru, leading worship at church, and mentoring younger girls, I’ve made it my goal to sew encouragement into others the way others did for me. I’ve also been through things that could have broken me. I was falsely accused and expelled from school—a moment that could’ve crushed my future. But even then, I chose to get up. I chose to trust that God still had a plan for me. I came back stronger, more empathetic, and more determined to speak life over others who feel silenced. I know my dreams are big, but so is my grit. I don’t take opportunity for granted. I hold it tightly—because I know what it’s like to live without it. I’m not asking for a shortcut. I’m asking for a chance to keep pushing forward. A chance to become a woman who builds, heals, and uplifts. So yes—I believe I’m worth the dreams I carry. Not because they’ve come easy, but because I’ve walked through fire to keep believing in them.

The first time I led a mission trip, I didn’t realize I would come home changed, too. We were in a rural village in Peru, my parents’ home country. I had joined my dad and a small group from our church to run a Vacation Bible School for local children. What began as a simple plan to teach Bible stories turned into one of the most humbling and eye-opening experiences of my life. One morning, a little girl named Camila showed up late. Her shoes were falling apart, and her clothes were dusty and thin. But her smile? It lit up the whole field. She quietly joined the circle and sang every song with a joy that felt bigger than the heat, the hunger, or the hardship surrounding us. After the lesson, I noticed her sitting by herself, tracing letters in the dirt. I walked over, sat down, and asked what she was writing. She told me she wanted to learn to read because one day she would become a teacher and “help kids like me.” That moment did something to me. I realized that helping someone in need isn’t always about swooping in and fixing everything—it’s about sitting in the dirt beside them, listening, and believing in their dreams. For the rest of the week, I met with Camila after every session to practice reading. I used my limited Spanish and our leftover lesson supplies to teach her letter sounds and simple words. She never missed a day. She held onto each scrap of paper like it was treasure. On the last day, she gave me a drawing: a little girl at a chalkboard, smiling. It was her. I didn’t just teach her a few words—I saw her, and she saw herself as someone who mattered. That’s what helping someone in need really means: showing them they are not invisible. Since then, I’ve returned to Peru and continued to serve through church and school. But I carry Camila’s face with me in everything I do—whether it’s tutoring classmates, comforting a friend, or working with younger girls on my cheer team. I want every person I meet to feel like they belong, like they can dream boldly, even if life hasn’t been fair to them. Growing up low-income, I’ve needed help more times than I can count. And that’s exactly why I give back. I know what it’s like to feel forgotten—but I also know the power of being seen. As I pursue higher education with dreams of becoming a pediatric dermatologist, I’m committed to serving children and families who feel overlooked. My career will be my mission field, and I’ll never stop showing up for people the way others have shown up for me. Because sometimes the smallest acts—like sitting in the dirt with a child—plant the seeds for something beautiful.

I still remember the day I passed out from exhaustion. I was fourteen years old, balancing three jobs while trying to keep up with school, helping my parents pay rent, and pretending I was fine. I was not. But that moment—when I collapsed from trying to hold everything together—changed everything. Not because it made me give up, but because it revealed just how deeply I care. That breaking point taught me something important: I want to live a life where I’m sewing into others what I once needed—rest, belief, and love. My name is Vania Vasquez, and I’m the daughter of two Peruvian pastors who have given everything for our family and our community. Growing up in a single-income home with limited resources, I watched my parents serve selflessly—offering food to those who had none, praying with the hurting, staying up late to counsel people in crisis. We didn’t have much, but we had purpose. And even when I wore donated boys' uniform shorts to school because it was all we could afford, I still walked in with my head up, because my mom’s pride in me stitched something strong inside of me. Still, life wasn’t always kind. I’ve been falsely accused. I’ve felt judged. I’ve felt alone. But during the year I got expelled, a woman named Mrs. King—my English teacher from the Bahamas—kept emailing me to say she was praying for me. She knew I was innocent. More than that, she saw who I really was: someone with potential, someone worth believing in. She never stopped checking in, even after she moved to become a principal. Last Fourth of July, I ran into her again. She smiled, hugged me, and said, “I knew it would all be okay.” That moment stitched something back into my soul that I didn’t know I needed. That’s what this scholarship is all about—those people and moments who quietly plant something in us. And I’ve made it my mission to do the same. Whether it's through leading cheer, serving in youth ministry, going on missions to Peru, or simply encouraging a teammate who's had a hard day, I try to live with intention. I want to make others feel seen. I want to give the kind of belief that Mrs. King gave me, the kind of love my parents gave our community, the kind of resilience I had to find when I was working long shifts just to keep our lights on. My dream is to become a pediatric dermatologist—someone who sees past a patient’s skin and into their heart. I want to serve children who feel overlooked, especially in low-income or immigrant communities. I want to open a clinic one day that doesn’t just offer medical help, but prayer, mentorship, and hope. To me, success isn’t a degree or a paycheck—it’s a legacy. It’s the quiet decision to keep showing up for others. It’s faith in action, kindness as a calling, and community as a core value. The people who shaped me didn’t do it through grand speeches. They did it through staying, believing, and loving when it wasn’t easy. That’s the kind of person I strive to be. And like Lena B. Davis, I want my life to be one that sews seeds—seeds of courage, healing, and unshakable hope. Because even the smallest stitch can hold someone’s world together.

