My path to medicine was not inspired by one single moment but by a series of experiences that taught me the meaning of responsibility, empathy, and perseverance. When my grandmother passed away, my family and I stepped in to care for my grandfather. As the youngest, I found myself helping with his mobility, managing medications, and providing comfort during long days. Later, when my mother faced multiple surgeries, I supported her recovery while balancing school and work. These moments showed me that health challenges never affect only one person—they ripple through entire families. I wanted to be someone who could step into that gap with both knowledge and compassion. I have also faced my own battles with ADHD and bipolar disorder. At first, these diagnoses felt like obstacles, but over time they gave me perspective. I understand how it feels to struggle silently and how much difference it makes when someone listens and believes in you. That empathy is at the heart of why I want to become an osteopathic physician. Osteopathic medicine emphasizes treating the whole person, and I believe that caring for both body and mind is the only way to bring true healing. My community service has also shaped this commitment. At sixteen, I started a no-cost youth sports program at my old middle school to keep kids off the streets and give them a sense of belonging. With Brooklyn Emerge, I launched a Meals 4 Wheels effort during COVID and now help families navigate Medicaid, asthma remediation, and dietitian-guided nutrition plans. In my fraternity, I facilitated workshops on trauma, substance abuse, and suicide prevention, giving young men space to speak about issues often ignored. Each effort taught me that medicine cannot exist in isolation—it has to meet people where they are. In the future, I plan to open community-based clinics that combine medical care with mental health support and preventative services. I want families to have access to not just treatment, but education and practical tools to improve their daily lives. My ambition is to make medicine more accessible, compassionate, and proactive. What inspired me to pursue medicine is the realization that hardship can be transformed into strength. I have lived that lesson, and now I want to carry it forward into my career. This scholarship would allow me to continue my education with fewer financial burdens, and more importantly, it would give me the chance to honor Maxwell Tuan Nguyen’s legacy by using my resilience and passion to make a meaningful difference in the lives of others.

By the time I turned nineteen, I had suffered over ten serious concussions. Each injury was disorienting—headaches that wouldn’t fade, moments when I struggled to focus in class, even simple conversations that left me drained. What stood out most was the fear of not knowing what lasting damage might remain. The brain holds our memories, our personality, and our ability to connect with others. When it is shaken, everything feels fragile. Those experiences with repeated brain injuries not only changed how I saw myself but also opened my eyes to the urgent need for deeper research into the brain, its vulnerabilities, and its resilience. This personal history drew my attention to conditions like Alzheimer’s disease and dementia. Watching loved ones in my community begin to lose memories, independence, and parts of themselves mirrored my own anxieties after concussions. Dementia doesn’t just affect the patient—it reshapes entire families. It forces children into the role of caregiver, strains financial resources, and leaves emotional scars that ripple for generations. My time caring for my grandfather after my grandmother passed showed me how illness is never borne alone; it weighs on everyone in the household. Dementia multiplies that burden because its progression feels relentless and, for now, irreversible. What I have learned is that neurological illness is not simply a medical issue but a human one. It requires empathy as much as science, and it demands prevention and early intervention just as much as late-stage care. My own concussions taught me the importance of paying attention to subtle changes—the headaches you want to ignore, the moments of forgetfulness that don’t feel serious until they accumulate. Applied more broadly, that lesson fuels my interest in research and medicine. If we can recognize the earliest signs of brain changes and understand how trauma, genetics, and environment interact, then we have a better chance of slowing, preventing, or even curing diseases like Alzheimer’s. My career goal is to become an osteopathic physician specializing in neuroscience and mental health. Osteopathic medicine emphasizes treating the whole person, which is essential in dementia care. Patients are not just brains in decline; they are human beings with histories, families, and daily needs. In the same way, caregivers are not just “support systems”—they are people whose well-being directly affects the patient’s quality of life. In my future practice, I want to pair research with a human-centered approach that offers families both answers and compassion. I have already tried to put these lessons into action. I started a no-cost youth sports program in my old middle school, partly as a way to give kids healthy outlets and partly because I know how structure and physical activity helped me manage my own ADHD and mental health after my concussions. I’ve also led mental health workshops with my fraternity, encouraging young men to talk openly about struggles that too often remain hidden—substance abuse, suicide prevention, and trauma. Through Brooklyn Emerge, I’ve worked to connect families to health resources, from nutrition plans to Medicaid support. Each effort, in its own way, reflects the same lesson I learned through brain injury and from dementia in my community: health is interconnected, and no one should face it alone. The legacy of Henry Respert reminds me that resilience and mentorship matter as much as clinical skill. His journey with dementia underscores why we need more research, more compassion, and more young professionals committed to understanding the mysteries of the brain. My concussions could have left me feeling limited, but instead, they gave me perspective and purpose. They taught me that the brain’s fragility makes it all the more worthy of study and protection. This scholarship would allow me to continue pursuing that path with fewer financial burdens. It would support me as I work toward medical school and dedicate myself to research and practice focused on brain health, memory, and prevention. Most of all, it would affirm the belief that hardship can be transformed into strength, and that even the most painful experiences can be the starting point for service to others.

