Mayu Nakano

Tell us more about why this field of study at MIT appeals to you.* (100 words or fewer)

Neuroscience and comparative literature may seem dissimilar, but they have a surprising connection: they

both center on understanding and interpreting human experience. By studying both, I can gain a deeper

understanding of the human experience. At its core, neuroscience is the study of how the brain functions

and contributes to perception. Comparative literature, on the other hand, seeks to understand perception as

expressed through literature. Despite their differences, they share a common goal: to understand the ways

in which the brain processes information that reflects and shapes our understanding of the world.

We know you lead a busy life, full of activities, many of which are required of you. Tell us about

something you do simply for the pleasure of it. (225 words or fewer)

The kitchen is filled with the warm smell of caramelized butter. The white cabinets are speckled with

dollops of raw dough. Time is of the essence to conclude this novel experiment; I carefully extract the

mixture of starch, glucose, and sodium bicarbonate and tentatively take a scorching bite of the cookie.

I started baking in kindergarten, but years of both successful and inadequate pastry batches have made me

a skilled alchemist. Each recipe is an intricate formula of chemicals and flavor, and each attempt at a new

concoction is a hypothesis being tested.

When my brother was diagnosed with nephrotic syndrome, he had to adhere to a low-sodium diet. I took

my cooking experience to test many no-salt recipes every day, ranging from traditional Japanese food to

Mediterranean salads to Middle Eastern falafel. The steady rhythm of weighing, mixing, and whisking,

until my apron is flour-stained and my fingers smell like cumin, is an integral part of my life. It is a

creative outlet, a way to relieve stress, and my way of showing love.

Like most of my culinary endeavors, I don’t have a definite recipe for success for my future, but the miso

chocolate chip cookies cooling on my kitchen counter remind me that my preconceptions about life don’t

always have to pan out to result in delicious happiness.

Describe the world you come from (for example, your family, school, community, city, or town).

How has that world shaped your dreams and aspirations? (225 words or fewer)

I entered kindergarten with a scant understanding of English. Having lived five years with the confidence

only attainable by a little girl in hot pink, I was shocked by this sudden introduction to a foreign world.

But by second grade, I found newfound independence with the realization that I could understand English

better than my Japanese immigrant parents. I was soon proofreading their essay manuscripts. I found that

unlike my twin brother, who intuitively understands mathematical concepts, I resonate with language and

words.

I found a way to share my love of words with my parents. While I read books in English, they read

Japanese translations. My mother introduced me to the novel A Certain Ambiguity. The story is about a

college student’s search for certainty as he explores the love for Euclidean geometry that his grandfather

instilled. His rediscovery of the allure of mathematics awakened an analytical disposition that I like to

think I share.

But what captivated me more than the character’s college lectures about infinite series were the

discussions he held with his friends, where he uses mathematics to examine reality. He attempts an

axiomatic structure to his worldview, yet discovers there are co-existing truths that eliminate the

possibility of absolute certainty. In the end, he gives into a faith in mathematics. This faith is something I

seek to find for myself.

MIT brings people with diverse backgrounds and experiences together to better the lives of

others. Our students work to improve their communities in different ways, from tackling the

world’s biggest challenges to being a good friend. Describe one way you have collaborated with

people who are different from you to contribute to your community. (225 words or fewer)

I am currently a research analyst at the UAB Precision Medicine Institute (PMI). With my interest in

cancer genomics, I was drawn to the latest developments in precision medicine and how genomic data can

be leveraged.

At my first virtual PMI case review meeting, I was astounded by the range of perspectives that composed

the team. Experts from a broad range of disciplines, from clinicians to animal model scientists to

programmers, discussed together to provide insight into each case.

I analyze individual patient cases and assist in developing the biomedical reasoning engine mediKanren,

used to query potential treatments. I work closely with the PMI team and physicians to review patient

information, conduct bioinformatics analyses, suggest drug candidates, and develop a therapeutic strategy.

At MIT, I hope to continue this research. Precision medicine relies on the analysis of lots of data to tailor

treatment to individual patients. However, if this data is not representative of a diverse population, the

resulting recommendations may not be applicable. By advocating for diversity in research, I aim to ensure

that precision medicine is relevant and effective for all patients.

Tell us about a significant challenge you’ve faced (that you feel comfortable sharing) or

something that didn’t go according to plan. How did you manage the situation? (225 words or

fewer)

Amidst the pandemic, when my grandmother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I was helpless to do

anything but make her smile with anecdotes about school antics and baking mishaps over FaceTime. I

arrived in Japan too late to say goodbye.

A few weeks later, I stood at the international science fair presenting my glioblastoma research, the

culmination of a year’s dedication. But despite meeting thousands of aspiring scientists, the feeling of

excitement faded quickly. Was I making a real impact with this poster?

Seeking to rectify my detachment, I began hospital volunteering. I remember a particular neurologist

comforting his new patient. It was not a scientific explanation of her prognosis or the numbers. Within the

starch-white confines of the sterile outpatient clinic, the doctor colored the patient’s identity past the data.

This was what I had been seeking: the complicated, heartbreaking, incredible compassion of medicine.

After all, what’s the point of being able to label the hallmarks of cancer without understanding how the

patient experiences its symptoms? Why research glioblastoma transcriptomics without translating the data

to patient care? I continue down the path of science, but I am informed by my community service. The

children in the pediatric emergency department, who giggle at jokes and eagerly accept coloring pages,

continue to remind me of my grandmother and the real reason for my research.