I was seventeen, standing on a dusty field in Perú, surrounded by children singing in Spanish. I had just finished sharing a Bible story and leading an activity about the truth of God’s love. For a moment, everything slowed—and I realized I wasn’t just helping run a mission trip. I was leading through faith. My name is Vania Vasquez, and I’ve learned that true leadership begins with surrender—surrendering my own strength so that God can work through me. Growing up as the daughter of Peruvian pastors, I’ve seen firsthand what servant-hearted leadership looks like. I’ve watched my parents welcome strangers, sacrifice comfort, and choose prayer when problems felt too big. But it wasn’t until I had to lead myself that I understood the weight—and beauty—of leadership grounded in faith. My leadership journey hasn’t been perfect. I’ve led cheer teams and classrooms, worship moments and Vacation Bible School stations, and I’ve made mistakes. But I’ve also learned to lead with grace—first for others, then for myself. One of the most powerful moments of this happened during our mission trip to Perú. We were in a remote village hosting a children’s ministry day. We’d been prepping for weeks, but things quickly fell apart: supplies got lost, the translator was late, and one of the kids fainted from the heat. Panic started to creep in, but I felt the Holy Spirit nudge me to step forward—not with perfection, but with peace. I gathered our team, prayed aloud, and reminded everyone why we were there: not to impress, but to serve. I then led the Bible story myself—in Spanish—and though I stumbled over words, the kids' eyes lit up. That moment shaped everything. I realized leadership isn’t about knowing every answer or giving a flawless performance. It’s about showing up with faith, even when you feel shaky. It’s about being bold enough to believe God will use your weakness for something holy. Since then, I’ve carried that same posture of leadership into my everyday life. As a cheer captain, I check in on my teammates’ hearts, not just their skills. As a student, I advocate for kindness over competition. I’ve led prayer groups, youth devotionals, and Bible studies—not because I feel qualified, but because I know the One who qualifies me. My faith has taught me that leadership isn’t about control—it’s about compassion. It’s less about standing out and more about kneeling down. And more than anything, it’s about pointing others to hope when life gets hard. I know what it feels like to be misunderstood, to be falsely accused, to feel like the world is watching you fail. But I also know what it means to be prayed for, to be welcomed back, and to be loved without condition. In the future, I hope to become a pediatric dermatologist who leads with both skill and spirit. I want to be the kind of doctor who sees the whole person—not just their diagnosis. I want my patients, especially children from overlooked communities, to feel seen and safe. I believe faith doesn’t belong only in churches. It belongs in clinics, classrooms, boardrooms, and neighborhoods. The world needs leaders who reflect Jesus—leaders who are humble, brave, and deeply rooted in love. I hope to be one of them. And it all started with a dusty field in Perú, a quiet prayer, and a willingness to lead—even when my voice shook.