I remember sitting in class, staring at the notes on the board, but none of it would stick. My ADHD made every sentence scatter like sand, and my bipolar symptoms left me exhausted and questioning myself. I wasn’t living up to the standards I had set for myself, and worse, I knew I was capable of more. It was one of those moments when you feel trapped inside your own mind, watching your goals slip further away because of something you can’t control. That feeling—of being blocked from my own potential—was the hardest weight I carried. But it also became the place where I began to build resilience. I was diagnosed with ADHD in high school and with bipolar disorder at nineteen. At first, those labels felt like limitations, as though they explained why I would never catch up. But over time, counseling, self-reflection, and faith reframed them. They became reminders that the very battles I fought within myself could give me empathy and insight for others. If I could learn to push forward even when my mind worked against me, then I could also guide others through their invisible struggles. That is what drew me to medicine—not just the science of the body, but the complex landscape of the mind. My cousin’s suicide, tied to substance abuse and untreated mental health issues, brought that commitment into sharper focus. His loss was devastating, but it also revealed a truth I could not ignore: addiction and mental illness rarely exist in isolation. They feed into one another, and too many young people fall through the cracks because no one addresses both together. His death became a call to action. If I could dedicate my life to being the kind of physician who doesn’t separate mind from body, maybe I could help keep other families from experiencing that same grief. That conviction shaped the way I served others during college. As part of my fraternity, I helped lead mental health workshops and discussions. We talked openly about trauma, suicide prevention, and substance abuse. In spaces where young men are often told to “tough it out” and silence their struggles, I wanted to create a culture of honesty and care. It wasn’t always easy—stigma runs deep—but I saw the impact when brothers began checking in on each other and recognizing that strength includes vulnerability. Those conversations convinced me that advocacy has to happen in the everyday places people gather, not only in clinics. At sixteen, I took that same belief back to my old middle school. The after-school sports program had disappeared, and I knew how much sports had helped me manage my ADHD and channel my restless energy. I started a no-cost youth program, gathering equipment, recruiting volunteers, and building a schedule. What began as a handful of kids grew into a steady organization. For some, it was their first experience being part of a team. For others, it was a safe place to stay after school. For me, it was proof that the right outlet can change a child’s trajectory—and that prevention matters just as much as treatment. The pandemic brought new challenges, but also new opportunities for service. I worked with Brooklyn Emerge to launch a Meals 4 Wheels effort for families facing food insecurity. Later, I helped with asthma remediation in local housing and supported families through dietitian-crafted nutrition plans. More recently, I’ve helped Medicaid recipients find healthcare resources. Each project has taught me the same lesson: health is not just about lab results. It is about access, daily habits, and the systems that either support or fail families. Those experiences pushed me toward osteopathic medicine. The osteopathic philosophy—treating the whole person and prioritizing prevention—aligns perfectly with what I’ve seen in my own life and community. I want to be the kind of physician who notices the small signals, who connects physical symptoms to underlying mental health, and who works with families to build healthier routines before crises erupt. My future clinics will combine medical care with counseling, addiction support, and community partnerships. A teenager who comes in with recurring stomach pain might leave with both a medical treatment plan and a referral for therapy. A caregiver struggling to balance their own depression with a child’s asthma will not be told to “cope,” but will be connected with resources that ease both loads. Empathy is at the center of this vision. Because I’ve sat in classrooms feeling like I was failing myself, I can understand what it means when a patient feels they are failing their family. Because I’ve lost someone to suicide, I will never dismiss the quiet signs of despair. Because I’ve balanced caregiving, work, and school under financial strain, I will never assume that following a treatment plan is as simple as “just do it.” I’ve lived the complications that hide beneath the surface of medical charts. That perspective will make me a better doctor. The Qur’an teaches, “Indeed, with hardship comes ease” (94:6). That verse resonates with me because I have lived through hardship and found that ease does not mean an absence of struggle. Instead, it means finding the strength, the community, and the purpose that allow you to keep going. My hardships did not disappear; they became the foundation for the way I serve and the way I aspire to practice medicine. This scholarship would help me continue on that path by easing the financial weight I carry while studying and working. It would give me more time to focus on my double major in Biomedical Sciences and Psychology, my community service, and my preparation for medical school. But more than that, it would affirm that resilience, service, and compassion are qualities worth investing in. I began this journey as a student sitting in class, frustrated by the distance between my potential and my reality. Today, I stand in that gap with a different perspective: every hardship can become a tool, every struggle can become a strength. My goal is to transform those lessons into a career of healing—one that addresses both mental health and addiction, and one that never forgets that behind every diagnosis is a human being who deserves to be seen, heard, and cared for.

1. I’m Zawad Khan, a first-generation Pashtun–Pakistani American from South Brooklyn studying Biomedical Sciences and Psychology at SUNY Plattsburgh, with a minor in Computer Science. What shaped me most were the years my mother and I cared for my grandfather after my grandmother passed, followed by my mother’s surgeries. I learned to study in waiting rooms, manage medications, and keep promises when it was hard. Those seasons taught me that health is not only clinical; it is family, access, trust, and clear follow-up. I founded a no-cost youth sports program at my former middle school because I wanted younger students to have a safe place to belong. Through Brooklyn Emerge I helped start a Meals 4 Wheels effort during COVID, supported asthma remediation, connected families with dietitian-crafted nutrition plans, and now help Medicaid recipients find care. On campus, I led my fraternity in service and mental-health initiatives. My faith teaches that saving one life is like saving all of humanity. Medicine is my path to live that value. I want to be an osteopathic physician who treats the whole person and uses technology thoughtfully to make prevention and follow-through easier for families like mine. 2. Empathy, to me, is disciplined attention to another person’s reality. It begins with listening without rushing to fix, and continues with care plans that match a patient’s life, not an ideal schedule. I learned this at home before I learned it in class. After my grandmother passed, my mother and I cared for my grandfather while I attended school full-time. On difficult days I saw how small barriers—unclear instructions, rigid appointment times, confusing bills—turned simple tasks into crises. That experience shaped how I define good care: accurate, kind, and workable in real life. As an aspiring osteopathic physician, empathy is not optional. It is the method. Osteopathic training emphasizes the unity of body, mind, and environment. In practice, that means I will pair clinical skill with habits that center the patient: plain-language explanations, teach-back to confirm understanding, realistic goals set together, and follow-up that respects work and caregiving demands. It also means inviting caregivers into the plan, screening for social needs, and acting on what we find. My community work has shown me how empathy scales when it is organized. I founded a no-cost youth sports program because teams can teach regulation, belonging, and hope. With Brooklyn Emerge I delivered meals during COVID, supported asthma remediation, and connected families to nutrition services. Those projects were not add-ons; they were health care delivered outside exam rooms. They taught me to co-design with the people I serve, to ask what would actually help, and to measure success by whether life got easier for them. In clinic, a human-centered lens looks like this: I begin with a careful history and a brief silence that lets patients add what matters most. I offer choices when possible and explain tradeoffs. I coordinate with social workers and community partners so referrals are warm handoffs, not phone numbers on a sheet. When technology helps, I use it with consent and clarity—secure messaging for questions between visits, simple wearables for targeted monitoring, and reminders that fit a patient’s routine. Data should serve the person, not the other way around. Empathy also requires humility. Some families arrive with practices shaped by culture, stress, or misinformation. Respect opens the door that judgment closes. I plan to use translated materials, group visits for peer support, and brief coaching sessions that build skills rather than blame. When a plan fails, I will assume the plan was wrong for the context and try again. Finally, empathy must be accountable. I will track patient-reported outcomes such as pain interference, sleep quality, and confidence in self-care, not only lab values. I will ask, “What got easier since we last met?” and adjust based on the answer. I chose medicine because I have seen what timely, understandable, and compassionate care can spare a family. Empathy is how I will practice it day to day. A human-centered lens is how I will make it last.

