A Chain Reaction of Growth and Purpose As a COPE Health Scholar, I’ve worked with many patients, but meeting Jungbun—a Korean halmoni (grandmother)—set off a chain reaction that shaped my personal and professional growth. She was in a hospital bed, bruised from a fall, and alone, having not heard from her children in years. When I greeted her in Korean, she slowly began to open up, sharing her life story—from raising three children to feeling abandoned after her husband passed away. Listening to her, I thought of my own halmoni, who lives alone in Georgia. I hadn’t called her in months, but after my shift, I dialed her number. To my surprise, reconnecting was effortless. I told her about school and my hobbies, and she shared updates about her new interests, like traditional dance and painting. That simple call repaired the emotional distance between us and sparked a deeper bond. I now call her regularly, grateful for the connection we rebuilt. The next day, I was asked to help feed Jungbun, as she had refused food for days. Though hesitant, she trusted me enough to eat, and I carefully fed her thickened water and chicken. While she didn’t finish her meal, it felt like a small victory. I returned on my day off to feed her again, and she ate even more. But when I came back later, I learned she had recovered and been discharged. While happy she was better, I wished I had the chance to say goodbye. Seeing Jungbun’s struggles sparked another realization: many patients from diverse cultural backgrounds didn’t eat hospital meals, often relying on family for food. Patients without nearby support, like Jungbun or my halmoni, faced malnutrition and slower recovery. This inspired me to propose adding nutritious, culturally diverse meals—like congee, miso soup, and baked falafel—to Multicare Hospitals' menu. A month later, I presented my proposal to the Health Equity and Nutrition teams, who oversee 13 hospitals. Their enthusiasm affirmed the value of culturally inclusive care. I’m currently preparing for the next meeting to discuss implementation. Jungbun’s story ignited a chain reaction, showing me the profound impact of listening, taking action, and advocating for change. It strengthened my relationship with my halmoni and fueled my passion for breaking barriers in healthcare. As I pursue public health, I aim to continue creating ripples of change, ensuring that patients like Jungbun receive not just care but the dignity and nourishment they deserve.

I perceive myself as a positive force in society both now and in the future through my commitment to empathy, service, and advocacy, values that have guided my actions in various aspects of my life. I believe in actively engaging with my community to create meaningful change, whether through volunteering, advocating for systemic improvements, or leading by example in how I treat others. I strive to approach challenges with an open mind, a deep sense of responsibility, and a desire to uplift those around me. Currently, I am making a tangible impact through my work as a COPE Health Scholar and my project on improving hospital meals for diverse communities. By listening to patients' stories, understanding their needs, and advocating for more culturally appropriate and nutritious food, I am learning how to use my voice to advocate for marginalized groups and promote equity. This project was inspired by my experience working with elderly patients, like Jungbun, who struggled to find food they could relate to or enjoy while in the hospital. Witnessing firsthand the challenges faced by those without family support, I proposed solutions that could make a real difference in hospital nutrition, and I am working toward implementing these changes across multiple hospitals. This advocacy is a small but impactful way I contribute to bettering healthcare, helping to ensure that people from all backgrounds receive the care and dignity they deserve. My involvement in this project reflects a core belief that positive change begins at the grassroots level. I believe that when we challenge the status quo—whether it’s by addressing health inequities or by advocating for better resources for underserved communities—we empower others to rise and become more active participants in shaping their futures. In the future, I hope to continue advocating for policy changes in public health, particularly in the area of healthcare equity. By using my career as a Registered Dietitian Nutritionist (RDN), I aim to be a voice for communities that face systemic challenges in accessing healthy food and healthcare. I want to help educate patients on the connection between nutrition and disease prevention, as well as create support systems for families that are often left behind. The parameters of current social norms have shaped this thinking in significant ways. Social norms around individualism and achievement often emphasize personal success over community-oriented action. However, I have come to understand that true fulfillment and success lie in how much we can contribute to the well-being of others. Through my experience with diverse communities, I’ve learned that we are all interconnected, and our individual actions can have a ripple effect on those around us. Furthermore, norms around healthcare have pushed me to reconsider how accessible and culturally sensitive services should be. Too often, marginalized communities are excluded from receiving the care they need. By challenging these norms, I can contribute to the creation of a more inclusive and equitable society. Ultimately, my goal is to continue embracing service, advocacy, and empathy in all that I do. I see myself as a positive force not only through my current actions but by inspiring others to take part in making the world a better place. By adhering to the values of equity and social justice, I believe I can influence future generations to recognize their collective power and act to shape a society that values every individual’s well-being.

