When I think about this summer, one of the first things that comes to mind isn’t the spreadsheets or the long literature review. It’s our soccer team, the Refried Beans. I hadn’t played in years, but something about the way people at LEO welcome you in—whether it’s for your first game or your first exploratory research design—makes you want to stay.
That’s what struck me most this summer: LEO builds community in every direction. Among interns. Between staff and students. And, most importantly, between research and the people it’s meant to serve.
I’d wanted to intern at LEO before I even arrived at Notre Dame. Back in high school, I met Professor Spence, who described LEO with a kind of contagious respect. I remember thinking, this is research that matters. Not just academic or theoretical, but real work rooted in communities, designed to answer the question, what’s really helping people out of poverty?
This summer, I worked on a study evaluating Restore Hope’s 100 Families initiative, a community-based case management program in Arkansas. One of the biggest lessons I learned is that so much of what we label “neglect” is actually about poverty—about lacking support. Restore Hope recognizes that, connecting families with resources and helping them navigate the system. Even when help exists, finding it and following through can be overwhelming when you’re already in crisis.
I didn’t expect this kind of work to feel personal. I was sitting behind a laptop, hundreds of miles from the communities I was studying. But LEO didn’t let the work stay abstract.
One of the most meaningful days of my summer was a visit to Our Lady of the Road, a local center serving unhoused individuals. I spent the morning serving coffee and listening because so often, no one does. One man told me about playing football at Penn before giving it all up to explore his faith. Another grumbled about his walker but admitted it beat falling. Two others were from my hometown in California. I left that morning thinking less about systems and more about stories—how thin the line can be between stability and struggle.
That visit made the work feel real. It reminded me that evidence isn’t just data; it’s dignity in action. Each dataset and each study is tied to real lives. It tells us what works, what doesn’t, and how to build systems that serve people with respect instead of indifference.
One of LEO’s speakers this summer told us the story of a man who, after being placed into housing, later took his own life. The isolation was too much. On paper, it was a success. In reality, it was a tragedy. That story gutted me. It made me realize that research can’t just chase metrics. It has to care about the whole person.
That’s what LEO does. It studies systems and interventions, yes, but it never forgets that at the center of every number is a name, a face, a story.
This internship taught me to think rigorously and reflect deeply—to see that what we do today, the questions we ask and the care we bring to answering them, determines the kind of change we’ll make tomorrow.
I came in knowing I want to be a doctor. I’ll leave knowing the kind of doctor I want to be: one who understands that housing, transportation, and access shape a patient long before they walk into an exam room. One who knows that dignity must be at the center of care.
That’s how LEO forms you—through both heart and rigor. Because what we do today, choosing dignity and choosing evidence, determines tomorrow’s poverty solutions.