“So, your mom’s a terrorist?” a classmate responded after I had finished sharing the story of celebrating Eid Al-Adha with my family. I had explained to them that my mother lovingly cooked up some food from a goat that we had slaughtered for the holiday. This boy of a different ethnic and religious background than me decided to deem my family as “evil” for “killing animals.” At that moment, I regretted sharing this story of my Muslim identity, cursing myself for thinking that my white counterparts would understand. I realize now that it was not a lack of understanding, it was the presence of ignorance. I began my education at an Islamic, private school in central Ohio. It was a place filled with diversity and peers that were raised similarly to me. I always had friends there. Students of all different nationalities, ethnicities, and languages shared one space and got along. But in third grade, we moved and I started going to a non-religious, public school. The majority of the students were white Christians, a group of people with whom I was completely unfamiliar. It was a major culture shock for me. I went from seeing people just like me nearly every single day, to looking around the hallways and struggling to find a familiar face. This sudden change in my life helped me realize how much my Muslim identity impacted my education. I was now spending more time and effort trying to fit in rather than into my schoolwork. In middle school, I began to distance myself from students that looked like me to avoid being an outcast and found new friends that I tried to convince myself I fit in with. This was the mindset that defined me throughout my middle school years– until COVID-19 hit. I was stuck at home for eighth grade and found that it was my religion that was there for me, not my friend group. I used this time to try and reconnect with some old friends from my Islamic school. After sharing some meaningful conversations, I discovered how important these connections were and carried them throughout high school. Even though my school had a minimal Muslim population, I connected with the Muslim community in my city by helping out at the local mosque and volunteering at various Islamic organizations. Through this, I was opened to a new world of fresh perspective. I always knew I wanted to be a doctor, but learning more about the medical struggles of third-world Muslim countries such as where my family is from, Pakistan, strengthened that dream. I became connected with my identity on a deeper level which motivated me to pursue my goals. Now in high school, I have saved a lot of time and energy by being proud of my Muslim identity, rather than letting it inhibit my potential. As a Muslim woman of color, pursuing my academic goal of going to medical school and my dream career of becoming a doctor is going to take a lot of hard work and money. Receiving this scholarship would help reduce a financial barrier and make all the growth I’ve worked on over the years worth it. I want to become a cardiothoracic surgeon and help save lives, especially for those who do not have access to healthcare. These are values that have been instilled in me by my religion and the solidification of my identity. I hope that by receiving this scholarship, I can use my journey to inspire others, accomplish my goals, and help make the world a better place while representing Muslims everywhere.