In nearly every legal setting I’ve entered, whether beside a defense attorney or behind the prosecutor’s table, I’ve noticed how easily people can become disconnected from the systems meant to serve them. What has stayed with me most is not just the complexity of those systems, but how often language, culture, and unfamiliarity can determine whether someone feels heard at all. Working in criminal defense first revealed how uneven that experience can be. I saw how speech shaped perception, especially for clients whose use of African American Vernacular English was misread as evasive or disrespectful rather than natural. Later, at the Prosecutor’s Office, I saw those same challenges from the opposite perspective. I often translated jail calls, witness statements, and discovery materials in Mandarin. These were not simple language conversions. They required sensitivity to tone, idioms, and context. Many Mandarin expressions lose meaning when translated literally, and a phrase that might appear defiant in English could in fact reflect fear, humility, or respect. On more than one occasion, recognizing that nuance changed how a prosecutor evaluated a defendant’s intent. My understanding of those barriers also deepened through my research on formerly incarcerated women and the family members who support them during reentry. In that work, I surveyed more than 120 families, helped identify trends in reintegration experiences, and co-authored a grant-funded public policy brief through the University of Michigan Center for Racial Justice. That research made clear that the challenges people face do not end when a case does. Reentry is shaped by family support, access to resources, and whether communities have structures in place to help people rebuild their lives. Together, those experiences taught me that barriers to fairness are not always formal. Often, they exist in the gaps between what someone means and how they are perceived, or between what support they need and what support is actually available. That is why I want to pursue a career in the nonprofit sector. I am drawn to nonprofit work because it creates opportunities to address those gaps directly, through advocacy, education, research, and community-based support. I hope my work will create a positive impact in both immediate and lasting ways. On an individual level, I want to help people better understand their rights and navigate systems that often feel distant and intimidating. On a broader level, I want to support efforts that reduce the structural barriers that leave so many communities underserved in the first place. My experiences have shown me that representation, whether through attorneys, translators, researchers, or advocates can mean the difference between a fair judgment and an incomplete one. To me, the nonprofit sector is not separate from the work of justice, but one of its clearest expressions. It is where advocacy becomes practical, accessible, and community-centered. I want to build a career that uses the law not only to interpret rules, but to make systems more understandable, more humane, and more responsive to the people they affect most.

There was a moment during my time at a criminal defense firm when I realized the law was no longer something abstract. It was personal. One by one, former hockey teammates began walking through the office doors, not as athletes, but as defendants. I helped draft filings that kept their seasons alive, delaying sentencing just long enough for them to join their teams in Canada. Each time, I heard the same words: “Thank you, man. It really means a lot.” But behind that gratitude was something more complicated. We were preserving opportunity, yet also postponing accountability. That tension stayed with me and forced me to ask a deeper question: what does it actually mean to serve justice? That question followed me into the prosecutor’s office, where I began to see the system from a different angle. Justice did not operate as a single voice, but as a collection of perspectives. Evidence, testimony, and advocacy all moved a case forward, but so did quieter factors. Tone, language, and perception shaped how people were understood. I saw this most clearly when translating Mandarin jail calls and witness statements. These were not simple translations. A phrase that appeared defiant in English could, in Mandarin, signal hesitation or deference. When those nuances were recognized, they changed how a case was evaluated. In those moments, I understood that listening is not passive. It is a skill that determines whether a person is interpreted accurately or reduced to a misreading. Working on both sides of the courtroom also reshaped how I view advocacy. Rather than a simple clash of adversaries, I came to see prosecution and defense as something closer to a chef and a critic. One builds, the other tests. Through that exchange, arguments are refined and weaknesses exposed. Justice is not produced through dominance, but through pressure that forces clarity. The outcome matters, but so does the process that leads to it. When that process is fair, people can leave the courtroom with confidence in what occurred, even when the result is difficult. In a profession that often prioritizes speed and precision, kindness, listening, and empathy are easy to overlook. Yet in practice, they determine whether the law functions as intended. Kindness establishes trust in situations where people feel exposed and uncertain. Listening ensures that clients are understood beyond the surface of their words. Empathy allows a lawyer to recognize what is at stake for someone whose future is being decided. During a homicide trial I assisted with, a member of the victim’s family jokingly called me their “Asian Clark Kent.” What stayed with me was not the humor, but what it reflected. In a process that felt overwhelming and unfamiliar, simply being present and attentive mattered. It reinforced that legal work is not only about constructing arguments, but about guiding people through moments they never chose to face. That is why I will be attending law school. I want to become an advocate who understands that justice is not measured only by verdicts or outcomes, but by whether people leave the process believing they were heard, respected, and judged fairly. In a profession where kindness, listening, and empathy are often treated as secondary, I hope to make them central to my work and, through that, contribute to a legal system that is not only effective, but worthy of the public’s trust.