My name is Zawad Khan. I am a first-generation Pashtun–Pakistani American from South Brooklyn, studying Biomedical Sciences and Psychology at SUNY Plattsburgh with a minor in Computer Science. I chose this path because I believe science should serve people first. My goal is to become an osteopathic physician who treats the whole person and builds systems that make care accessible to families like mine. The most significant challenge I have faced began when my grandmother passed away. Grief arrived at the same time that responsibility did. My mother and I became my grandfather’s primary caregivers while I was a full-time student. I learned how to manage medications, schedule appointments, and help with mobility. I also learned how to study in waiting rooms and keep my grades afloat when sleep was scarce. Not long after, my mother’s health declined. She needed cervical and foot surgeries and months of rehab. I helped her recover while keeping our home running and staying in school. In my third year, my father lost his job, which turned pressure into real financial strain. I delayed my academic timeline and worked while taking classes so that our family could stay stable. It was an uphill period, and it demanded more resilience than I thought I had. I did not quit. What helped me endure was a simple rhythm: show up, serve, learn, repeat. I brought that rhythm to my community. At sixteen I returned to my middle school and found that after-school sports had disappeared. I started a no-cost youth sports program so students would have a safe place to belong. During the pandemic I helped launch a Meals 4 Wheels effort with Brooklyn Emerge, and more recently I have helped Medicaid recipients find health resources, while supporting asthma remediation and dietitian-guided nutrition plans for families. On campus, I accepted election as President of Delta Sigma Phi even when my schedule was crowded, and led our chapter to the highest service hours and philanthropy totals on campus, culminating in a national President of Excellence award. These experiences shaped my career goals in two ways. First, they convinced me that prevention and whole-person care are not slogans; they are what keep families together. That is why I am pursuing osteopathic medicine and why I study psychology alongside biomedical science. Second, they showed me that leadership is ethical only when it lifts others. Founding a youth program, guiding neighbors through health benefits, and advocating for my mother in clinics taught me to use science, organization, and empathy in equal measure. My minor in Computer Science reflects the same purpose. I want to help build connected tools that let physicians monitor patients between visits, catch problems early, and tailor care to an individual’s baseline rather than an average. Technology is not an end for me. It is a means to make care fair. I carry my Pashtun identity with pride. It reminds me to value courage, hospitality, and integrity. Faith also anchors me. Islam teaches that saving one life is like saving all of humanity. When motivation fades, that responsibility keeps me disciplined. This scholarship would ease the financial weight that still shapes my choices. It would allow me to work fewer hours, focus more deeply on coursework and clinical experiences, and expand the youth sports and health navigation efforts that have defined my service. I bring resilience formed by hardship, leadership proven in community, and a commitment to use science ethically. With your support, I will turn those qualities into a career that heals.

I was eighteen when my grandmother passed, and my grades slid for the first time. Grief and responsibility arrived together. My mother and I began caring for my grandfather, and most days I felt like I was climbing a hill that kept getting steeper. I did not quit. I learned to study between appointments, to keep promises when I was tired, and to rebuild my footing one assignment at a time. That season shaped the way I show up for people and for myself. I am a first-generation Pashtun–Pakistani American from South Brooklyn. My family’s finances tightened when my father lost his job, and I extended my timeline in college so I could work while helping at home. Those choices were not easy, but they taught me discipline and empathy. They also taught me that education is not only about personal success; it is about creating spaces where other people can succeed. At sixteen I returned to my old middle school and learned that after-school sports had disappeared. I remembered how athletics kept me focused and out of trouble, so I started a no-cost youth sports program. It began with borrowed equipment and a handful of students. It grew into an organization with regular practices, volunteer coaches, and a culture of mentorship. Watching shy sixth graders become confident teammates convinced me that safe spaces change lives. Service continued through the pandemic. With Brooklyn Emerge, I helped launch a Meals 4 Wheels effort for families in need, and more recently I have been helping Medicaid recipients find health resources. I also support asthma remediation and connect families with dietitian-crafted nutrition plans. These are small, practical tools that make daily life healthier and less stressful. Sports shaped me too, even when I was not the star. I wrestled as a freshman and finished the season because my team needed me. I taught myself lacrosse and trained every day until I made varsity. I joined football and learned how to accept a role for the good of the group. Those experiences taught me grit, humility, and how to lead without a microphone. My future is in osteopathic medicine. I want to be a physician who treats the whole person, who believes prevention is as powerful as any procedure, and who sees caregivers as part of the care team. I plan to build clinics that are welcoming to families, with clear follow-up, simple tools people can use at home, and partnerships with schools and community groups. I want a young person to feel what I felt on the field: you belong here, and the adults are on your side. Sloane Stephens honors her grandparents through work that opens doors for young people. I did not just admire that idea; I tried to live it. Starting a program at sixteen, feeding families during COVID, and guiding neighbors through the maze of health benefits are my versions of the same promise: use what you have to lift someone else. This scholarship would ease the financial pressure that still shapes my choices. It would let me reduce work hours, focus more deeply on my courses and clinical experiences, and expand the youth sports and health navigation work that brought me here. I bring ambition, yes, but also need. Most of all, I bring a steady commitment to serve with resilience, kindness, and belief—in myself, and in the potential of every kid who walks through the door.