Through my volunteer work in hospitals, I have encountered patients whose suffering could have been prevented or mitigated with better nutrition and education. One patient, Juan, had undergone multiple amputations due to complications from Type-2 diabetes, a preventable condition often linked to obesity and malnutrition. Witnessing his pain, as well as the struggles of many other patients, solidified my commitment to becoming a Registered Dietitian Nutritionist (RDN). I believe that nutrition is a key factor in managing and preventing chronic diseases, and I want to dedicate my career to helping people improve their health through dietary intervention. During my time as a COPE Health Scholar, I learned how essential nutrition is to patient recovery. One particularly meaningful experience was with a Korean Halmoni, Jungbun, who had been hospitalized after a fall. She had bruises on her face and body, and despite her need for nourishment, she struggled to eat the hospital meals. Since we spoke the same language, I was able to connect with her, and after some time, she started to eat small bites of food, like chicken and thickened juice. This moment underscored for me how essential it is to not only consider the nutritional value of meals but also the cultural and personal preferences of patients. Many patients, especially those without family support, end up refusing hospital food, leading to malnutrition, slower recovery, and further complications. This realization motivated me to take action. I observed that patients from various cultural backgrounds often rejected hospital meals, which led to worsened health outcomes. I recognized that, without family members to bring familiar meals, patients like Jungbun and my own Halmoni, who lived alone, were often left without proper nourishment. This inspired me to propose a solution. I worked with the management of Multicare Hospitals to add culturally appropriate meals, such as Juk (Korean rice porridge), Miso soup, and baked falafel, to the hospital’s menu. I met with the Health Equity Team and the Head of the Nutrition Team, and I am now preparing for another meeting to discuss the potential roll-out of this initiative across 13 hospitals. As a future RDN, I am passionate about the ability to educate patients and their families on how nutrition plays a central role in improving their health. I want to help patients manage chronic diseases like Type-2 diabetes, heart disease, and arthritis through personalized nutrition plans. My goal is to empower patients to make healthier food choices that prevent disease and improve quality of life. I also see the importance of collaborating with healthcare teams, schools, and communities to raise awareness about the impact of nutrition on public health. Through my work, I hope to advocate for policies that provide access to healthier foods, especially in underserved communities. By combining education, cultural sensitivity, and advocacy, I am committed to making a difference in healthcare. I believe that as an RDN, I can help patients live healthier, more fulfilling lives by giving them the tools to make informed dietary choices. Through personalized care and systemic changes, I hope to contribute to improving the overall health of individuals and communities.

As a COPE Health Scholar and volunteer, I’ve encountered hundreds of patients and gained a deep understanding of how vital family and nutrition are to recovery. Among these experiences, meeting Jungbun profoundly shaped me as both a healthcare advocate and a person. On July 18, Nurse Amber asked if I spoke Korean. When I said yes, she led me to Room 547, where a Korean Halmoni (grandmotherly woman) named Jungbun lay in bed, bruised from a fall. “Annyeonghaseyo?” I greeted, but there was no response. After gentle persistence, she finally acknowledged me. Once she opened up, she shared her life story - immigrating to America, raising three children, and enduring years of silence from them after her husband passed. Listening to her, I couldn’t help but think of my own Halmoni, who lives alone in Georgia with Parkinson’s. I had rarely called her, only on holidays. That night, I found a quiet place to call her. To my surprise, reconnecting was easy. I shared stories about school and hobbies, while she spoke of her traditional dance and painting. She even began sending me pictures of her art. Breaking through our emotional distance felt healing, but I couldn’t ignore how difficult it must have been for her, especially during her hospitalizations. I imagined her as Jungbun - alone, without family - and felt ashamed for neglecting our bond for so long. At my next shift, Nurse Amber asked me to feed Jungbun. She cautioned that Jungbun had refused food for days and might do so again. Yet, perhaps due to our earlier connection, she accepted the meal. Bite by bite, I fed her thickened water and chicken. Though she didn’t finish, even small progress brought relief to the staff. The following day, though I wasn’t scheduled, I returned to check on her and feed her again. She asked what she was eating, and I struggled to explain; there was nothing comparable in Korea. Still, she ate. A few days later, I learned Jungbun had recovered and been discharged. I felt joy at her recovery, though I wished for one final visit. That evening, I called my Halmoni again. It was a short but warm exchange, free of tears. Speaking with her felt natural, as if no time had passed. This experience led me to reflect on patients’ diets. I noticed many from diverse cultural backgrounds refused hospital food, which often resulted in malnutrition and slower recovery. Families who could brought home-cooked meals, but patients like Jungbun and my Halmoni, without family nearby, faced a lack of nourishment. Inspired by them, I proposed adding nutritious, culturally appropriate meals such as Juk (rice porridge), Miso soup, and Baked Falafel to the hospital menu. My proposal reached Multicare President, and I presented it to their Health Equity Team and the Head of Nutrition, who oversees 13 hospitals. I’m now preparing for further discussions on rolling out these changes. Reflecting on my time with Jungbun, I realize how much I’ve grown. I’ve learned the importance of taking initiative, whether through small acts like feeding a patient or larger efforts like advocating for systemic change. More than anything, this experience reaffirmed the value of family and the role it plays in healing. Moving forward, I aim to break down barriers in healthcare to ensure that people like Jungbun and my Halmoni receive the care, support, and nutrition they deserve.