I was 14 when I started working three jobs—not for extra spending money, but to help my parents pay rent. That experience changed everything I understood about responsibility, resilience, and what it means to live in community. My name is Vania Vasquez. I’m a first-generation Hispanic student, the daughter of Peruvian pastors, and I’ve grown up watching sacrifice in motion. My parents have always given so much of themselves to our church and community, even when we had little. And when the weight of bills and basic needs started to feel too heavy, I stepped in—not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I took shifts at a restaurant, a coffee shop, and babysat in between. I did homework in the back rooms, studied for tests with aching feet, and tried to show up to school with the same energy as everyone else. There were moments I was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. But I learned that hard times don’t last. And most importantly, I learned that when you love your people, you show up for them. That season taught me more than any textbook ever could. I learned how to manage time, how to handle stress, and how to keep going when everything in me wanted to quit. I learned what it feels like to be misunderstood—like when I was falsely accused and expelled from school, and how isolating that can be. But I also learned about hope. About the power of people who believe in you. My English teacher, Mrs. King, never stopped praying for me or reminding me that I was worth more than the labels others tried to put on me. Her voice in my corner mattered. And now, I want to be that voice for someone else. That’s why my future isn’t just about earning a degree. It’s about becoming a pediatric dermatologist who sees beyond the skin—who sees the person. My mission is to serve communities that are often overlooked. My recent trip to Perú confirmed that for me. As I translated for doctors and watched kids line up for basic medical care, I saw the deep need—and the deep beauty—in serving with compassion and excellence. I don’t just want to treat skin. I want to heal shame, restore confidence, and bring dignity to underserved children and families. This one experience—being thrust into adult responsibilities at 14—shaped how I see myself: not as a victim of hardship, but as someone deeply equipped by it. It shaped how I see the world: full of injustice, yes, but also full of people quietly doing their best, and deserving of grace. And it shaped how I see my community: not just as the place I live, but the people I live for. Being Latina means I carry generations of grit, love, and faith with me. And I’m committed to paying that forward—not just through my career, but through the way I walk through life. I want to mentor others like me, support young Hispanic girls with big dreams and little resources, and one day fund scholarships of my own. I didn’t get here alone. And I don’t want anyone else to feel like they have to.

There was a moment at 14 when I passed out from exhaustion—school, work, and family stress finally caught up to me. But even then, I refused to let go of my dream. My name is Vania Vasquez, and I’ve learned that adversity doesn't always knock loudly—it often builds quietly, moment by moment, until you either break under the weight or choose to rise. I chose to rise. I grew up in a low-income, single-parent Hispanic household. My parents are pastors, and while they lead with faith and generosity, money was tight—sometimes to the point where I wore donated boys' uniforms to school. I started working at 14 to help my family pay rent. I juggled school with shifts at a coffee shop, a restaurant, and babysitting—coming home late, studying while tired, and fighting to keep my grades up. Then came one of the hardest years of my life: I was falsely accused of something at school and expelled. I knew I hadn’t done what they said, and so did my English teacher, Mrs. King. She emailed me prayers, reminders that she believed in me, and told me not to give up. Her faith in me helped me hold on to mine. Eventually, I was allowed back, but I returned with a different kind of strength. That year, I learned how unfair the world can be—but also how important it is to be someone who speaks up, believes in others, and refuses to let injustice be the final word. This experience shaped everything about me. I’m now pursuing a future in STEM as a pediatric dermatologist, but my passion isn’t just science—it’s using medicine to serve overlooked communities. During a mission trip to Perú, I translated for doctors and witnessed firsthand how children and families in poor areas were desperate for care and dignity. I saw how kindness, attention, and even basic medical help could change someone’s life. That trip made something click for me: I’m not just here to study skin. I’m here to see people—to remind them they are worthy of being cared for. Just like Mrs. King saw me when I felt invisible. To someone facing what I faced—whether it’s financial stress, being judged unfairly, or feeling overwhelmed—here’s my advice: Don’t give up. Even when you feel like the world is against you, stay grounded in your truth. Find people who believe in you. And when you get through it, become that person for someone else. Adversity doesn’t mean you’re weak. Sometimes it’s the very thing that prepares you to lead, love, and serve with deeper empathy. I’ve learned that your circumstances don’t define you—your response to them does. And through the darkest moments, I’ve found my purpose: to use the very pain I’ve walked through to help others heal.