My name is Zawad Khan, a New York undergraduate studying Biomedical Sciences and Psychology at SUNY Plattsburgh. I chose healthcare because I learned—up close—what illness asks of a family and what compassionate, timely care can give back. When my grandmother passed during the pandemic, my mother and I became my grandfather’s primary caregivers for more than two years while I carried a full course load. I managed medications and appointments, helped with mobility, and handled late-night setbacks no one sees. Later, I supported my mother through cervical and foot surgeries, advocating for her and helping her walk again. Those experiences didn’t just teach me tasks; they taught me presence. They taught me what Sandy Dykshoorn embodied: showing up for others, quietly and consistently, until they are steady on their feet. Alongside caregiving at home, I’ve served in clinical settings as a Certified Medical Assistant and lab technician, drawing blood, assisting with EKGs, and processing specimens with accuracy and care. In each role, I try to be the person I wish every patient’s family had—someone calm, competent, and kind. On campus, I accepted leadership when my fraternity needed it, ultimately serving as President and leading our chapter to the highest service hours and philanthropy totals. I also returned to my Brooklyn middle school to build a no-cost youth sports program after I discovered their after-school athletics had disappeared. For young people—especially in working families—structured, healthy outlets can be the difference between drifting and thriving. Creating that space felt like extending the same spirit of care my family needed when we were struggling. My career goal is to become a physician grounded in prevention and whole-person care. Studying Biomedical Sciences and Psychology together keeps me rooted in both the biology of disease and the human experience of it. I’m especially interested in how better day-to-day support—clear instructions, accessible follow-up, simple tools at home—can prevent “small problems” from becoming life-altering crises. I may not become a specialist in memory disorders, but I’ve seen the toll cognitive decline and chronic illness take on patients and caregivers. Wherever I practice, I want my clinic to be caregiver-friendly: routine cognitive and mood screening for older adults, plain-language care plans, check-ins that respect a family’s time, and automatic referrals to community resources like respite care or support groups. Patients heal faster when their caregivers aren’t exhausted and alone. What ultimately sustains me—especially when things get hard—is my faith. Islam teaches that “whoever saves one life, it is as if he saved all of mankind.” That verse turns motivation into discipline. I may never live in a world of superheroes, but I can still change the world one patient at a time. Showing up, relieving pain, advocating when someone’s voice shakes—that is how I measure a life well lived and a career well spent. This scholarship would lighten the financial strain of school and let me spend more time where I’m most useful: in clinics, community programs, and caregiver support efforts. Your investment would help me keep showing up—for patients, for families, and for the next student who needs a hand. I never met Sandy Dykshoorn, but I recognize her values. Service before self. Quiet advocacy. Care that doesn’t clock out. Thank you for considering me to help carry that legacy forward.

Early childhood trauma does not stay in childhood. It reshapes the brain’s stress response, disrupts learning and attention, and often shows up later as anxiety, depression, and even chronic disease. I have felt some of those echoes in my own life. I am also watching younger cousins live through severe neglect. Their situation is not always obvious abuse, but the harm is real. Much of it comes from inherited habits and misinformation. If we want better outcomes, we have to meet families where they are and change the conditions that create harm. I plan to become a child and adolescent psychiatrist focused on prevention, early intervention, and family-centered care. I study Psychology and Biomedical Sciences because healing requires both the biology of stress and an understanding of lived experience. I recently completed New York State’s certification in child abuse and neglect, which strengthened my foundation in mandated reporting, risk factors, and multidisciplinary response. My approach will be both clinical and community-based. In the clinic, I will integrate routine trauma screening, age-appropriate therapy, and coaching for caregivers. A child cannot heal if a family is drowning, so my goal is to treat the child while stabilizing the household. That includes connecting parents to mental health care, food and housing resources, and practical skills for consistent, nurturing routines. In the community, I build protective pathways. I started a no-cost youth sports program at my former Brooklyn middle school because structured teams teach regulation, belonging, and hope. I also work with Brooklyn Emerge to provide health services that remove daily barriers to well-being, including asthma remediation and dietary plans crafted by registered dietitians. Sports, breathable homes, and reliable nutrition are not extras; they are buffers that make therapy more effective. This work depends on partnerships. I will collaborate with social workers, school counselors, pediatricians, and faith leaders to create warm handoffs and clear referrals. Coaches and teachers will receive trauma-informed training so the first adult who notices a child’s struggle knows how to respond without shame or punishment. Whenever possible, services will be co-located, such as therapy rooms inside schools or legal aid near clinics, so families do not have to navigate a maze to get help. Cultural humility is essential. Some harmful practices persist because no one has offered respectful alternatives. I will use plain-language education, translated materials, and parent groups that honor tradition while introducing evidence-based caregiving. My aim is not to “fix” families but to equip them, so love and intention become safe, consistent care. My faith guides me as well. In Islam, we are taught to be gentle with children, and caring for those without protection carries a great reward. That ethic keeps me steady when the work is hard. I may not change the world at once, but I can change a child’s world, then another, and another, by pairing compassion with competent care. This scholarship would accelerate my path through medical school, psychiatry residency, and a child and adolescent fellowship. It would let me spend more time in clinics and neighborhoods where the need is greatest. My goal is simple and urgent: fewer children carrying invisible burdens, more families equipped to raise them well, and communities where healing is the norm rather than the exception.

