For many kids, a hospital isn’t just a place for treatment—it’s a place of fear. The sterile rooms, the constant beeping of machines, the feeling of isolation in a world of needles and procedures. When I think about my future, I know exactly who I want to be: someone who will work in a space where kids don’t just get treated, but where they feel seen, understood, and comforted. Becoming a Pediatric ICU nurse is one of the careers where I can do just that because I want to be the person who transforms that fear into a sense of safety and humanity. I envision myself not just as a nurse, but as a source of comfort and warmth—a second mother to children, and a steady hand for families during their hardest moments. I want these children to feel whole, to know they are not defined by their illnesses or their time in the hospital. To know I see the child—not just the patient. I would greet them with a smile, offering respect and care, showing them that their feelings matter. I want to create an environment where they feel safe, understood, and never pressured to pretend they feel healthy just to be seen beyond their diagnosis. Through tutoring and play, I see how frustrating it is for children to feel misunderstood or ignored. I see myself knowing which toys to pick out for my patients if there were donations. I see myself talking to their stuffed animals before bringing my attention to their legal guardians. When I walk through the unit—whether I’m charting vital signs or operating equipment—I’ll ensure each child knows they are not just a task on my to-do list, but someone worthy of my attention. I’m committed to building the knowledge and skills I need to be the best PICU nurse possible. When faced with a challenging situation in the PICU, I’ll use my knowledge of child development and biology to assess what the child truly needs — whether that’s an adjustment to their medication, a comforting word, or simply holding their hand. I have always been drawn to children’s unique emotional responses to tough situations, whether listening to their frustrations or playing a game to cheer them up. I plan to bring that same understanding and support into the PICU, where I will strive to guarantee every child feels heard and valued. In the PICU, I will be the nurse who shows up and stays committed to my patients, no matter the pain or diagnosis. I will collaborate with specialists to manage complex care, I’ll ensure each child’s needs are met with tailored care. Whether handling a critical case, offering reassurance to a child heading into surgery, or being the first call to monitor a dangerous situation, I will show up with a calm and steady presence. No child is a “one-size-fits-all,” and the same applies to their care and treatment.

As a TA, I noticed a sophomore struggling in her Algebra 2 class. Her grade teetered between a D and an F, dropping with each test and missing assignment. She admitted to taking notes but said she still couldn’t understand the material. With her packed schedule, mornings were her only chance to study. Frustrated, she called herself stupid and incapable. I met her frustration head-on, telling her, “You will learn this—I know you can. When we worked together, you remembered the equation you needed, didn’t you? Even if it’s ‘small.’ That’s why we practice. If you need tutoring or even ChatGPT, just keep finding ways to make it easier to learn.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she nodded. When I used the wrong formula while explaining a problem, she caught it. I praised her for noticing and pointed out that she was smarter than she gave herself credit for. I then offered her a choice: retake tests and assignments or focus on extra credit—but not both. In the weeks that followed, I watched her transform. She began asking peers for help during study groups, looked eager to learn, and even carved time for tutoring. When I last checked in, her grade was a high C+. As much as I celebrate high grades, seeing her beam up at me for approval with every increase in her scores was the most rewarding part. As a healthcare professional, I aim to treat patients with dignity, empowerment, and a sense of importance. Like students are more than their grades, patients are more than a set of symptoms or a paycheck. When a patient is under my care, I want their families to feel a sense of relief, knowing I approach their loved one’s treatment as if they were my sibling, parent, or child. My education taught me the importance of empathy, effective communication, and cultural sensitivity, which I believe are just as essential as any clinical skill. Not all of my education involved behavioral psychology or Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs; it was also shaped by tutoring students, babysitting young children, and listening to others vent. I want to be the kind of healthcare provider whose care leaves a lasting impression. If a patient’s family thanks me for treating their loved one with kindness and diligence, as though they were my own, I’ll know I’ve succeeded in honoring the humanity behind every case.