There were nights when I’d hear my mom praying through the walls—her voice soft but full of desperation. We didn’t have much, but she never let us go without love, strength, or faith. My name is Vania Vasquez, and I come from a single-parent household shaped by resilience, sacrifice, and community. My parents divorced when I was young, and my mom took on the weight of raising my siblings and me while still pastoring our church. As the daughter of Hispanic immigrants, I learned early on what it meant to fight for stability, even when the odds were stacked against us. There were days when the fridge was nearly empty, when the light bill was overdue, or when my mom had to choose between gas for church and groceries for us. By the time I was 14, I stepped in—not out of obligation, but because I couldn’t stand to see her bear it alone. I worked three jobs: cleaning, serving at a Mexican restaurant, and helping at a coffee shop. I was tired, but I was determined. I’d study during breaks, pray on the bus ride home, and dream of a future where my mom wouldn’t have to struggle anymore. But those years weren’t just hard—they were formative. They taught me discipline, empathy, and a deep appreciation for community. Our church, though small, became a safe haven. People who had little still shared what they could. I watched as my mom poured out everything she had into others—preaching with fire one day, and cooking for someone’s family the next. That’s where I learned what service truly meant. Even through adversity, I stayed committed to school. My education became my way out—a chance to build something new not just for me, but for my family. I poured myself into learning, taking on leadership roles, and tutoring younger students. I became someone others could count on because I knew what it felt like to need that. Despite the financial strain, I’ve never let go of my dream: to become a pediatric dermatologist and open clinics in underserved communities. I want to serve families like mine, where access to healthcare isn’t easy and children often go unseen or untreated. My career choice isn’t just about science—it’s about healing, dignity, and giving back. I want to bring care to where it’s most needed, with compassion and cultural understanding. Being from a single-parent, low-income household means I’ve had to work twice as hard for opportunities others might take for granted. But I also believe it’s what has made me who I am—resilient, driven, and full of heart. I haven’t let our struggles define me. I’ve used them to deepen my purpose. This scholarship would mean more than financial aid—it would be a symbol that our story matters. That a girl from a small house in Georgia, raised by a mother who never gave up, is worth investing in. I don’t want to just go to college—I want to walk across that stage knowing that every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every job I took on was worth it. When I look around my neighborhood—at the children I’ve mentored, the church I’ve served in, and the community that’s raised me—I see how far we’ve come. I see hope, and I see potential. And I carry all of that with me into every classroom, every clinic, and every space I step into.

Some of the most important things I’ve ever done weren’t graded, paid, or posted. They were quiet moments—like translating medical advice for a mother in rural Perú, or giving up my seat for someone who needed it more. These small acts shaped who I am and who I want to become. On a mission trip in Perú—the country my parents immigrated from—I helped doctors communicate with families, passed out meals, prayed with strangers, and played with children who reminded me so much of myself. They had so little, yet their joy was full. That experience didn’t make me feel like a hero; it made me feel human. It reminded me that true service doesn’t need recognition—it simply needs heart. My name is Vania Vasquez, and I try to live a life that puts others first. That has always been modeled to me by my parents, who are Peruvian pastors. Growing up, our house was constantly filled with people—church members who needed food, single mothers who needed a place to stay, or strangers who just needed to be seen. We didn’t have a lot of money, but we had open doors. Watching them taught me that true service comes from the heart, not convenience. One example I’ll never forget happened when I was 14. My family was struggling financially, and I had to work three jobs—at a coffee shop, a Mexican restaurant, and helping clean houses—to help my parents cover rent. Even then, I still volunteered at church and helped mentor younger girls in our community. One night, after a long shift, I stayed up late to make posters for a friend’s school fundraiser. When my mom asked why, I just said, “Because no one else did.” I didn’t help because I had the time—I helped because I couldn’t imagine not doing it. Another time, a girl at school was being gossiped about and isolated. Even though I knew being her friend might make me a target too, I invited her to sit with me at lunch. Eventually, she opened up about what she was going through. That friendship ended up saving her from deep loneliness—and reminding me that kindness doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. To me, selflessness means putting others before yourself even when it's inconvenient, unnoticed, or costs you something. It’s not just about the big mission trips or organized service projects (though I love those)—it’s about showing up every day with a heart to help. Whether I’m tutoring classmates, cheering for the girls on my team, or praying for someone who’s hurt me, I try to give from the deepest part of who I am. My future goal is to become a pediatric dermatologist and open clinics in underserved communities, both in the U.S. and abroad. I want to be the kind of doctor who remembers names, sees the story behind the diagnosis, and brings comfort beyond prescriptions. I want to continue mission work, mentor girls in science, and use every part of my education and faith to lift others up. Michael Rudometkin’s legacy is one I want to reflect—because like him, I believe life is about more than grades. It’s about compassion, connection, and choosing to serve no matter the circumstance. I hope to live a life that makes people feel valued, seen, and loved—just like Michael did.