While I am not Ukrainian or Russian, Russia’s war in Ukraine has deeply affected me, not through geography, but through memory. I am a first-generation Pashtun–Pakistani American, and as I watched the images of bombed-out buildings, crying mothers, and children buried beneath rubble, I wasn’t just witnessing a foreign war. I was reliving what I’ve seen happen to people who look like me, who speak my language, and who share my pain. The war in Ukraine reminds me of the decades of conflict that have scarred the region I come from. I think of the land disputes in my ancestral villages, of the instability that followed U.S. military involvement in the region, and of the wars that left behind orphans, trauma, and cities turned to dust. But what haunts me most—and what Ukraine has brought to the surface again—is the suffering of children. When I see what has happened to children in Ukraine, I am reminded of the ongoing devastation in Palestine, where war has turned playgrounds into graveyards and hope into rubble. In many ways, Ukraine reflects Palestine. Russia’s aggression, to me, mirrors Israel’s occupation—two powers overwhelming communities already fighting for dignity and life. The grief I carry from witnessing this—first in the stories of my elders, and now in the headlines of today—is real. And it’s heavy. But I’ve chosen to turn that weight into purpose. I study Biomedical Sciences and Psychology because I want to become a doctor—a healer—not just of individuals, but of wounded systems and communities. My dream is to work in underserved areas, both in the U.S. and abroad, to bring health equity, trauma-informed care, and dignity to people who’ve been overlooked by the global order. War takes away homes, families, and futures. I want to give those things back in the only way I can: through medicine, compassion, and service. Mental anguish is often invisible, but that doesn’t make it any less real. When the war in Ukraine began, I felt a grief I couldn’t name. It disrupted my focus, resurfaced memories I hadn’t processed, and made my educational goals feel small compared to the global scale of suffering. But instead of retreating, I leaned into my ambition. I reminded myself that education is not a luxury—it is a form of resistance. Every exam I pass, every lab I complete, every patient I one day treat is my answer to violence: I choose healing. Achieving my educational goals would not only help me overcome these emotional challenges—it would empower me to help others do the same. I want to create spaces of care for people dealing with the aftermath of violence, whether it’s a refugee family navigating a new country or a child struggling with PTSD in a conflict zone. I want to normalize conversations around trauma, grief, and mental health, especially in communities like mine, where those topics are often taboo. This scholarship would not just ease my financial burden—it would affirm that empathy, global awareness, and emotional resilience matter. It would support a student who carries the pain of multiple regions in his heart and channels it into a lifelong commitment to healing. Wars may be fought across borders, but their impact knows no bounds. I feel it. I love it. And one day, I will fight back—not with weapons, but with medicine, humanity, and hope.

Mental health is important to me because it has shaped my life, my education, and my purpose. I’ve experienced its challenges firsthand, and I’ve seen its impact ripple through families, campuses, and entire communities—especially those where it’s least acknowledged. As a student, an advocate, and a future physician, I’ve made mental health not just a priority, but a mission. I began receiving counseling at 16 for ADHD. For a long time, I didn’t have the language to explain what I was going through, only the weight of the consequences—difficulty focusing, emotional dysregulation, and academic setbacks. It wasn’t until I was 19 that I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. That diagnosis wasn’t a label—it was a turning point. It gave me the chance to understand myself, to build structure, to heal, and to grow. What I’ve learned through this journey is that untreated mental health conditions don’t just affect grades or productivity—they shape how we see ourselves, how we connect with others, and how much of our potential we’re able to access. As a student balancing academics, caretaking responsibilities, work, and leadership roles, I’ve experienced how easily mental health can be neglected—and how powerful it is when it's prioritized. I’ve had to learn to take time for myself, practice self-care, build emotional regulation strategies, and stay committed to long-term therapy and wellness routines. Those habits changed the course of my education and my life. But my story doesn’t stop at personal growth. Mental health advocacy has been central to my community involvement on campus. I’ve helped organize and facilitate mental health workshops through my fraternity—safe spaces for students, especially young men, to open up about trauma, depression, and burnout. I’ve worked with campus groups to reduce stigma and increase awareness about counseling services, and I’ve been the person friends come to when they’re too afraid to go to counseling on their own. I believe advocacy doesn’t always require a title—it requires showing up, listening, and normalizing the conversation. I chose to major in Psychology alongside Biomedical Sciences because I don’t believe health can be separated into parts. Mind and body are interconnected, and both need care. That philosophy is also what guides my long-term goal: to become a doctor who sees the whole person, not just their symptoms. I’m particularly passionate about wellness-based and osteopathic medicine approaches that emphasize preventative care, emotional well-being, and the role of community in healing. In a healthcare system too often focused on quick fixes, I want to be the kind of physician who asks not only “What hurts?” but also “How are you coping?” and “Who’s supporting you?” As a first-generation Pashtun–Pakistani American, I know how deeply mental health stigma can run in certain cultural communities. That’s part of why I speak openly about my journey—because I want younger students who look like me to know they’re not broken, they’re not alone, and they’re not weak for needing help. They’re strong for seeking it. This scholarship would provide me with critical financial relief, allowing me to focus more deeply on research, clinical preparation, and community outreach. But more than that, it would affirm a journey I’ve taken from silent struggle to public advocacy. Mental health is personal, but it’s also collective. I carry both truths with me—into every classroom, every peer interaction, and one day, into every patient exam room.

