As Outreach Coordinator for Grey Matters, an undergraduate neuroscience journal focused on making neuroscience accessible to the community, I helped lead and facilitate interactive lessons in K-12 classrooms and STEM events across Seattle. I joined Grey Matters because I genuinely enjoy working with students and saw it as an opportunity to strengthen my own understanding of neuroscience by teaching it. Explaining topics like brain anatomy and neural signaling forced me to simplify complex ideas without losing accuracy. In my leadership role, I organized outreach events, coordinated volunteers, and guided hands-on activities such as sheep brain dissections and neurotechnology demonstrations.

Many of the schools we visited had limited access to hands-on science education, and several classrooms included multilingual students or students with little prior exposure to neuroscience. At first, I thought breaking barriers simply meant bringing resources into under-resourced schools. Over time, I realized barriers are not uniform. For some students, language made scientific vocabulary intimidating. For others, a lack of background knowledge made them hesitant to participate. Some students were disengaged because they had never seen science presented in a way that felt relevant to their lives. I learned to adjust in real time as I conducted the activity by connecting neuroscience topics to their everyday lives. For athletes, I talked about sports injuries. For musicians, I explained how the cerebellum helps with coordination and timing. And for students who seemed uninterested, I would jokingly point to the frontal lobe and tell them their personality and judgment were still "under construction". Breaking barriers required flexibility and attention rather than a fixed script. This experience shifted how I approach teaching. Inclusion is not about repeating the same explanation louder or simpler. It is about understanding that every student brings their own background, confidence level, and challenges.

Through this work, I strengthened my skills in science communication, leadership, and adaptability, but I also learned to approach teaching with greater awareness and humility. That mindset now carries into other areas of my life, from peer facilitation to research discussions, reminding me that understanding begins with meeting people where they are.

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One of my first outreach events at Brain Fest, hosted by the Pacific Science Center. Speaking with young students about the brain at this event motivated me to continue outreach work and eventually pursue a leadership role.

I initially joined laboratory research because I wanted to have a deeper understanding of the foundation of all medicine: research. In my lab, we studied how agouti-related peptide (AgRP) neurons influence glucose balance and energy regulation using mouse models. As an undergraduate researcher, I collected metabolic measurements, prepared brain tissue through freezing and sectioning, performed immunohistochemistry, and supported experiments on feeding behavior and glucose regulation. At first, the work felt procedural. I followed protocols carefully, but did not yet see how each step fit into the larger question. Over time, seeing stained brain sections under the microscope and connecting them to glucose data and behavioral graphs helped me understand how cellular findings inform conversations about chronic disease and prevention.

The most formative part of this experience came not from technical work, but from when I was applying for an undergraduate research symposium. My mentor of three years had just left the lab, and I transitioned to a new mentor with whom I had no established relationship. With a short timeline approaching, I was nearly assigned a large project that required scientific background knowledge of work already done by other postdocs in our lab, which I did not have. I felt pressure to accept it, especially as an undergraduate surrounded by much more experienced researchers. I worried that pushing back would make me seem incapable or ungrateful. At the same time, I knew the proposed project did not reflect the work I had actually contributed to in my time in the lab. I wanted to present a project based on data I had helped generate with my previous mentor, and I understood a lot better. Speaking up meant questioning the direction given to me and admitting that the timeline and scope were unrealistic.

I chose to have a conversation with my new mentor despite my fear. I explained that the scope of the suggested project was unrealistic given the timeline and shared a clear plan for an alternative project grounded in my prior work. When I was finally able to submit the abstract for the project I had initially envisioned, it was a turning point in my research journey. I realized that research is more than technical skills and data; it also requires claiming ownership of your contributions and trusting your judgment. As I pursue a career that bridges medicine and public health, I know I will continue working in hierarchical and high-pressure environments. This experience taught me that thoughtful self-advocacy is not selfish or confrontational, but a very important foundation. If I can't confidently advocate for my own work, I won't be prepared to advocate for patients navigating our complex health system. Learning to use my voice in research strengthened my ability to one day use it on behalf of others, ensuring that my work reflects both my abilities and the needs of the communities I hope to serve.

I work as an event Emergency Medical Technician, providing on-site care at large public events. I pursued this role because I wanted more direct patient interaction and to experience what real-time medical decision-making actually feels like outside of a classroom to support my future career path as a physician. Event medicine is very different from hospital care. It often means working in crowded, loud, and unpredictable environments with limited equipment and support. My responsibilities include assessing patients, taking vital signs, stabilizing conditions when possible, and deciding whether a situation can be managed on site or needs to be escalated by calling 911.

One moment that stayed with me happened at a music festival when a patient passed out on a suspended wooden rope bridge over a river. The bridge was swinging, people were crossing from both sides, and loud music from a nearby stage made it difficult to communicate. Before even thinking about the patient assessment, I had to focus on securing the scene and making sure no one else was at risk. Taking a manual blood pressure while standing on a moving bridge forced me to narrow my attention and concentrate only on what was essential. That experience made me realize that clinical care is not just about knowing what to do. It is about judgment, prioritization, and staying calm enough to think clearly when everything around you feels chaotic.

This role reshaped how I approached decision-making in emergency settings. At events, we do not have hospital-level resources, and patient safety sometimes means deferring to a higher level of care and calling 911. Early on, I felt pressure to handle as much as possible on my own. Over time, I have learned that patient safety comes first, even if that means stepping back and involving a higher level of care. This experience has strengthened my confidence in decision-making while also teaching me humility. Good clinical care is not about proving you can handle everything. It is about knowing when to escalate and trusting the larger emergency response system.

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This is a picture of our setup at an outdoor music festival. It shows how non-traditional the environment is and how often we don't have all the supplies of a fully equipped ambulance.