When I was fourteen, I passed out from exhaustion. I was working three jobs to help my parents pay rent, balancing school, church, and responsibilities at home. I remember lying on the floor, dizzy and overwhelmed, wondering if my dreams would always be out of reach. But what kept me going—what still keeps me going—is the belief that women like me can rise, even when the world tells us to shrink. My name is Vania Vasquez, and I am a proud daughter of Peruvian immigrants, a future pediatric dermatologist, and a young woman determined to empower others as I rise. Growing up in a low-income, Hispanic household, I didn’t see many women in science who looked like me. But I saw my mom—a pastor, a leader, a woman who fed the hungry even when we barely had enough ourselves. I saw strength in softness, and purpose in service. Watching her shaped how I see the world and why I’ve chosen a path in medicine. I want to become a pediatric dermatologist who not only heals skin, but helps children—especially those from overlooked communities—feel seen, safe, and confident in their own. This career excites me because it blends science and compassion. Skin conditions can be isolating and deeply tied to self-esteem. For children, those impacts can last a lifetime. I want to open a clinic that serves under-resourced areas and brings both high-quality care and emotional support. But more than that, I want to mentor young women of color who dream of entering STEM fields and don’t know where to begin. I want to be the person I once needed. I’ve already begun living that mission. On a mission trip to Perú, I served as a translator for a group of doctors providing medical care to local families. I didn’t have the title of “physician,” but I helped build trust. I listened. I encouraged. That’s what empowerment looks like to me—meeting someone where they are and reminding them of what they’re capable of. At school, as cheer captain and a friend, I try to live that out every day. I uplift girls who are insecure, offer advice to younger students, and remind others (and myself) that we’re not in competition—we’re in community. Empowered women empower women, and I fully believe that every time one of us breaks through, it makes more space for the next. I’m not just pursuing a career—I’m pursuing a purpose. I want little girls, especially Latina girls, to see me in a white coat and know they can do it too. I want them to know that no matter their background, no matter their financial situation, their dreams are valid and achievable. We don't need to fit into the world’s mold. We can reshape it. And I plan to do exactly that—through science, faith, service, and sisterhood.

The first time I translated a medical message on a mission trip, I realized healing went far beyond medicine. It was in a village in Perú, my parents' homeland, where I stood in the middle of a crowd translating care instructions from English to Spanish. The doctors brought supplies; I brought language, comfort, and connection. That moment sparked something deep within me — the belief that healing is not just a job. It’s a calling. My name is Vania Vasquez, and I am a future pediatric dermatologist. I grew up in Georgia, the daughter of two Peruvian immigrants who are now pastors. Our home was never wealthy in material things — I’ve worn donated clothes to school, worked multiple jobs since age 14, and helped my parents with rent. But our house was always full of people — the hurting, the hopeful, the hungry — and my parents always made space. That’s where I learned the beauty of service: it costs something, but gives even more. I want to make a career of that kind of giving. My dream is to open a clinic that serves underserved communities, where I can offer both top-tier dermatological care and spiritual compassion. Many skin conditions don’t just affect appearance — they affect confidence, social connection, and even opportunity. For children, especially in low-income or immigrant communities, these challenges are rarely addressed. I want to change that. I want to be the doctor that listens. The one that remembers their names, speaks their language, and understands their world. I want to help kids feel seen — in every way. But my “why” goes deeper than skin. Growing up, I saw how people looked at my parents with confusion or judgment — two brown immigrants with accents pastoring a mostly white town. I saw how easily people overlook those who look different, sound different, or struggle silently. My mom always told me, “When someone’s hurting, don’t just look — reach.” That has shaped everything for me. I’ve learned that kindness isn’t passive. It's active. It shows up when it’s inconvenient. It listens longer. It stays when others leave. Through healthcare, I want to help rewrite the story for others like me — kids growing up with big dreams but little money, parents who sacrifice everything, and communities where a doctor who speaks both the language and the heart is rare. I want to go on medical missions, mentor other young women of color in STEM, and build bridges between healthcare and hope. There were times I doubted myself. Being a low-income Latina in medicine isn’t easy. But every challenge has only deepened my commitment. If anything, my need has fueled my purpose. I don’t want to succeed just for me — I want to lift others as I rise. I carry the heart of a missionary, the determination of an immigrant, and the vision of a healer. And like Robert F. Lawson, I want to spend my life making the world better — one patient, one child, one act of love at a time.

