Unexpectedly, I found myself in a First Robotics Competition meeting sophomore year. I had been apart of robotics programs previously, but this was big kid robotics. There were no Lego instructions or brightly colored coding blocks—absolutely nothing I felt comfortable with. The 2022 challenge was due to come out any minute. I sat towards the back of the dim room and watched the TV as everyone leaned in close to hear the speaker. Blue and red light bounced across the metal folding chairs as brightly colored balls graced the screen. The minute and 46-second video ended, and the room erupted with activity. The strategy sub-team ran to their computers, hurriedly downloading the 136-page game manual. The control sub-team gathered on the mock field, brainstorming possible autonomous paths. The mechanical sub-team flew to the whiteboards, sketching useful mechanisms. Everyone had a place—a purpose. Without one, I timidly followed the mechanical sub-team to the main whiteboard. The following practices were devoted to getting the whiteboard doodles into a useful form: CAD. Sitting at an extra laptop, I would follow the instructions of my mentor —a younger student. There I was, sitting in the corner utterly embarrassed that I had to be taught what the people around me had learned in 8th grade. My pride was defeated. It took everything within me to not count down minutes or fabricate excuses to run out the door. One day he took me over to Octavian, last year’s robot; he thought a break from the glowing lines of SolidWorks would do me good. Grunting, we flipped the 120-pound beast over onto its side. Together we tore off every wheel module, cleaned each component, and meticulously reassembled each piece. As every gear clicked into its final position, my love for the activity grew. Everything fit together like one giant puzzle. Only then did I appreciate designing the puzzle pieces. I wasn’t instantly a star roboticist. I’ll never forget when I drilled the wrong size holes, and a new part was needed. But unlike previous activities, I didn’t mind that I wasn’t the best. I didn’t let my love for something be diminished because others were better than me. No spotlight nor shiny trophy was needed to prove to myself I was justified in loving it. I began appreciating the constant hum of the CNC router, the beeps from the 3D printer, and the never-ending discovery of random gears and spacers. I was a part of the team. The following year I led the mechanical pit crew at Worlds alongside my old mentor. We ended as division finalists—just short of it all. Without my experiences in robotics, I never would have had the courage to pursue mechanical engineering. I've learned how to design and manufacture my own parts, how to review and re-engineer components to increase efficiency, even how to use what feels like every power tool under the sun. The highlight of my year was to see parts that I designed being made on an industrial-sized assembly line originally meant for rollercoaster parts. I still get chills thinking about the first cut in the sheet metal piece, a small bracket that originally started as an idea on a random Tuesday afternoon. I'm incredibly proud of all I've learned and look forward to building upon my knowledge in my next season of life studying engineering at Purdue University.

The lights dimmed. The muffled tune of “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” played throughout the auditorium. With shiny black tap shoes, I ran onto the stage to my designated purple star. I advised myself, whispering the correct way to do each move, “toe heel, toe heel heel, toe heel, toe heel heel.” I slid into a split for the grand finale as my fellow preschoolers picked their noses. Maybe that isn’t exactly how it went. Regardless, I stole the show. Afterward, the director approached my mom asking if I'd join their competitive dance team. I was too young; she offered to make an exception. I fell in love with dancing. As long as I received approval and awards, I continued loving it. I adored the front row; I adored the rush of winning. I adored being the “special exception.” Unexpectedly, I found myself in a First Robotics Competition meeting sophomore year. I had been a part of a robotics program previously, but this was Big Kid robotics. There were no Lego instructions or brightly colored coding blocks—absolutely nothing I felt comfortable with. The 2022 challenge was due to come out any minute. I sat towards the back of the dim room and watched the TV as everyone leaned in close to hear the speaker. Blue and red light bounced across the metal folding chairs as brightly colored balls graced the screen. The minute and 46-second video ended, and the room erupted with activity. The strategy sub-team ran to their computers, hurriedly downloading the 136-page game manual. The control sub-team gathered on the mock field, brainstorming possible autonomous paths. The mechanical sub-team flew to the whiteboards, sketching useful mechanisms. Everyone had a place—a purpose. Without one, I timidly followed the mechanical sub-team to the main whiteboard. The following practices were devoted to getting the whiteboard doodles into a useful form: CAD. Sitting at an extra laptop, I would follow the instructions of my mentor —a younger student. There I was, sitting in the corner utterly embarrassed that I had to be taught what the people around me had learned in 8th grade. My pride was defeated. It took everything within me to not count down minutes or fabricate excuses to run out the door. One day he took me over to Octavian, last year’s robot; he thought a break from the glowing lines of SolidWorks would do me good. Grunting, we flipped the 120-pound beast over onto its side. Together we tore off every wheel module, cleaned each component, and meticulously reassembled each piece. As every gear clicked into its final position, my love for the activity grew. Everything fit together like one giant puzzle. Only then did I appreciate designing the puzzle pieces. I wasn’t instantly a star roboticist. I’ll never forget when I drilled the wrong size holes, and a new part was needed. But unlike previous activities, I didn’t mind that I wasn’t the best. I didn’t let my love for something be diminished because others were better than me. No spotlight nor shiny trophy was needed to prove to myself I was justified in loving it. I began appreciating the constant hum of the CNC router, the beeps from the 3D printer, and the never-ending discovery of random gears and spacers. I was a part of the team. The following year I led the mechanical pit crew at Worlds alongside my old mentor. We ended as division finalists—just short of it all. But I found something far greater, something I loved. I loved it for what it was, not just the accolades.