As a COPE Health Scholar and volunteer, I’ve encountered hundreds of patients and gained a deep understanding of how vital family and nutrition are to recovery. Among these experiences, meeting Jungbun profoundly shaped me as both a healthcare advocate and a person. On July 18, Nurse Amber asked if I spoke Korean. When I said yes, she led me to Room 547, where a Korean Halmoni (grandmotherly woman) named Jungbun lay in bed, bruised from a fall. “Annyeonghaseyo?” I greeted, but there was no response. After gentle persistence, she finally acknowledged me. Once she opened up, she shared her life story - immigrating to America, raising three children, and enduring years of silence from them after her husband passed. Listening to her, I couldn’t help but think of my own Halmoni, who lives alone in Georgia with Parkinson’s. I had rarely called her, only on holidays. That night, I found a quiet place to call her. To my surprise, reconnecting was easy. I shared stories about school and hobbies, while she spoke of her traditional dance and painting. She even began sending me pictures of her art. Breaking through our emotional distance felt healing, but I couldn’t ignore how difficult it must have been for her, especially during her hospitalizations. I imagined her as Jungbun - alone, without family - and felt ashamed for neglecting our bond for so long. At my next shift, Nurse Amber asked me to feed Jungbun. She cautioned that Jungbun had refused food for days and might do so again. Yet, perhaps due to our earlier connection, she accepted the meal. Bite by bite, I fed her thickened water and chicken. Though she didn’t finish, even small progress brought relief to the staff. The following day, though I wasn’t scheduled, I returned to check on her and feed her again. She asked what she was eating, and I struggled to explain; there was nothing comparable in Korea. Still, she ate. A few days later, I learned Jungbun had recovered and been discharged. I felt joy at her recovery, though I wished for one final visit. That evening, I called my Halmoni again. It was a short but warm exchange, free of tears. Speaking with her felt natural, as if no time had passed. This experience led me to reflect on patients’ diets. I noticed many from diverse cultural backgrounds refused hospital food, which often resulted in malnutrition and slower recovery. Families who could brought home-cooked meals, but patients like Jungbun and my Halmoni, without family nearby, faced a lack of nourishment. Inspired by them, I proposed adding nutritious, culturally appropriate meals such as Juk (rice porridge), Miso soup, and Baked Falafel to the hospital menu. My proposal reached Multicare President, and I presented it to their Health Equity Team and the Head of Nutrition, who oversees 13 hospitals. I’m now preparing for further discussions on rolling out these changes. Reflecting on my time with Jungbun, I realize how much I’ve grown. I’ve learned the importance of taking initiative, whether through small acts like feeding a patient or larger efforts like advocating for systemic change. More than anything, this experience reaffirmed the value of family and the role it plays in healing. Moving forward, I aim to break down barriers in healthcare to ensure that people like Jungbun and my Halmoni receive the care, support, and nutrition they deserve.