Whenever someone asks what I’m passionate about, I hesitate for a second—not because I don’t have answers, but because I have too many. My mind fills with a swirl of ideas, big and small. I love learning Mexican Spanish, understanding neuroscience, and studying psychology. But if I’m being completely honest, my deepest passion is cinematography. There’s something magical about how a film can make you feel alive. Color grading sets the mood—warm oranges feel like a comforting hug, while blue shadows pull you into something mysterious. The angles and transitions pull you closer to the characters like you’re living alongside them—or running with them if it’s a thriller. For me, it’s more than storytelling; it’s about creating experiences that make people laugh, cry, or feel like they’ve lived a thousand lives in a single hour. I’m the person who pauses movies just to point out that tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment of foreshadowing. I’ll gush about how a millisecond of hesitation in a character’s voice hinted at the entire twist ending. Or I’ll explain how a simple shift in lighting makes you feel uneasy long before the villain enters the room. Ever wonder how a character makes your stomach turn even though the actor is a sweetheart in real life? Or why do rivals on screen have such fiery chemistry, but the tension vanishes when the camera stops rolling? That’s the beauty of acting, pacing, lighting, and music all working together in perfect harmony. It’s all in the details—the scrunch of a face, the camera panning just a bit too slow, the score creeping louder until it feels like it’s inside your chest. It’s those moments that make you lean forward in your seat, holding your breath. And I live for them. For me, watching a movie isn’t just entertainment; it’s an experience to unravel, a puzzle to solve, and an art form to admire. But I also know the arts are seen as risky, and they are. That’s why I’ve made room for other passions too. I’ve spent years volunteering with kids because helping them grow makes me happy. I’ve tutored, decorated classrooms for celebrations, and collected their carnival tickets. These small moments made me realize how much my community depends on volunteers—kids need referees to play soccer games, older students to help run expensive school events, and extra hands to finish decorating for dances. I love being a mentor or an older sibling figure, especially when kids’ faces light up after learning something new or feeling supported. While it’s not my “biggest” passion, it’s no less important to me, and it’s shaped how I see the world. I see an audience who deserves to be helped and entertained because the need to have fun, is reason enough. This scholarship would help me bridge both sides of who I am. It would ease the financial stress of college so I could work toward a career in psychology and attend medical school while still allowing me to explore cinematography and screenwriting. With this support, I could fully embrace every part of myself—both the storyteller and the mentor—and create a future that inspires, uplifts, and brings dreams to life.

Minecraft has always been more than a game for me—it’s a virtual home where my cousins and I built a world that felt like ours, even though an airplane’s distance kept us apart. My favorite memory from Minecraft will always be the little town I created, complete with houses, pools, gardens, and even wishing wells. Each cousin had their own home, and they’d eagerly gather around my iPad, calling dibs on the house they wanted and sharing ideas for new designs. It was a pure, shared joy as we crafted this town together, piece by piece. I was the “builder-in-chief,” happily taking suggestions for renovations. I would rework wallpapers, floors, and beds, making each house feel uniquely theirs—unless I was too stubborn to let go of my original designs. I loved showing them what I’d built, perching on the arm of the couch, while they squished together, waiting for their turn to tour “their” house. Even though they couldn’t play alongside me, they were in that world with me, and that was everything. I have an older cousin who lives just a few minutes away, and I distinctly remember using his Minecraft account purely for the thrill of absolute chaos. With his account, I’d blow things up, drop horses from the sky, pester every villager I could find, and release armies of cats into every house—the kind of joyful, messy mayhem that’s only possible in Minecraft. My own account? That was sacred territory, kept pristine and perfect. But on his account, there were no rules. I even ventured into Survival mode, convinced I’d be fine. Spoiler alert: I was not. Within minutes, I’d been eaten by wolves, drowned in the sea, and probably crying because a spider was chasing me. In the end, I had to admit that my wild adventure in Survival was a solid 3/10 experience—fun for the stories, but I’d definitely recommend sticking to Creative mode! I deleted my beloved world years ago to make space on my device, but its essence remains vivid in my heart. Now, my younger siblings create their own Minecraft worlds, and I’m reminded of that same warmth I felt as a little kid. Whenever they show off their creations, it feels like a spark of my memories, reigniting that special connection. We live under the same roof now, and playing together is easier, but the joy of showing off a space that you built with someone else in mind remains as powerful as ever. For me, Minecraft will always symbolize connection and shared joy. It taught me that creativity can bridge distances and make memories that last long after the game is turned off.

