Long before I understood chemical equations or the scientific method, I was captivated by a simple question: How do we know what's true? Every summer, I watched crime documentaries expecting suspense, but I found myself captivated by the evidence instead. A single fingerprint, a trace of DNA, or even a seemingly insignificant fiber could tell a story no witness could. What fascinated me wasn't solving the mystery, but realizing that evidence could speak when people couldn't. I assumed it was just another quirky obsession I would eventually outgrow. Instead, it became the foundation of my future. For years, I didn't even realize that curiosity had a name. Then I learned it was chemistry. I initially thought of it as another science class. My mom wasn't surprised by my lackluster grades in the subject. She labeled it as “hard”, and I viewed every assignment as so. However, the more I worked at it, the more I realized the evidence I had admired for years wasn't common sense, it was chemistry at work. The samples carried a story, and the fingerprints, toxicology reports, and chemical residues all relied on the same scientific principles I was learning in class. Chemistry stopped being a difficult subject and became the language that could answer. During a middle school field trip, my class participated in a mock forensic investigation involving stolen jelly sandwiches. We collected evidence, analyzed samples, measured liquids, and pieced together clues in a laboratory setting. While the mystery was fictional, my fascination was real. Watching small pieces of evidence come together into a complete explanation showed me that forensic science was more than something I found "cool". It was a process I wanted to understand and one day use to help others. That experience stayed with me, leading me to attend STEM festivals and forensic science events whenever I had the opportunity. Hearing professionals discuss their work and seeing forensic science beyond shows confirmed that this wasn't a passing interest but a career I wanted to pursue. From that point forward, I challenged myself by taking my school's most rigorous chemistry and biology courses because I wanted to build the knowledge and discipline the field demands. It was beautiful, this passion I cradled for years. When dubbed “hard”, I wasn't just motivated by the challenge itself, but the satisfaction of mastering something I once thought was beyond me. Chemistry depended on scientists who are curious enough to ask the right questions, disciplined enough to follow the facts, and compassionate enough to remember the people behind them. Perseverance is just as important as intelligence after all. Forensic science demands precision and resilience, and those challenges are exactly what inspire me. As I continue my education, I hope to become part of a new generation of women in STEM who strengthen the field through curiosity and integrity. My goal has never been simply to earn a STEM degree, but rather to build a career where science can uncover the truth. I need to perfect my craft, so that one day I can use science to uncover the truth and help bring justice to those who deserve it. Nevertheless, I aspire to help strengthen a field that benefits from diverse perspectives and careful collaboration. Scientific breakthroughs happen when people with different experiences approach problems from new angles, and I want to be part of that progress. Long before I understood chemical equations or the scientific method, I was captivated by one question: How do we know what's true? Now, I know the answer I want to spend my life pursuing: to become a forensic scientist.

Depression was strange to me. At thirteen years old, if someone had asked me what it was, I would have answered naively: “being sad.” I was only a teenager carrying my own responsibilities, homework, and fears about the future. But I knew that if I loved someone loudly enough, maybe they would begin hearing it over the voice in their head telling them they were worthless. Initially, I thought my friend was exaggerating. Middle schoolers were always dramatic, falling apart one day and laughing again the next. I assumed this would pass too. But every morning before school, I packed extra food into my backpack because I noticed they had stopped eating regularly. Spam musubi, fruit snacks, small rice balls were wrapped carefully in foil: tiny acts of care hidden between notebooks and loose papers. When I was younger, I used to feel embarrassed bringing cultural foods to school. Eventually, though, I stopped caring that my backpack smelled like a fishy pantry. Loving someone made embarrassment feel small. Soon, my backpack carried more than food and school supplies. It filled with hairbrushes, clips, and hair ties for the small ritual we created before first period. Some mornings, they were too exhausted to brush their own hair, so I would sit beside them on the stairs and untangle the knots gently while making stupid jokes just to hear them laugh again. I still remember how tired their eyes looked under the fluorescent lights and how, after I finished braiding their hair, they would stare at their reflection for a few extra seconds, almost like they were trying to recognize themselves again. Passing boys laughed at us for sitting alone together in the hallways, and my face would burn red with embarrassment. But I never stopped. What kept me returning every morning was hope: the stubborn belief that people are more than their worst days and sometimes simply need someone willing to believe that for them until they can believe it themselves. After school, I often lied to my parents and said I was staying late for clubs so I could spend more time with them. In reality, we sat together in nearly empty classrooms long after everyone else had gone home. Rain tapped softly against the windows while fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and I tutored them through assignments they no longer believed mattered. Some afternoons, they would ask how to make the feeling go away. I never had a perfect answer. So instead, I stayed. I stayed until the janitors flicked the hallway lights off, and until their mother picked them up half an hour later. At the end of the year, my friend moved away to Wisconsin, and somewhere along the way, we stopped speaking. Before leaving, they handed me a jar filled with pebbles. And it only clicked during the ride home. My friend once joked that maybe they would stop feeling so empty if they filled a jar with pebbles representing every moment they felt happy or motivated. Tiny victories most people would never notice to become reasons to keep going. The jar was filled completely to the brim: and on top sat a piece of paper listing their plans for Wisconsin and their dream of becoming a veterinarian. I cried the entire ride home. I still keep the jar on my wooden shelf; beside the Lego flowers my friends gifted me. To everyone else, it is just a jar of stones. To me, it is proof that sitting beside someone so consistently and gently, little by little, they begin believing they deserve to stay in this world.