My freshman-year RA famously imposed a bespoke curfew on me, not for late-night partying but for my laugh. Variously described as a “female Santa Claus” and “a tea kettle on the brink of explosion,” my distinctive chortle was apparently loud enough to jolt nearby innocents from their slumber. My roommates recommended a lenient sentence: no “Annie laughs” after 11 p.m.

As the semester progressed, however, neighbors who’d valued quiet now sought greater connection: what had once kept them awake began to draw them in. Whether over board-game chaos, impromptu guitar sing-alongs, or “emergency” 2 a.m. cookie runs, we laughed until tears streamed down our faces—the soundtrack to our late-night talks and silly moments.

I now carry that laughter into Alva Belmont Place, where I volunteer with women and children seeking emergency shelter from domestic abuse. Tutoring the kids inevitably devolves into spontaneous giggling—a small reclamation of childhoods that have been disrupted. In environments where levity feels like a rare commodity, laughter can defy seemingly insurmountable circumstances. This work is deeply personal: in high school, I was a victim of sexual abuse, so I understand the feelings of helplessness that induce silence. Volunteering at Alva Belmont lends my voice to women who aren’t yet able to speak out.

Sexual abuse violated my bodily integrity and personal boundaries; consequently, I was initially drawn to improve health and restore dignity via bioengineering. My design projects—prosthetics for enhanced mobility, voice-dictated wheelchairs, and skin-tone inclusive pulse oximeters—prove that solutions transcend functionality. Empowering mobility-challenged patients restores their independence; dignifying diverse patients affirms their value. I’m therefore driven to serve marginalized populations by pursuing not only thoughtful individual care but also systemic solutions that address broader inequities.

When Tuft’s Shelter Health Program received an unprecedented $100,000 grant to address Boston’s health disparities, I embraced the chance to secure critical resources for patient populations like our Alva Belmont community. My initiative, however, met formidable roadblocks. While shelters were eager to collaborate, most couldn’t afford the steep liability insurance required to keep a free clinic operational. Legal complexities surrounding vaccines, prescriptions, and blood testing outside traditional settings discouraged physicians and overwhelmed well-meaning volunteers. Some, frustrated by endless  Personal Statement bureaucratic entanglements, gave up entirely. Legal obstacles distanced me from the communities I’d pledged to serve; quality time with shelter guests capitulated to perpetual waiting games, sterile partnership pitches, and monotonous board meetings where empathy felt like an afterthought.

Realizing that administrative solutions alone weren’t enough, we broadened our approach to address linguistic and cultural barriers. I began learning business and medical Spanish and Chinese, opening doors to new patient populations rich in soul-invigorating laughter. My loud, uncontainable laughter often served as the first bridge, breaking down barriers and creating space for joy. Dancing with children and strolling with the elderly, I assisted with Medicaid registrations, locating prescription sites, and navigating housing court. I ensured medical information accuracy while promoting the comprehensibility of critical health issues. My work spans STEM, public health, and law, integrating them to better serve my ever expanding communities.

While insurance companies’ protracted negotiations held funds hostage, I enlisted a team of law students to conduct a pro bono analysis of SHOP’s operations. Dissecting our financials and compliance procedures uncovered inefficiencies we hadn’t even considered; their creative interpretation of regulations expanded our possibilities. The law wasn’t just a set of arcane rules; it represented another framework to restore joy, dignity, and healing into our care delivery. Managing this grant revealed how legal hurdles circumscribe health workers’ operations. Lawyers socially engineer those boundaries—and I knew I wanted to be one of them.

As I pursue a career intersecting healthcare and law, I’m compelled to merge my passions for advocacy and patient-centered innovations. I’ve witnessed firsthand how people transform after receiving the support they need—whether inclusive, accessible solutions or sharing laughter to break the silence. My transition into law is not just a professional one: it is the next step in my life’s work to implement tangible, lasting change. Whether addressing the complexities of domestic violence, advocating for children in special education, or navigating Medicaid appeals, I am committed to pairing legal expertise with my ability to form genuine connections with the people I serve. Laughter may not solve everything, but it does open doors—and I believe becoming a lawyer will allow me to fling those doors open wide.