I absolutely cannot have a bookshelf without Heartstopper by Alice Oseman, They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera, Shadow and Bone by Leigh Bardugo, and Out of the Blue by Jason June. These books are not just stories; they’re the heartbeat of my reading life, and they deserve a front-and-center spot on my shelf! From the heartwarming moments of Heartstopper to the inevitable tears of They Both Die at the End, each title has woven its way into my heart, and the #BookTok community has only intensified my love for them. The #BookTok community’s enthusiasm for Heartstopper, especially for Isaac’s character, truly drew me in. His struggle with feeling like a third wheel when his friends prioritize their romantic lives hits home, as I've felt similar pangs of loneliness amidst the blooming relationships of others. His journey also highlights the importance of self-acceptance and waiting for the right moment rather than forcing romance. With its mix of relatability and warmth, Heartstopper has earned its spot on my shelf, representing the beauty of love in all its forms. I haven't finished They Both Die at the End yet, but the countless TikToks begging for more content and adaptations keep it high on my reading list. It seems like such a heartfelt, bittersweet journey. When I eventually finish it and inevitably tear up, I might even ask #BookTok for fanfics to stay in the story a little longer! Pairing fantasy with romance is a #BookTok staple, and Shadow and Bone has been a standout for me. The series’ blend of love, ambition, and the quest for belonging drew me in, leading me to binge the cinematic adaptation before diving into the book. Mal’s journey of love and self-worth captured my attention—even when the main character’s choices didn’t—and the show brought so much depth that I had to explore Bardugo’s world further. Out of the Blue feels like a treasure found just for me, with its tale of a mermaid who keeps his fins and a lifeguard who doesn’t lose his footing for love. This book shows that love doesn’t require sacrificing parts of ourselves, and the #BookTok community’s excitement over unique storylines like this reinforces my love for these fresh takes on romance and identity. The love I feel for these characters transcends the pages. Watching fan edits, animatics, interviews, and cosplays adds to the joy and makes me feel part of a larger community. It’s a vibrant space where all expressions of love are welcomed—whether it’s exploring grief, childhood friendships, or complex romantic connections. My ideal bookshelf isn’t just about the books themselves but the passionate community that makes each story feel alive and meaningful.

Nobody cares about my mental health as much as I do. Hear me out: family, friends, and professionals care, but nobody should know me better than I know myself. It’s unsettling to rely on others to answer questions like, “What do I enjoy?” or “What motivates me?” Losing that sense of self can feel dissociating, almost like I’m detached from my identity. Why do we praise physical health as “knowing your body” but struggle to say, “I know my mind and my feelings”? With physical health, I recognize when something’s wrong, even if I can’t fully explain it. Mental health deserves the same respect. College preparation is about completing applications or having a transportation plan; college readiness is about building a foundation for health that sustains me throughout college and beyond. Without a foundation, other academic skills crumble, and the bar of potential drains out. For instance, I can't rely on taking good notes if I’m obsessing over grades instead of understanding the material. Sure, I passed a math class, but what about the next level of the sequence? Without prioritizing sleep or setting boundaries with myself, I retained nothing meaningful from a class. You could be thinking "so what, you passed?" Let us see how strong your resolve is when you get a case of FOMO and start isolating yourself to squeeze in more study time, which means less sleep, which leads to more confusion in class, and more late-night study “sessions” in your room. Soon enough all achievement feels more like survival. So, passing the class doesn't feel good anymore! Maintaining mental health means self-advocacy, even if it’s just being honest with yourself. I struggled with sleep due to fluctuating school schedules, but I found something that worked: living by the 1% rule. I’ve learned that lofty goals often paralyze my progress, so instead, I focus on small, realistic changes that add up. Every few weeks, I decrease my bedtime by 15 to 30 minutes. It may seem like a slow approach, but it is effective. Aiming for steady improvement over idealistic perfection keeps me from comparing myself to students who get a perfect 10 hours each night. Ten hours may be ideal, but that’s not everyone’s reality—and that’s okay. Through these 1% changes, I went from sleeping past 2 a.m. on school nights to getting to bed before midnight, with occasional good nights of 10 or even 9 p.m. It’s the consistency of small steps that builds resilience. This tactic prepares me mentally for days of rejection or disappointment, transforming what might have been crushing setbacks into “silly oopsies” that I can laugh off. Living by 1% is a boundary, a commitment, and a way of showing up for yourself – not coddling unlike perfectionists may believe. Taking care of my mental health this way allows me to take myself seriously, set realistic boundaries, and keep growing—1% at a time.