The technology that inspires me most is artificial intelligence in education. For as long as I can remember, I’ve seen how access, or the lack of it, shapes people’s futures. Last summer, while teaching communication skills to underserved young adults in India, I met students who had incredible potential but limited resources. Many of them had never practiced English outside of the classroom. Some had never spoken to a teacher who could give them individualized feedback. They didn’t lack motivation; they lacked tools. That’s why I’m inspired by the rise of AI-driven learning platforms. The idea that a student in a rural village could access a personalized tutor on a phone screen is revolutionary. A tool that can adapt to their level, explain concepts in different ways, and even practice conversations with them opens doors that traditional systems have long kept shut. It means that education doesn’t have to depend solely on where you were born or what resources your school has. Through my nonprofit Digital Herizon, I’ve seen the difference that digital literacy can make in the lives of underserved students here in the U.S. We taught kids how to apply for jobs online, build résumés, and stay safe from cyberbullying. Watching their confidence grow with just a few weeks of training convinced me that technology, when used responsibly, can be the great equalizer. Integrating AI into this work could multiply that impact tenfold. Of course, technology is not a perfect solution on its own. AI can carry biases and raise questions of privacy. But that is exactly why we need more women, especially from diverse backgrounds, shaping how it’s developed and used. I want to be one of those voices. My goal is to study economics and data analysis, then design scalable, AI-based programs that make quality education and safety tools accessible for all students, no matter their zip code. Technology like AI reminds me that the future isn’t something we wait for, it’s something we create. With the right vision, it can be a bridge: from silence to voice, from fear to safety, from limitation to opportunity. That’s the world I want to help build.

My name is Aanya Gandhi, and I have always believed that what defines us is not just what we achieve, but the impact we leave on others along the way. Rowing has been one of the greatest teachers of my life. At five in the morning, when the river is still shrouded in fog, I’m already in the boat. It isn’t glamorous: blisters sting, my muscles ache, and there are days when exhaustion makes me want to stop. But the rhythm of the oars reminds me why I’m there. Rowing has taught me that perseverance is not about never feeling tired, but about pushing through the moments when giving up seems easier. That lesson has stayed with me far beyond the water. I carry that same persistence into the work I do off of the water. As the founder of Expressive Evolution, a nonprofit initiative I created to help students strengthen their communication skills, I’ve led workshops where children learn to speak with confidence, debate ideas, and tell their stories. One of my favorite memories was watching a shy ten-year-old finally volunteer to give a short speech in front of her peers. She looked terrified, but when she finished, the applause lit up her face. That moment reminded me that impact doesn’t come from grand gestures, but rather comes from helping someone believe in themselves. Service is also woven into the quieter parts of my life. Every weekend, I lifeguard and teach swim lessons. Some of the children I work with arrive shaking, afraid to put their heads under water. I’ve watched those same kids, weeks later, swim across the pool on their own, their fear replaced with pride. Knowing I played a small part in that transformation makes the long hours worth it. This summer, I am traveling to India to teach underserved young adults English communication skills. Many of them have never had access to this kind of support, and I know it will challenge me in new ways. But I want to be there not just to teach, but to listen, to learn, and to remind them that their voices matter. This scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of my education but also carry Kalia D. Davis’s legacy forward in my own journey. Like her, I want to live with ambition, kindness, and drive. I want to be remembered not for how much I accomplished, but for how deeply I cared, how hard I worked, and how many people I lifted up along the way.

Because I come from a line of women who were told to lower their eyes, and I dream of standing on a stage. Because I was raised to speak softly, and now I teach girls how to raise their voices. Because I carry the weight of two cultures, one that birthed me and one that challenges me, and I refuse to let either one define my limits. I am worth the dreams I chase because I’ve lived the silence I now work to break. When I was younger, I thought being strong meant staying quiet. I thought being “good” meant not taking up too much space. I spent years shrinking in classrooms, in conversations, even in my own head, until I realized that silence doesn’t keep you safe. It keeps you small. So I started building. I founded Expressive Evolution, a nonprofit that teaches communication skills to students who’ve never been told their voices matter. I’ve taught in local libraries and rural classrooms in India, working with kids and young adults who remind me of who I used to be: eager to speak, but unsure they were allowed. I organized public speaking camps, a Communication Olympics, and now a TEDx event, because I believe stories can change people, but only if someone helps them find the courage to tell them. My worth isn’t measured by perfection or titles or awards. It’s measured by the girls who leave my workshops standing a little taller. It’s in the 10-year-old who told me she finally felt brave. It’s in the 23-year-old who learned how to interview for her first job. It’s in the long nights, the messy drafts, the moments I nearly gave up but didn’t. I’m worth my dreams because I’m not chasing them just for myself. I’m building them, brick by brick, so that someday, another girl browned by the sun, unsure of her accent, and afraid she’s too much won’t have to fight so hard to believe she already is. Because when I step into rooms where I was never expected to belong, I’m not just showing up for me. I’m holding the door open behind me. I don’t want recognition. I want reach. I want impact. I want change. I want to make the world louder with voices that were once quiet, starting with mine. This woman’s worth isn’t defined by what she’s been given. It’s defined by what she’s dared to give to others. And I’m just getting started.

