Growing up, I considered myself a Christian, but faith wasn't always a consistent part of my life. My family moved between a few different churches over the years, and we never attended regularly. During COVID-19, we stopped altogether. When we finally returned, one of our worship leaders noticed me singing in the congregation and invited me to join the worship team. I began singing backup vocals, helping with children's church, and attending youth group each week. For the first time, faith became something I actively participated in and built a community around, not just something I passively did.
During one service, I heard the story of Queen Esther. What stayed with me wasn't just her faith, but her bravery—risking her own life to defend people who couldn't defend themselves. Her story taught me that faith isn't passive. Sometimes it requires courage and a willingness to use whatever position you hold to help others. That lesson mattered as I became more involved in my community—volunteering, working with children, and founding my own youth literacy organization. My faith taught me that helping others isn't something I do only when convenient—it's a responsibility I choose to embrace.
My faith hasn't always been easy to hold onto, though. When I started working, I was scheduled on Sundays and could no longer attend church regularly. Leadership changes within my church also challenged my understanding of what I believed, and for a time, I drifted from God. Eventually, I recognized how distant I'd become and started rebuilding, in small, intentional ways. I read a few verses each morning and listen to worship music or Christian podcasts on my commute. I learned that faith isn't something I inherit or maintain through routine, or something one settled church gives you. Having moved between congregations growing up, I had to learn that it's something I choose and nurture for myself, wherever I am.
I'm pursuing a career in aerospace engineering, a field where the decisions I make will affect real people's safety, and where the pressure to cut corners—on cost, on schedule, on someone else's warnings—is real. Faith won't design a rocket for me, but it will shape how I respond when I'm the engineer who notices a problem no one wants to hear about, or when a deadline tempts a team to sign off on something that isn't ready. Esther's story is, at its core, about someone in a position to raise a concern who chose to raise it anyway, at personal cost. That's what I want to carry into a control room or a design review—the willingness to be the person who speaks up, even when silence would be easier.
Many people see science and faith as incompatible, but I see them as answering different questions. Science gives me the tools to understand the universe and build new technology; my faith helps me decide how I should use those tools. Aerospace engineering carries enormous responsibility, and I want to approach it with integrity, humility, and respect for the people my work will affect—the passengers, the crews, the communities beneath every flight path.
My definition of success isn't only what I accomplish technically. It's whether I remain someone who uses her abilities to serve others while doing it. Esther taught me that having the ability to help someone creates a responsibility to act. As I build my career, my faith will keep reminding me of that responsibility, giving me the courage to pursue ambitious goals without losing sight of what matters most.