The lights dimmed. The curtains lifted. The muffled tune of “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” played throughout the auditorium. With shiny black tap shoes, I ran onto the stage to my designated purple star. While friends waved to their parents, I followed choreography as instructed. With vibrant red and green bows adorning my pigtails, my feet sprang to life. I advised myself, whispering the correct way to do each move, “toe heel, toe heel heel, toe heel, toe heel heel.” I slid into a split for the grand finale as my fellow preschoolers picked their noses. Maybe that isn’t exactly how it went. Regardless, I stole the show. Afterward, the director approached my mom asking if I'd join their competitive dance team. I was too young; she offered to make an exception. I fell in love with dancing. As long as I received approval and awards, I continued loving it. I adored the front row; I adored the rush of winning. I adored being the “special exception.” Unexpectedly, I found myself in a First Robotics Competition meeting sophomore year. I had been a part of a robotics program previously, but this was Big Kid robotics. There were no Lego instructions or brightly colored coding blocks—absolutely nothing I felt comfortable with. The 2022 challenge was due to come out any minute. I sat towards the back of the dim room and watched the TV as everyone leaned in close to hear the speaker. Blue and red light bounced across the metal folding chairs as brightly colored balls graced the screen. The minute and 46-second video ended, and the room erupted with activity. The strategy sub-team ran to their computers, hurriedly downloading the 136-page game manual. The control sub-team gathered on the mock field, brainstorming possible autonomous paths. The mechanical sub-team flew to the whiteboards, sketching useful mechanisms. Everyone had a place—a purpose. Without one, I timidly followed the mechanical sub-team to the main whiteboard. The following practices were devoted to getting the whiteboard doodles into a useful form: CAD. Sitting at an extra laptop, I would follow the instructions of my mentor —a younger student. There I was, sitting in the corner utterly embarrassed that I had to be taught what the people around me had learned in 8th grade. My pride was defeated. It took everything within me to not count down minutes or fabricate excuses to run out the door. One day he took me over to Octavian, last year’s robot; he thought a break from the glowing lines of SolidWorks would do me good. Grunting, we flipped the 120-pound beast over onto its side. Together we tore off every wheel module, cleaned each component, and meticulously reassembled each piece. As every gear clicked into its final position, my love for the activity grew. Everything fit together like one giant puzzle; only then did I appreciate designing the puzzle pieces. I wasn’t instantly a star roboticist. I’ll never forget when I drilled the wrong size holes, and a new part was needed. But unlike previous activities, I didn’t mind that I wasn’t the best. I didn’t let my love for something be diminished because others were better than me. No spotlight nor shiny trophy was needed to prove to myself I was justified in loving it. I began appreciating the constant hum of the CNC router, the beeps from the 3D printer, and the never-ending discovery of random gears and spacers. I was a part of the team. The following year I led the mechanical pit crew at Worlds alongside my old mentor. We ended as division finalists—just short of it all. But I found something far greater, something I loved. I loved it for what it was, not just the accolades. So fall of 2024 I will be attending Purdue University to study mechanical engineering and I'm so incredibly excited to do so.