1. Everything I Wanted This song really speaks to me because it’s about the kind of pressure and loneliness that comes with chasing big dreams. It’s like no matter how much you achieve, there’s this constant feeling that something’s missing or that people don’t really understand what you’re going through. The way Billie sings it feels really real, like she’s opening up without trying to sound perfect. That honesty is something I connect with, especially when life feels overwhelming. 2. When the Party’s Over I love how simple but intense this song is. It captures those moments when you just want to shut everything out because you’re tired of pretending or holding it together. It’s quiet, but there’s a lot of emotion under the surface. Sometimes I listen to it when I need space to feel sad or frustrated without having to explain myself. It’s like the song gets that feeling of needing to be alone with your emotions, and that’s comforting. 3. Lost Cause No explanation needed. I just LOVE singing this song. This one feels like a quiet, confident way of calling out someone who’s just not worth your time anymore. It’s not angry or bitter, but it’s clear, like saying “I see you for who you are, and I’m done.” The calm vibe mixed with that blunt honesty makes it feel empowering in a calm way. It’s a song for knowing your worth without making a big scene about it.

Her classroom never felt like a typical classroom. There were no posters telling us to “Dream Big” or “Reach for the Stars,” and she never raised her voice to control the room. But somehow, everyone paid attention. Mrs. P was my junior year Theory of Knowledge teacher, and she taught me more about how I think, speak, and live than any teacher I have ever had. When I first entered her class, I thought I already knew how to write a good argument and hold my ground in a discussion. I liked structure, bullet points, certainty. But Mrs. P was not interested in certainty. She asked strange, open-ended questions that had no clear answers: Can something be true even if no one believes it? Does language shape reality or just describe it? At first, these questions frustrated me. I wanted a rubric. I wanted to be right. Instead, she taught us how to sit in the discomfort of not knowing. She never told us what to think, only pushed us to ask why we thought what we did. She would say, “Take your idea one step further,” or “What are you assuming here?” Not to be critical, but to make us slow down and really examine our thoughts. And over time, I began to realize that thinking deeply is not the same as thinking a lot. It requires patience, honesty, and courage. I remember one class discussion in particular. We were talking about privilege and perspective in history, and I made a comment about objectivity. Mrs. P paused and looked at me, not with judgment, but with curiosity, and asked, “Why do you believe that objectivity is possible in storytelling?” It stopped me. No one had ever asked me that. I realized in that moment how often I accepted ideas as neutral or obvious without ever questioning the assumptions behind them. That moment changed something in me. It was the first time I saw how my beliefs, background, and language shape everything I interpret. I began to take that awareness into other parts of my life. In conversations with friends, I started listening more and jumping to conclusions less. In my writing, I tried to explore multiple perspectives rather than just prove a point. Even in my leadership work, I learned to slow down and ask better questions instead of rushing to find fast answers. Mrs. P never gave me a checklist or a formula. Instead, she gave me something more lasting: the ability to think in layers, to sit with complexity, and to be okay with not having all the answers. That has changed how I approach everything, including school, relationships, leadership, and even the way I see myself. It is easy to praise teachers for being kind or helpful or fun. But Mrs. P did something harder. She taught me how to think in a way that made me less sure of myself—but in the best possible way. And because of that, I will carry her influence long after high school ends.

I was five years old when I first entered a swimming pool. I remember the overwhelming smell of chlorine, the chill of the water, and the way I clung to the wall with small hands, afraid to let go. At first, swimming felt intimidating. But over time, I discovered something unique about the sport. Unlike team sports where everything is loud and chaotic, swimming allowed me to be present with my thoughts. It became a space of quiet discipline and personal progress, a space where every stroke required both physical strength and mental focus. As I continued swimming through elementary and middle school, it gradually became a central part of my life. Swim practices began before school and often ended late in the evening. While other kids spent their weekends relaxing, I was in the water, chasing milliseconds and pushing my limits. But I never regretted the commitment. There was something deeply satisfying about shaving time off my laps or perfecting my technique. Each moment in the pool became a small lesson in perseverance, focus, and patience. Swimming also gave me something I never expected—a path toward leadership. As I got older and became more experienced, I began helping younger swimmers on my team. I found that I enjoyed guiding others and watching their confidence grow. This naturally led me to pursue positions as a swim instructor and lifeguard. Every Saturday, I work at a pool where I teach children of all ages and skill levels how to swim. Some are scared, just like I once was. Others are eager but need help refining their strokes. No matter the situation, I try to meet each child where they are and help them progress one small step at a time. Teaching has made me appreciate swimming on an entirely different level. It is no longer just about technique or speed. Now, it is about trust, growth, and communication. I have learned how to calm a crying child, how to encourage someone who feels like giving up, and how to adapt my teaching style depending on the needs of each swimmer. These experiences have made me more patient, more observant, and more empathetic—not only in the pool but in all areas of my life. Swimming has also shaped how I approach challenges. The sport has taught me that progress does not always look dramatic. Sometimes it is quiet and slow, like learning how to float or swim one more lap than the week before. That mindset has helped me in school, in leadership, and even in my personal growth. I understand the value of consistency, of showing up even when I do not feel like it, and of learning from small setbacks. Overall, swimming has given me far more than physical fitness. It has taught me resilience, discipline, leadership, and empathy. It has been a constant presence through many stages of my life, and I carry the lessons I have learned from the pool into everything else I do.