During the height of the pandemic, while the world was shut down, mine was unraveling. I lost my grandmother—one of the most foundational figures in my life—and suddenly, I was not only grieving but also stepping into a role I never expected: caretaker. My grandfather, who weighed nearly 70 pounds more than I did, now depended on me physically, emotionally, and logistically. At the same time, my father had lost his job due to injury, and financial stress began to compound the grief. I was underweight, under pressure, and mentally strained—but it was in that moment I made a decision that would change everything. I chose to show up for myself. My wellness journey started simply: I began waking up with the sunrise and walking outside to feel fresh air on my skin and let the sun hit my face. These quiet moments became sacred. They were my defense against the darkness of grief and isolation. I knew that to carry my family—both literally and figuratively—I had to become stronger. I started exercising, not for appearance or sport, but for functional strength. I needed to lift, assist, and support my grandfather safely. So I trained. I ate better—clean food, home-prepared meals, not the easy, processed options our fast-paced world leans on. I stopped numbing myself with distractions and started investing in real healing. That healing wasn't just physical. I sought counseling to address long-ignored ADHD and bipolar symptoms. I learned how to create structure in my mind, how to regulate emotions, how to build coping strategies instead of letting my pain simmer into breakdown. I reconnected with my faith in a new, deeper way. Through Islam, I found discipline, clarity, and surrender. When I submitted humbly to the order of the universe, the universe returned peace. I learned that taking care of myself wasn’t selfish—it was essential. By focusing on my wellness—my nutrition, my physical health, my emotional regulation, and my spiritual grounding—I didn’t just survive that season of my life. I evolved. I became the foundation my family needed. I supported my grandfather, helped keep my family afloat financially, and emerged with a clarity about who I was and who I wanted to be. That’s why I’m pursuing medicine. I believe healing starts long before a prescription is written. In a world obsessed with quick fixes, I want to bring back the lost art of true care—preventative, integrative, human. My passion lies especially in osteopathic medicine, which honors the connection between mind, body, and spirit. Wellness changed my life. It made me resilient, grounded, and focused. Now, I want to become a doctor who brings that kind of healing to others, especially in underserved communities where wellness is rarely a priority because survival takes its place. I want to help patients see that taking care of themselves isn’t a luxury—it’s the foundation for everything else. This scholarship would allow me to continue on this path without being forced to sacrifice the very balance I’ve worked to build. Financial relief would mean fewer work hours, more time for research, clinical experience, and self-maintenance. It would allow me to grow as a student and as a future physician without compromising the values that brought me here. I’ve learned that real strength isn’t just in muscle or hustle—it’s in choosing to care for yourself when it feels like the world is falling apart. That’s the strength I will carry into every patient interaction, every exam room, and every community I serve.

I chose Biomedical Sciences because I believe the next revolution in patient care will come at the intersection of medicine and technology. As a first-generation Pashtun–Pakistani American, I have seen how even modest innovations—an updated electronic chart, a low-cost pulse oximeter—can change the course of treatment for a family. My short-term goal is to attend medical school and continue researching technologies that make care faster, safer, and more accessible. My long-term goal is to become a physician-innovator who brings advanced tools—like stem cell therapies for orthopedic injuries, smarter pacemakers for cardiovascular disease, and AI-assisted diagnostics—to communities that have historically been last in line for cutting-edge care. Three experiences have affirmed this path for me. First, while volunteering in an orthopedic clinic, I saw how older patients often declined surgery because of the risks and long recovery. When I began reading research on stem cell therapies for joint repair, I saw a path forward—less invasive, more regenerative approaches to mobility. That possibility planted the seed for future work in orthopedic medicine. Second, while shadowing cardiologists, I learned about the limitations of current pacemaker technology—particularly battery lifespan and lead failure. Watching patients return for replacements made me ask how we can improve these devices. This has since grown into my senior capstone project, focused on bio-compatible, wireless power systems for implantable devices, with the goal of reducing the number of revision surgeries. Third, in my biochemistry lab, I worked with basic PCR machines to compare animal DNA samples. While fascinating, the process was slow and limiting. Learning about quantum chip-based sequencing showed me how quickly we’re moving toward same-day genomic reads—something that could dramatically change how clinics, especially in rural areas, screen for disease. My identity as a Pashtun plays a significant role in shaping these goals. In Pakistan, Pashtuns are significantly underrepresented in medicine, with only a few medical seats granted through a tribal quota system. In the United States, we’re nearly invisible in healthcare and tech leadership. This underrepresentation has not discouraged me—it has pushed me to lead. I want future Pashtun students to see someone who not only looks like them but helps design the tools they’ll rely on. I believe diversity in this space isn’t just important—it’s necessary. When innovation is informed by culture and lived experience, it becomes more effective, more equitable, and more human. Financially, the road hasn’t been easy. My father lost his job during my third year of college, and I took on increased responsibilities at home—supporting my family financially while helping care for my grandfather and my mother through multiple surgeries. These hardships delayed my academic timeline, but never my ambition. This scholarship would allow me to reduce work hours, engage more deeply in research, and take advantage of opportunities that would otherwise be financially out of reach—like academic conferences and advanced training programs. In the short term, I plan to publish my research on implantable devices, earn EMT certification to improve my hands-on clinical skills, and apply to MD/PhD programs with a focus on biomedical innovation. Long-term, I want to establish a clinic-based incubator where physicians, engineers, and patients collaborate to design affordable, impactful technology—whether that’s an AI skin lesion scanner for mobile clinics or an open-source health record system that allows small offices to coordinate care efficiently. Technology will shape the future of medicine. With your support, I will ensure that future is not only advanced, but inclusive—serving everyone, especially those who have long been left behind.