“We didn’t come this far to give up now.” That’s what my dad said the day he left his career and family in Peru to follow God’s call to the United States. I’ve never forgotten those words — not because they were loud, but because they were steady. Brave. Full of the quiet grit it takes to leave everything behind for the chance at something better. My parents are both immigrants from Peru. My dad is now a Hispanic pastor in Georgia, and my mom is his partner in ministry and in life. I’ve watched them pour themselves into people with nothing to gain in return. They’ve offered food, prayer, money we didn’t really have — all out of faith. Growing up, we didn’t have much. I wore donated boys’ uniforms to school once, smiling through the discomfort because I knew my mom was proud I made it to class. At fourteen, I worked three jobs to help pay rent. But even through that, I felt rich — not in money, but in purpose. My parents taught me that purpose comes from service, and service often requires sacrifice. Their story has shaped how I see the world. It’s why I don’t measure success by what you own, but by how well you love. It’s why I’m pursuing a career in biology with plans to become a pediatric dermatologist. I want to bring healing not only to the skin, but to the spirit — especially in communities that are often overlooked, like my own. Representation matters. Compassion matters. I want to be a doctor who sees people fully, who remembers the little girl in the donated clothes, the teenager translating sermons in a hot Peruvian village, the young woman balancing school, work, and faith all at once. Being a child of immigrants means I’ve learned to translate more than words. I translate cultures, expectations, and pain. I’ve learned to listen closely, adapt quickly, and never assume I understand someone’s story until I ask. That perspective is something I’ll carry into every patient room, every exam room, every mission trip. It’s something only someone like me — someone shaped by struggle, faith, and immigrant parents — can bring. I’ve also learned that “home” isn’t just where you live. It’s where you are known, where people fight for you, where you're seen and loved even when you’re not perfect. That’s what my parents created for our community in Georgia — a home for the hurting. And I want to do the same in my own way. My family's story fuels my ambition. It reminds me that my dream is not just mine — it’s part of a legacy. I’m the first in my family to pursue a medical career. I carry my parents’ prayers with me into every test, every lab, every moment I feel like quitting. Their courage runs through my veins. And because of them, I know that no matter how hard it gets, I’ve already come too far to give up now.

She never called me Vania. I was “Sunshine.” That’s what Mrs. King, my English teacher, saw in me — even in one of the hardest years of my life. Mrs. King came to our small school from the Bahamas, bringing joy, boldness, and warmth. From day one, she gave every student a nickname — a playful but meaningful way to say, “I see who you are.” When she called me “Sunshine,” it didn’t just feel sweet. It felt like hope. It felt like someone believed in my light, even when I couldn't see it. That same year, I was falsely accused of something and expelled. It was one of the darkest times of my life — the judgment, the silence, the feeling of being misunderstood. But even though I was no longer her student, Mrs. King never stopped believing in me. She emailed me while I was gone, letting me know she was praying for me. She reminded me that she knew my heart, and that I was more than the rumors or the punishment. In a time when most people walked away, she leaned in. Her encouragement gave me strength to hold on. Eventually, I was allowed back at school. But Mrs. King had already left — she had accepted a job as a principal elsewhere. I never got to thank her or say goodbye. But her voice stayed with me, shaping how I saw myself and how I chose to rise. Last 4th of July, I saw her again at a parade. She walked straight up to me with a big smile and said, “I knew it would all be well.” She congratulated me on who I had become and told me she had never stopped praying. Then she said, “Now go be that kind of person for others.” That sentence lives in me. Mrs. King taught English, but her real subject was belief. She never needed loud speeches or perfect classrooms — she taught through compassion, through the way she looked at her students and called them more than what the world saw. Because of her, I now live differently. I don’t judge people based on their worst moment. I believe in second chances, because someone gave one to me. I’ve learned that being bold doesn’t always mean being loud — sometimes it means being gentle, and showing up for someone when no one else does. As I pursue a future in biology and medicine, I carry that same mindset into every room I enter. Being a woman of color in STEM comes with challenges, but Mrs. King taught me to walk in truth and not let other people define me. She showed me how powerful it is to speak life over others — and I want to do the same. Whether I’m helping patients, leading teams, or simply being a friend, I want people to feel seen and believed in, just like she made me feel. Mrs. King may not remember every email or nickname. But I do. I carry her legacy in how I treat others — with dignity, faith, and a reminder that their story isn’t over. She called me “Sunshine.” And even now, I try to be just that — the kind of light someone can look to and feel a little more seen, a little more strong, and a lot more loved.