As a COPE Health Scholar and volunteer, I’ve encountered hundreds of patients and gained a deep understanding of how vital family and nutrition are to recovery. Among these experiences, meeting Jungbun profoundly shaped me as both a healthcare advocate and a person. On July 18, Nurse Amber asked if I spoke Korean. When I said yes, she led me to Room 547, where a Korean Halmoni (grandmotherly woman) named Jungbun lay in bed, bruised from a fall. “Annyeonghaseyo?” I greeted, but there was no response. After gentle persistence, she finally acknowledged me. Once she opened up, she shared her life story - immigrating to America, raising three children, and enduring years of silence from them after her husband passed. Listening to her, I couldn’t help but think of my own Halmoni, who lives alone in Georgia with Parkinson’s. I had rarely called her, only on holidays. That night, I found a quiet place to call her. To my surprise, reconnecting was easy. I shared stories about school and hobbies, while she spoke of her traditional dance and painting. She even began sending me pictures of her art. Breaking through our emotional distance felt healing, but I couldn’t ignore how difficult it must have been for her, especially during her hospitalizations. I imagined her as Jungbun - alone, without family - and felt ashamed for neglecting our bond for so long. At my next shift, Nurse Amber asked me to feed Jungbun. She cautioned that Jungbun had refused food for days and might do so again. Yet, perhaps due to our earlier connection, she accepted the meal. Bite by bite, I fed her thickened water and chicken. Though she didn’t finish, even small progress brought relief to the staff. The following day, though I wasn’t scheduled, I returned to check on her and feed her again. She asked what she was eating, and I struggled to explain; there was nothing comparable in Korea. Still, she ate. A few days later, I learned Jungbun had recovered and been discharged. I felt joy at her recovery, though I wished for one final visit. That evening, I called my Halmoni again. It was a short but warm exchange, free of tears. Speaking with her felt natural, as if no time had passed. This experience led me to reflect on patients’ diets. I noticed many from diverse cultural backgrounds refused hospital food, which often resulted in malnutrition and slower recovery. Families who could brought home-cooked meals, but patients like Jungbun and my Halmoni, without family nearby, faced a lack of nourishment. Inspired by them, I proposed adding nutritious, culturally appropriate meals such as Juk (rice porridge), Miso soup, and Baked Falafel to the hospital menu. My proposal reached Multicare’s President, and I presented it to their Health Equity Team and the Head of Nutrition, who oversees 13 hospitals. I’m now preparing for further discussions on rolling out these changes. Reflecting on my time with Jungbun, I realize how much I’ve grown. I’ve learned the importance of taking initiative, whether through small acts like feeding a patient or larger efforts like advocating for systemic change. More than anything, this experience reaffirmed the value of family and the role it plays in healing. Moving forward, I aim to break down barriers in healthcare to ensure that people like Jungbun and my Halmoni receive the care, support, and nutrition they deserve.

As a COPE Health Scholar and volunteer, I’ve seen hundreds of patients and learned how critical family and nutrition are to recovery. Meeting Jungbun was a turning point in my growth as both a healthcare professional and a person. On July 18, Nurse Amber asked if I spoke Korean, and when I said yes, she brought me to Room 547. A Korean Halmoni (grandmother) lay in bed with bruises from a fall. I gently said, “Annyeonghaseyo,” but there was no response. After a few more greetings and soft touches, she finally noticed me. Jungbun shared her story—how she came to America, raised three children, and ended up alone after her husband passed away. Her children hadn’t contacted her in years. As she spoke, I thought of my own Halmoni, who lives alone in Georgia with Parkinson’s. I had barely spoken to her, only calling on holidays. When my shift ended, I went to a quiet room and called her. To my surprise, reconnecting was easy. I told her about school and family, and she shared her new hobbies—traditional dance and painting. We broke through the emotional distance that had grown between us. I imagined her as Jungbun, lying alone in a hospital, and felt ashamed for not calling more often. My next shift coincided with mealtime. Nurse Amber asked me to try feeding Jungbun, though she had refused to eat for days. Perhaps it was our conversation, but this time she was willing. I fed her thickened water and chicken, bite by bite. Though she didn’t finish, Nurse Amber was thrilled she ate anything at all. The following day, even though I wasn’t on shift, I returned to feed her again. We shared another meal—thickened orange juice and meatloaf. She asked what it was, but I couldn’t explain since it was unfamiliar in Korean cuisine. Still, she ate. A few days later, I learned she had recovered and been discharged. I was happy for her but wished I had seen her one last time. Inspired by Jungbun and my Halmoni, I began observing other patients and their diets. I noticed many from different cultures didn’t eat hospital food, which led to malnutrition and slower recovery. Families often brought home-cooked meals, but patients like Jungbun, without family nearby, were left without proper nourishment. Thinking of them, I proposed adding nutritious, culturally diverse meals to Multicare Hospitals’ menus. Options like juk (Korean rice porridge), miso soup, and baked falafel would be easy to prepare and comforting to patients. A month later, I received a response from the President of Multicare and presented my proposal to the Health Equity Team and the Head of the Nutrition Team, who oversees 13 hospitals. I am currently preparing for a follow-up meeting about implementing my ideas. Looking back, my time with Jungbun showed me that I can make a difference, whether through small acts like feeding a patient or advocating for systemic change. This experience also reminded me of the importance of family. Now, I aspire to break down barriers in healthcare, ensuring people like Jungbun and my Halmoni receive the love, support, and nourishment they deserve.

