For me, success isn't a trophy perched on a shelf or a fat salary in the bank. It's not a gilded cage of achievements or a glittering mirage of external validation. No, my kind of success blooms from within, in the quiet garden of personal growth and maturation. Imagine a wiser, gentler, sturdier me. A me who faces challenges with a well-oiled resilience, embraces vulnerability with open arms, and navigates life's rapids with a steady oar of self-awareness. A me who listens instead of reacts, understands instead of judges, and chooses kindness even when it's hard. That's my north star, the summit I climb towards with every step. Admittedly, reaching this goal is completely unachievable, however, it is the process of fighting for it, of grinding yourself down to your raw emotional self, that spurs on the immense personal growth and maturation. Success isn't just a stepping stone; it's a rocket booster strapped to my personal evolution. It's a playground to experiment, a crucible to forge resilience, and a mirror to reflect my strengths and weaknesses with brutal honesty. The challenges it presents will stretch me, the experiences will shape me, and the people I'll meet will become mirrors reflecting different facets of who I can be. Think of a sculptor chiseling away at raw stone, slowly revealing the graceful figure hidden within. This opportunity is my chisel, chipping away at the rough edges of my ego, my insecurities, my need for approval. It's a chance to refine my values, clarify my purpose, and build a foundation of self-reliance and emotional intelligence. Of course, the journey won't be a cakewalk. There will be moments of doubt, stumbles and setbacks. But with each hurdle, I'll learn to dust myself off, analyze the fall, and rise stronger. The grit I build, the lessons I learn, the compassion I cultivate; these are the true treasures I'll carry long after the opportunity itself has passed. So, while others might view this as a launchpad for career advancement or external accolades, I see it as a catalyst for growth, a fertilizer for my inner garden. It's a chance to become the best version of myself, not by chasing external markers, but by nurturing the seeds of wisdom, empathy, and resilience already planted within. No matter the outcome, as long as I grow as a person, the experience is worth it. Value is not determined by victories or defeats, value is determined by whether or not you can learn from your mistakes, to better yourself for the next experience coming your way. Improving yourself, and therefore improving the lives of others you interact with, is the real victory. And that, to me, is the sweetest taste of success. It's a victory dance danced within, a quiet symphony of self-awareness played on the strings of personal growth. It's not a destination, but a journey, and this opportunity is a passport to explore its vast, uncharted territories. I'm ready to pack my bags, lace up my boots, and embark on this adventure of becoming, one mindful step at a time.

Imagine being stuck on a movie island for the rest of your life, with only one film to keep you company. Forget Hollywood explosions or tearjerkers, I'd pick Hayao Miyazaki's "The Wind Rises." It may seem like a simple cartoon about planes, but in reality, it's so much more. This film isn't just about Jiro building planes, it's about chasing dreams. Jiro doesn't just dream casually; he lives and breathes airplanes. Every moment is about them, from his overflowing notebooks to his eyes glued to the sky. This dream fuels him, but it also costs him. Friends get left behind, love waits patiently, and the world outside shrinks. "The Wind Rises" doesn't sugarcoat this. It shows the loneliness, the weight of his obsession, and the bittersweet truth that chasing dreams can mean leaving things behind. But even in the shadows, the film never loses its sense of wonder. Jiro's planes are beautiful, taking flight like dreams themselves. The animation is breathtaking, with clouds like watercolors and landscapes swept by wind. It captures the magic of flight, reminding us why humans want to conquer the sky. Then there's Caproni, this mysterious Italian engineer who pops into Jiro's dreams like smoke. They talk about life and creating things, and these conversations add depth and meaning to the film. Caproni reminds Jiro that chasing dreams isn't about fame or glory, but about the pure joy of making something amazing. And Jiro chases these dreams all while having to keep up with reality. The scent of death is everywhere; in order to make a living he designs World War II fighter jets, and the love of his life is slowly passing from tuberculosis. It’s this touch of humanity, the inner conflicts of chasing what you love or trying to preserve what you have, that makes the movie really resonate with any viewer. So, "The Wind Rises" isn't just about planes. It's about the human spirit, the power of dreams, and the journey itself. In a world obsessed with quick fixes and shiny new things, it teaches us about dedication, sticking with it, and finding beauty in the chase. That's why it would be my one and only island film companion. It's more than entertainment; it's a friend, a mirror reflecting life's complexities, and a never-ending source of inspiration. It's a film that whispers about dreams and flying, like the wind itself, and reminds me that living a life truly lived is both beautiful and bittersweet.

Forget picket fences and lemonade stands. My Portland wasn't paved with sunshine and Suzy Homemakers. It was cobblestones slick with rainwater, the scent of damp wool clinging to you like a second skin. It was vinyl crackling from open home windows, mixing with the rumble of the MAX train as it carved through neighborhoods like rusted veins. But in this urban tapestry, my community wasn't just a street or a ZIP code; it was the buzz of conversation swirling around steaming chai lattes in dive cafes, the dog walkers weaving through autumn leaves like a furry, four-legged chorus line. Growing up here wasn't a playground paradise; it was scaling damp firs in Forest Park, the forest floor a cathedral with sunlight filtering through like stained glass. It was spending Saturdays lost in Powell's labyrinths of books, each shelf a promise of untold adventures. These weren't just hangouts; they were portals, urging you to carve your own path, trusting the rain to wash away your worries as you navigated the city's vibrant, chaotic symphony. This city didn't hold your hand; it shoved you on buses reeking of stale french fries, threw you into the mosh pit of Saturday Market, and let you find your own melody amidst the cacophony of street musicians. It was freedom, laced with kombucha stands and late-night ramen, the hum of independence pulsing through you like the bass line in a grunge anthem. But don't mistake it for cold shoulders. Portland's warmth is as constant as the drizzle, seeping through in the barista's knowing smile, the busker's song weaving around rush hour frustration. It's the clinking beer glasses under fairy lights, the rainbow explosion of Pride parades, the community garden where kale and camaraderie sprout side-by-side. This city reminds you that you're not just a face in the crowd; you're a beat in its heart, a quirky brushstroke on its ever-evolving canvas. Now, I carry Portland's spirit like a worn backpack. The independence fuels my wanderlust, its creativity ignites my dreams. And whenever doubt chills me, the city's warmth washes over me, the echo of laughter from dive bars, the scent of damp wool and vinyl records. So, Portland, thanks for the cobblestones and coffee shops, the alley art and second-hand bookstores. Thanks for the rain that whispers and the music that hums. Thanks for the tapestry of souls woven into your streets, for teaching me to chase dreams bolder than the skyline on a clear night. This city isn't just a place, it's a melody in my heart guiding me home. And in every dream I chase, I carry a little piece of the rain-washed magic, ready to blossom.

Whenever listening to music, the song that most inspires me is "Leo" by Eve. It is a song about a boy who is suicidal, and his friend that is trying to process her emotions and trying to support him. The song is in another language as well, so it works well as a casual listen-to as well. When playing piano, the song that most inspires me is "Frühlingsrauschen (Rustle of Spring)" by Christian Sinding. I was hired to learn this piece by a family that had lost a loved one recently, and this was the loved one's favorite song. Their sentiment has stayed with me, and has really taught me how meaningful the little things can be. Whether it's a song, a favorite meal, this experience has taught me that it is not always about the big things, like getting into college, but the parts of life that are taken for granted and forgotten about that can bring the most joy and impact the most people.