When I saw myself in the school yearbook wearing donated boys’ uniform shorts, I laughed with my friend who pointed it out. But later that night, staring at the photo alone, I didn’t feel like laughing. I saw a girl who was exhausted — working three jobs at fourteen to help her family pay rent, juggling school, responsibilities, and silent worries. I saw someone who was trying to hold everything together and still dream big. That moment didn’t break me. It reminded me why I had to keep going. I come from a family of faith and service. My parents, both Hispanic pastors, have spent their lives pouring into others — praying with the hurting, feeding those without food, offering hope even when we needed it ourselves. Our house was always full of people and purpose, but never of money. I grew up watching my parents give, even when they lacked. And somewhere in the middle of the chaos and sacrifice, I learned what it means to show up anyway. By high school, the financial pressure in our home became overwhelming. That’s when I stepped in. I took shifts at a coffee shop, cleaned houses, and worked at a local Mexican restaurant — all while attending school full-time. I wasn’t trying to be impressive. I was trying to survive. Eventually, the weight became too much. One night, I passed out from exhaustion. It scared me — but it also taught me something. I couldn’t do it all, but I could still do what mattered. I could keep moving forward. I could still choose to dream. And I dreamed of science. Biology captured me from the beginning. I was fascinated by the structure of life, the way cells function, how the smallest systems hold the greatest mysteries. But it was more than just fascination — it felt like purpose. I want to become a pediatric dermatologist because I believe science should serve every child, especially those who feel overlooked. Too often, children of color experience misdiagnosis or late treatment because medical textbooks and research are based on white skin. That’s not just a medical issue — it’s an equity issue. I want to change that by becoming a doctor and researcher who prioritizes diversity in clinical study and practice. I want to help children feel seen, understood, and beautiful in their own skin — literally and figuratively. For me, pursuing a STEM career isn’t just about personal success. It’s about impact. I want to use science to bridge gaps in care, uplift underrepresented communities, and create environments where future generations of BIPOC girls in STEM don’t feel like exceptions — but the norm. I’ve always been passionate about connection. Whether on mission trips in Peru, serving children in need, or leading others as a cheer captain, I’ve seen how powerful it is to feel known and valued. I want to bring that same energy into healthcare — where patients aren’t just numbers, but stories. Stories like mine. Being a woman of color in STEM isn’t easy. I’ve felt the pressure of needing to prove myself in classrooms, the weight of being the only one who looks like me in certain spaces. But I’ve also learned how to rise — how to lead with grace, how to speak up, and how to make space for others. I’m proud of who I am becoming. The Eric W. Larson Memorial Scholarship represents more than financial support. It represents everything I believe in: resilience, equality, education, and hope. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to continue my biology studies without carrying the constant burden of finances on my back. It would be one less shift I have to take, and one more hour I could spend in the lab or library preparing for the future I know I’m called to. I think of Eric Larson — a man who valued education, championed gender and racial equality, and supported his daughters’ dreams. I never met him, but I carry those same values in my heart. Like him, I believe women — especially women of color — belong in science. Not just as participants, but as pioneers. My story has been filled with challenges, but also with purpose. I’ve had to grow up fast, work harder than most, and find strength in places I didn’t know existed. But I wouldn’t change a thing. Every job I’ve taken, every sleepless night, every moment of doubt has shaped the woman I’m becoming — someone driven by compassion, determined to make a difference, and rooted in faith. With this scholarship, I won’t just continue my education — I’ll multiply the impact. I’ll study hard, pursue research that matters, and serve communities that need it most. I’ll become the kind of doctor who not only heals skin, but restores confidence and dignity to every child I encounter. Thank you for considering my application. And thank you for honoring the legacy of someone who believed — as I do — that science is for everyone, and that change begins when someone decides not to give up.

1. To me, inspiration is the quiet, massive ripple that one life can set into motion that may chart another's course. It is not about perfection. It is about presence. It is showing up at a time when doing so seems nearly impossible, loving fully, choosing to stand out when fading into the grey next-door would be easier, and serving with a purpose that reminds others that they can. Inspiration spreads. When living our purpose from a place of full authenticity and integrity, we in turn free others to do so as well. Being an aspiring pediatric dermatologist, I have always been convinced that healthcare is perhaps the biggest human connection. Doctors do not treat bodies; they touch lives. They stand beside people in moments of vulnerability—scared, uncertain, sometimes ashamed—and offer them care that is restorative and hopeful. I want to have such kind of impact. Representation is hugely important in medicine. Growing up as a Latina with a passion for humans, I noticed how seldom one got to see a doctor that looked like me or had the same background. I want to be the one a young girl sees and thinks, "If she can do it, maybe I too can." However, I want to be more than just a visible symbol. I want to be a person who listens, lifts, and empowers, not only my patients but my fellow professionals and community. I want to use this platform to mentor students who feel forgotten, especially minorities who are contemplating medicine. I want to work not only within the confines of hospitals but also in missions, clinics, and communities where care is hard to come by. I have traveled and served information activities, including in Honduras and Peru, two countries where my roots run deep. And I witness my work being stretched two-way: across language and aborder. Inspiration to me is action. It's what I do when no one is watching, when I speak encouragement to others, and when I choose to go on, even when the way is uncertain. My dream is not necessarily to be a doctor but to be someone who gives others confidence that they matter, namely that they are seen and known, are never alone. That's my legacy. 