As a COPE Health Scholar and volunteer, I’ve seen hundreds of patients and learned how critical family and nutrition are to recovery. Meeting Jungbun was a turning point in my growth as both a healthcare professional and a person. On July 18, Nurse Amber asked if I spoke Korean, and when I said yes, she brought me to Room 547. A Korean Halmoni (grandmother) lay in bed with bruises from a fall. I gently said, “Annyeonghaseyo,” but there was no response. After a few more greetings and soft touches, she finally noticed me. Jungbun shared her story—how she came to America, raised three children, and ended up alone after her husband passed away. Her children hadn’t contacted her in years. As she spoke, I thought of my own Halmoni, who lives alone in Georgia with Parkinson’s. I had barely spoken to her, only calling on holidays. When my shift ended, I went to a quiet room and called her. To my surprise, reconnecting was easy. I told her about school and family, and she shared her new hobbies—traditional dance and painting. We broke through the emotional distance that had grown between us. I imagined her as Jungbun, lying alone in a hospital, and felt ashamed for not calling more often. My next shift coincided with mealtime. Nurse Amber asked me to try feeding Jungbun, though she had refused to eat for days. Perhaps it was our conversation, but this time she was willing. I fed her thickened water and chicken, bite by bite. Though she didn’t finish, Nurse Amber was thrilled she ate anything at all. The following day, even though I wasn’t on shift, I returned to feed her again. We shared another meal—thickened orange juice and meatloaf. She asked what it was, but I couldn’t explain since it was unfamiliar in Korean cuisine. Still, she ate. A few days later, I learned she had recovered and been discharged. I was happy for her but wished I had seen her one last time. Inspired by Jungbun and my Halmoni, I began observing other patients and their diets. I noticed many from different cultures didn’t eat hospital food, which led to malnutrition and slower recovery. Families often brought home-cooked meals, but patients like Jungbun, without family nearby, were left without proper nourishment. Thinking of them, I proposed adding nutritious, culturally diverse meals to Multicare Hospitals’ menus. Options like juk (Korean rice porridge), miso soup, and baked falafel would be easy to prepare and comforting to patients. A month later, I received a response from the President of Multicare and presented my proposal to the Health Equity Team and the Head of the Nutrition Team, who oversees 13 hospitals. I am currently preparing for a follow-up meeting about implementing my ideas. Looking back, my time with Jungbun showed me that I can make a difference, whether through small acts like feeding a patient or advocating for systemic change. This experience also reminded me of the importance of family. Now, I aspire to break down barriers in healthcare, ensuring people like Jungbun and my Halmoni receive the love, support, and nourishment they deserve.