Service is rarely glamorous. More often, it means sweeping mats after practice, carrying a grandfather up the stairs when no one else can, or building something for the next generation even when my own plate is full. Those moments—quiet, consistent, inconvenient—have shaped every space I occupy. Service isn’t about recognition; it’s about showing up when it’s hard. Whether at home, on the field, or in my community, I’ve learned that leadership comes through sacrifice and knowing when to step up or step back. As the youngest in my family, I’ve always understood our dynamic, but that has never stopped me from leading in my own way. When my grandmother passed, my grandfather needed constant care. My mother and I assumed that role, but as the physical toll harmed her health, I stepped up further—managing medications, scheduling appointments, and supporting him through recovery while balancing full-time college classes. Real toughness isn’t loud; it’s the work behind the scenes that must get done. Later, I cared for my mother through multiple surgeries and chronic issues. These weren’t responsibilities I asked for, yet I accepted them with pride. They taught me what service looks like when no one is watching and deepened my empathy for others. That mentality carried into athletics. As a freshman wrestler, I wanted to quit almost daily, but teammates counted on me, so I stayed and learned mental fortitude. Sophomore year, I picked up lacrosse—training six hours a day to make varsity—learning discipline and self-belief. My performance earned me a spot on the football team, where I discovered how to accept any role for the good of the group. I led not by shouting, but by showing up, playing my part, and lifting spirits when morale was low. After graduation, I returned to my Brooklyn middle school and found its after-school sports had vanished. Remembering how athletics kept me focused, I built a no-cost youth program—securing donated equipment, recruiting volunteer coaches, and doubling participation within one semester. In college, despite family and academic pressures, I accepted election as President of Delta Sigma Phi because the chapter needed steady hands. Under my leadership, we logged the most service hours on campus, raised record philanthropy totals, and earned the fraternity’s national President of Excellence Award. These experiences share a through-line: when a gap appears, I fill it—whether the gap is a missing caretaker, a sidelined teammate, or an abandoned after-school program. I have lived a life of service not by chasing titles but by meeting needs, big or small, wherever they arise. That mindset now guides my path toward medicine, where the stakes—and the opportunities—will only grow. Receiving this scholarship would free me to keep stepping into those gaps—on campus, in South Brooklyn, and one day in the clinic rooms where families wait for a doctor who never walks away from hard work. Your investment will echo far beyond tuition: through every young athlete I mentor, every patient I treat, and every community project I launch. I embody the work ethic, resilience, and service this award seeks to honor; with your support, I will turn a lifetime of quiet, steadfast leadership into a career of healing and hope.

I want to become a medical doctor because I’ve seen what illness does to a family—not just to the patient, but to everyone around them. I’ve held the hands of those in pain, watched loved ones decline without proper care, and stepped up when no one else could. My goal is to meet that reality with more than just knowledge—I want to meet it with service, empathy, and resilience. Becoming a physician isn’t just something I’ve chosen; it’s something I’ve lived. Growing up in South Brooklyn, I was surrounded by hardworking immigrant families who often had to navigate life with limited access to care. Preventable illnesses were overlooked, mental health ignored, and substance abuse misunderstood. I saw people tough it out because they couldn’t afford treatment—or because their culture taught them to stay silent. My visits to Pakistan only deepened that perspective. There, the lack of accessible healthcare was even more dire. Watching children suffer from treatable conditions and elders endure chronic pain made me painfully aware of the global disparity in care. These experiences didn’t just inform my worldview—they fueled my purpose. That purpose has carried me through the most difficult years of my life. When my grandmother passed, the responsibility of caregiving fell onto my family. My mother and I became my grandfather’s primary caretakers for over two years while I balanced full-time college coursework. During this time, I learned the true demands of caregiving—the daily routines, the late nights, and the emergencies. Eventually, the burden took a toll on my mother’s health, and I helped her through multiple surgeries, including cervical and foot reconstruction. I supported her recovery while attending classes, working, and studying—because I refused to let her or my goals fall behind. In my third year of college, my father lost his job, placing additional financial strain on our household. I had to delay my academic timeline, work part-time, and take on more responsibilities at home. But I didn’t give up. I doubled down. I pursued a double major in Biomedical Sciences and Psychology, determined to learn not only the science of the body but the emotional and cognitive dimensions of care. These challenges didn’t weaken my resolve—they made me more prepared, focused, and capable of handling the realities of medicine. The obstacles I’ve faced have shaped the kind of doctor I aspire to be. Caring for my grandfather, supporting my mother, and shouldering responsibilities after my father’s job loss taught me resilience, compassion, and endurance. These experiences gave me a deep understanding of what patients and their families face outside the hospital walls. When I practice medicine, I won’t just see lab results—I’ll see the person behind them. I’ll understand what it means when a patient can’t follow through with treatment because they’re a caregiver or financially strained. I’ll bring empathy not just as a virtue, but as a skill honed through experience. These hardships didn’t derail me—they prepared me to practice with humility, understanding, and compassion. My faith in Islam has been a steady source of strength. Islam teaches that seeking knowledge is sacred, and “whoever saves one life, it is as if he had saved all of mankind.” I may not have a title yet, but I already strive to serve, to heal, and to carry the moral responsibility of a physician. This scholarship would ease the burden I’ve carried and allow me to focus more fully on my academic and clinical growth. I have the persistence, ability, and heart to become a great doctor. With your support, I’ll finally have the opportunity to prove it.

I am pursuing a degree in the mental health field because I’ve seen, far too often, how untreated mental illness and substance abuse can destroy lives, and how little is done to stop it in time. One of those lives was my cousin’s. He was young, bright, and full of potential, but struggled silently with mental health issues no one talked about. When he turned to substances to cope, there was no intervention, no understanding—just judgment and stigma. We lost him before anyone ever really saw him. His story isn’t unique. It’s one I see repeated in communities like mine, where mental illness is stigmatized and substance abuse is treated as a moral failure instead of a medical crisis. The silence around both conditions isolates people further, making it harder to ask for help. My ambition is to change that—not just by showing compassion, but by becoming a physician who brings medical expertise, cultural awareness, and human empathy into treatment. As a double major in Psychology and Biomedical Sciences, I’m preparing to treat patients on both a psychological and physiological level. I want to understand the brain not just through behavior, but through its biology—how trauma, genetics, and neurochemistry interact to affect a person’s mental state and drive toward substance use. It’s not enough to talk to someone about addiction or depression; we need to understand their brain function, hormonal balances, and neurological pathways. Mental health is health. Substance use disorders are not moral failings—they are diseases that require both empathy and science. Working as a Certified Medical Assistant and lab technician has given me hands-on experience in patient care. I’ve seen how quickly people are dismissed for their addiction history or emotional struggles, even in clinical settings. That’s why I want to be the kind of doctor who listens before judging—who knows when to refer for therapy and when to run labs, who doesn’t separate the mind from the body but treats both as one system. My long-term goal is to open community-based clinics that focus on the early detection and integrated treatment of co-occurring mental health and substance use disorders, especially in under-resourced areas. My plan starts with education and outreach. I want to create workshops that help young people and families understand the warning signs of mental illness and addiction, without shame. I want to build peer-led support groups, offer free screenings, and work with local leaders to dismantle the stigma that keeps people suffering in silence. But I also want to bring that care to a deeper level—offering not just support, but clinical intervention. I want these clinics to provide medication-assisted treatment, cognitive behavioral therapy, nutrition counseling, and neurobiological assessments to treat the whole person, not just the surface symptoms. This scholarship would ease the financial burden of my education and allow me to focus more fully on this mission. As someone from a working-class, immigrant background, the path to medical school is already steep. But I carry with me the stories of people like my cousin—stories that demand action. This scholarship wouldn’t just support my education; it would support a future where fewer families lose someone they love because no one knew how to help in time.