2. Inspiration begins from close to home. By being a daughter of Peruvian pastors, I have grown in a community-first environment, wherein serving, encouraging, and uplifting others are all daily events. But I now realize that inspiration does not happen accidentally; it has to be intentional. That is how I try to live. At school, I am the cheer captain. For some, this is just a title, but I really consider it a leadership role. I try to look over freshmen in our team, especially those who lack confidence or deal with personal issues. When they came to me with a problem, a kind word or simply giving them a ride to practice could change their whole day. I try to lead not with the loudest voice but with consistency: cheering others on away from the field, too. Missions are another way I find a purpose in life. I've helped lead Vacation Bible School programs both locally and abroad. One of the more powerful ones happened in Peru. I remember a little girl pulling me aside to ask if I was coming back next year. There was an immense hope in her eyes. That is when I knew presence is very powerful. You do not have to be able to solve everything; you just have to show up, love, and mean it. The second way in which I intentionally try to inspire others is by being vulnerable about my journey. Whether I share my dream of becoming a pediatric dermatologist despite financial limitations or just my fears and faith, I try to be honest. I have had friends and younger students say that my honesty has helped them feel less alone in their own struggles. This is something I always hold dear. Even in everyday places such as my church, I try to uplift others, especially the young girls there. I have mentored students through our youth group and children's ministry and helped them to interpret both their faith and life. I say to them that they are loved, created for purpose, and capable of so much more than they think of themselves. If I am leading cheers and worship, praying with a friend, serving at a medical clinic, or just being a shoulder to lean on, I want to be there for people in making them feel acknowledged and valuable. Such are small contributions, but I do them with intent, and I believe those actions do matter. 3. Desire to Inspire Scholarship will both be a financial relief and personal encouragement. It means there is someone who believes in the vision I hold: not only for myself but for how I wish to serve others along the way. This would help me to pay for college while pursuing a double major of biology and theology-my way of preparing uniquely for both medicine and mission. I want to attend a university that offers me challenges academically, allows me to be grounded in spirit, and is involved socially. Financial barriers to this dream are real, and this award would ease my burden and release my time to serve instead of take loans or work part-time jobs that hold me from service opportunities. Even more so, such acknowledgment really confirms that my way is sure. These sorts of scholarships send a loud message to students like me: our stories matter; our dreams are valid, and our communities are worthy of investing in. I would use this gift to keep pouring into others through campus leadership, mentorship programs, medical volunteering, or mission work. The beauty of the scholarship is that it wouldn't only support me, but its support would multiply through every person I have an opportunity to inspire, encourage, and serve. I want to be a ripple in someone else's story just as this scholarship will be in mine.

My money matters have always remained quiet struggles at home, but it is also one of my biggest motivators. My father has been working at this small Christian school since I was in kindergarten, drawing around $40,000 a year. He worked so that my siblings and I could attend this school free of charge. Alongside that, my parents also serve as pastors. My father is the Hispanic pastor at our church. Their ministry is a calling, not a career that brings good finances, but they have just remained faithful and selfless to the service of our community. Family of six people including here grandparents, staying with us and full dependency of my dad. Mother doesn't work as she doesn't know English. The whole weight of finance falls on him. They've really tried to make all efforts and make this part of life feel happy. I remember them buying all our clothes and shoes from Goodwill, even picking out Christmas gifts from there. But when they could, they always made sure to get us something fresh from Walmart. They loved us, and we knew it. As I got older, this became clear to me as I became more aware of the continual sacrifices being made, especially in school and sports, which added costs, and I knew I had to help. I'll work up to three jobs and juggle a plan so that I can help pay rent if it helps at all. I learned that responsibility does not quite encompass what I learned; rather, I learned budgeting, time management, and how to be resourceful. I have always naturally had this gift of budgeting and stretching out what little I have. There was a personal finance class taken this school year that dealt with credit, savings, interest, and long-term planning. Quickly, it dawned on me that this type of knowledge isn't availed to so many people, especially in lower-income neighborhoods. This is an issue I take seriously; I want to break the cycle not just for me but for my future family and those who end up looking up to me. I plan to double major in biology and theology in college, after which I hope to go to med school and become a pediatric dermatologist. I want to plan on being debt-free and will apply for scholarships like this one to remain financially disciplined. One day, I would like to start my dermatology practice and not just have a source of income from there but also use it to benefit those underserved families who often fall through the cracks in both healthcare and education all around the world! My journey of finances has not been at all easy; nevertheless, it has given me the guts and motivation to be who I am—grateful and resilient. Financial literacy is much more than numbers; it indeed cuts across freedom, faithfulness, and future building with purpose. Everything that I learned will be used to honor parents' sacrifices and new opportunities for others on the way.