As a COPE Health Scholar and volunteer, I’ve seen hundreds of patients and learned how critical family and nutrition are to recovery. Meeting Jungbun was a turning point in my growth as both a healthcare professional and a person. On July 18, Nurse Amber asked if I spoke Korean, and when I said yes, she brought me to Room 547. A Korean Halmoni (grandmother) lay in bed with bruises from a fall. I gently said, “Annyeonghaseyo,” but there was no response. After a few more greetings and soft touches, she finally noticed me. Jungbun shared her story—how she came to America, raised three children, and ended up alone after her husband passed away. Her children hadn’t contacted her in years. As she spoke, I thought of my own Halmoni, who lives alone in Georgia with Parkinson’s. I had barely spoken to her, only calling on holidays. When my shift ended, I went to a quiet room and called her. To my surprise, reconnecting was easy. I told her about school and family, and she shared her new hobbies—traditional dance and painting. We broke through the emotional distance that had grown between us. I imagined her as Jungbun, lying alone in a hospital, and felt ashamed for not calling more often. My next shift coincided with mealtime. Nurse Amber asked me to try feeding Jungbun, though she had refused to eat for days. Perhaps it was our conversation, but this time she was willing. I fed her thickened water and chicken, bite by bite. Though she didn’t finish, Nurse Amber was thrilled she ate anything at all. The following day, even though I wasn’t on shift, I returned to feed her again. We shared another meal—thickened orange juice and meatloaf. She asked what it was, but I couldn’t explain since it was unfamiliar in Korean cuisine. Still, she ate. A few days later, I learned she had recovered and been discharged. I was happy for her but wished I had seen her one last time. Inspired by Jungbun and my Halmoni, I began observing other patients and their diets. I noticed many from different cultures didn’t eat hospital food, which led to malnutrition and slower recovery. Families often brought home-cooked meals, but patients like Jungbun, without family nearby, were left without proper nourishment. Thinking of them, I proposed adding nutritious, culturally diverse meals to Multicare Hospitals’ menus. Options like juk (Korean rice porridge), miso soup, and baked falafel would be easy to prepare and comforting to patients. A month later, I received a response from the President of Multicare and presented my proposal to the Health Equity Team and the Head of the Nutrition Team, who oversees 13 hospitals. I am currently preparing for a follow-up meeting about implementing my ideas. Looking back, my time with Jungbun showed me that I can make a difference, whether through small acts like feeding a patient or advocating for systemic change. This experience also reminded me of the importance of family. Now, I aspire to break down barriers in healthcare, ensuring people like Jungbun and my Halmoni receive the love, support, and nourishment they deserve.

As a COPE Health Scholar and volunteer, I’ve seen hundreds of patients and learned firsthand how important family and nutrition were to their recovery. Meeting Jungbun spearheaded my growth as a healthcare professional and as a person.   On July 18, Nurse Amber asked if I spoke Korean, and when I said yes, she took me to Room 547. A Korean Halmoni (grandmotherly woman) was in bed with bruises on her face and body as she had slipped and fallen. “Annyeonghaseyo?” but there was no response. A few more “Annyeonghaseyo[s]" and gentle touches later, she finally noticed me. After introducing myself, Jungbun soon shared her life story - how she came to America, raised three children, but sadly how she ended up alone after her husband had passed away - she hadn’t heard from her children in years.    As she spoke, I thought of my Halmoni living alone in Georgia with Parkinson’s. I barely spoke to her, only calling on holidays. When my shift ended, I went to a quiet room and called. To my surprise, it was easy to reconnect. I told her about my hobbies, school, and family stuff and she told me she was learning traditional dance and painting, of which she still sends pictures. We broke through the emotional distance that had grown between us. I tried not to cry, but it hit me how difficult it must have been for her, especially when she was hospitalized ten years ago. I imagined her as Jungbun, lying alone in the hospital, and felt ashamed for not calling more often when I had her number all along.    My next shift coincided with mealtime. Nurse Amber asked me to feed Jungbun, but warned me to stop if she refused to eat as she had the past few days. Maybe it was our conversation the day before, but she was open to eating. I fed her thickened water and chicken, bite by bite. Though she didn’t finish her meal, Nurse Amber was happy Jungbun had eaten anything. Though I didn’t have a shift the next day, I came and checked on her and fed her again - thickened orange juice and meatloaf. She asked what she was eating, and unfortunately, I couldn’t say as there was nothing similar in Korea. But at least she ate. I went to visit Jungbun a few days later to find she had recovered enough and had been discharged. I was glad to know she was feeling better, but wished I could’ve seen her one last time. I called Halmoni again, this time without tears. It was a short, but meaningful call. It was so easy speaking with her. Afterwards, I observed other patients and learned about their diets. I found people from different cultures often didn’t eat hospital food, leading to malnutrition and slower recovery. Often family brought home-cooked meals, but patients like Jungbun and my Halmoni, who didn’t have family around, were left without proper nourishment. Thinking of them, I proposed to the management of Multicare Hospitals to add nutritious but easy-to-make cultural meals like Juk (my comfort food), Miso soup, and Baked Falafel to the menu.   A month later, I heard from the President of Multicare, and I presented my proposal to the Health Equity Team and the Head of the Nutrition Team, who oversees 13 hospitals. I’m currently preparing for another meeting soon with the Nutrition Team about the possible roll-out of my proposal.   Looking back on my time with Jungbun, I realize how much I’ve grown as a volunteer and as a person. This experience showed me that I could do something for others, like advocating for better care; it also reminded me of the importance of family. Now, I want to break down barriers in healthcare to help ensure people like Jungbun and my Halmoni get the love, support, and nutrition they deserve.