Mental health and disability advocacy are critically important within the Asian American community, particularly because of the cultural silence that too often surrounds these issues. As a Pakistani-American raised in South Brooklyn by immigrant parents, I’ve lived at the intersection of cultural pride and unspoken suffering. In many Asian households, mental health is stigmatized—seen as a personal weakness or dismissed altogether. This silence doesn’t just prevent healing; it prevents people from realizing they deserve help. My lived experiences have made this personal. I’ve seen friends, family, and neighbors struggle quietly with depression, anxiety, trauma, and learning disabilities, without access to the language or support systems to cope. I've also seen the internalized shame and isolation that often come with such struggles, especially in households where expectations are high and emotions taboo. I’ve seen this inside my own home. My grandfather’s narcissistic tendencies shaped the emotional tone of our family; my father lives with untreated bipolar disorder, and my mother has struggled for years with chronic depression. These weren’t medical terms in my house—they were unspoken truths. We didn’t talk about therapy, diagnosis, or treatment. We were taught to endure. But the silence didn’t protect us—it only deepened the suffering. Growing up surrounded by unacknowledged pain gave me insight into the urgency of mental health care and how cultural stigmas block access to healing across generations. This realization drives my ambition to become a physician with a focus on mental health. As a double major in Psychology and Biomedical Sciences, I’m preparing to bridge the gap between hard science and human experience. I don’t just want to diagnose; I want to listen. I want to build trust in communities like mine—immigrant families who view mental illness as taboo and are too often left out of traditional care models. Mental health is not “less than” physical health. It’s inseparable from it. My professional and leadership experiences reflect that commitment. As a Certified Medical Assistant and lab technician, I’ve provided hands-on care and built rapport with patients from immigrant and underserved backgrounds. I’ve seen how much cultural sensitivity and compassion matter—sometimes more than the test results. As President of my fraternity and Vice President of the Interfraternity Council, I’ve led mental health initiatives, like our “Erase the Hate” campaign, and created peer support systems in spaces that often lack emotional awareness. This scholarship would allow me to continue that work on a larger scale. Financial support would ease the burden of tuition and allow me to dedicate more time to research, community outreach, and preparation for medical school. I hope to one day open clinics that don’t just provide culturally sensitive care, but educate families and young people on mental health in a way that honors both science and tradition. At the same time, this opportunity represents something deeply personal: a step toward healing myself. Growing up, I internalized the same pride and silence that surrounded mental health in my family and culture. I didn’t recognize the signs of burnout, anxiety, or emotional fatigue in myself, and I paid the price academically. I now understand that acknowledging my mental health is not a weakness, but a strength. Receiving this scholarship wouldn’t just support my goals—it would affirm my growth and commitment to becoming the kind of doctor who helps others do the same. Mental health advocacy in the Asian American community is not just something I believe in—it’s something I live. With the support of this scholarship, I will move forward not only as a future physician but as someone who understands that healing starts with being seen, believed, and cared for.

My name is Zawad Khan, and I am a 22-year-old double major in Psychology and Biomedical Sciences at SUNY Plattsburgh. I was born and raised in South Brooklyn to Pakistani immigrant parents who sacrificed everything to give me and my siblings a future. That future, to me, has always meant more than academic or professional success—it means giving back, especially to the communities most overlooked, and reshaping the way we view and treat mental health. Growing up in a predominantly immigrant neighborhood, I’ve seen firsthand how mental health is dismissed, feared, or outright denied by many in my community. In cultures where survival takes precedence over self-awareness, mental illness is often perceived as a weakness or a curse. This stigma isolates those who suffer and creates a dangerous silence. My goal is to help break that silence. I aspire to become a physician with a profound understanding of psychology—someone who doesn’t just treat symptoms, but also addresses cultural barriers to care, builds trust, and empowers people to recognize that mental health is just as vital as physical health. My experiences in both Brooklyn and during visits to Pakistan have been sobering. In both places, access to mental health care is scarce, but the need is urgent. In Brooklyn, I’ve watched friends and neighbors normalize anxiety, depression, and trauma because there were no safe spaces to talk about them. In Pakistan, I witnessed people suffer in silence, unaware that their internal battles had names and treatments. These experiences ignited a passion in me not only to diagnose and treat, but also to educate and advocate for patients. I want to be the bridge between clinical care and cultural understanding. Working as a medical assistant and lab technician has grounded me in the realities of patient care. I’ve drawn blood, administered EKGs, and helped run busy clinics where compassion often matters more than the test results. But it's my leadership experience that has helped me connect health and community. As President of Delta Sigma Phi and Vice President of the Interfraternity Council, I’ve organized campaigns like “Erase the Hate” and prioritized mental wellness within our chapter. My commitment to leadership is driven by my desire to build environments where emotional well-being is part of the culture, not a crisis we respond to too late. Mental health is not just an interest of mine—it is a responsibility I feel to those like me, who were told to “just be strong” instead of being offered care. I plan to utilize my education, clinical experience, and cultural insight to challenge that norm and build a future where being vulnerable is not shameful, but rather a pathway to healing.