There’s a moment in The Truman Show when Truman stares into the camera and says, “In case I don’t see ya, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.” It’s delivered like a catchphrase, something charming and rehearsed, but by the end of the film, it feels like a quiet rebellion. A man finally sees his life for what it is—and chooses to walk away from what everyone else accepts. That idea—that the world can feel manufactured, almost too put together—has stuck with me. Not because I think life is literally a set or that people are pretending, but because there’s a strange comfort in going along with what’s expected. You follow the path: school, activities, planning for the future. You learn how to say the right things. Over time, it’s easy to mistake performance for purpose. What The Truman Show does so well is capture the moment when someone decides that isn’t enough. Truman’s world is beautiful and safe. But it isn’t real. The people around him smile on cue, avoid the hard questions, and steer him away from anything that might disrupt the illusion. And still—he feels it. That nagging sense that something is missing. That maybe life is meant to be more than this loop of comfort and control. There’s something powerful in watching him resist—not with anger or chaos, but with curiosity. He begins to question the familiar. He notices patterns. He listens to his own instincts, even when they lead him into uncertainty. That’s what’s stayed with me the most: the idea that growth starts the moment you begin to ask why. It’s not about rejecting the world. It’s about seeing it clearly. About knowing when you’re acting and when you’re living. That realization has shaped how I look at everything—conversations, goals, expectations. It’s helped me slow down and pay attention to the quiet things people don’t say out loud, the stories that don’t make it onto social media, the moments where honesty breaks through the script. The Truman Show doesn’t end with a big speech or a grand reward. It ends with a door. A man chooses to leave behind everything safe and familiar because he knows it’s not real. That image, him walking up the stairs of the fake sky into something unknown, feels more real than anything else in the film. It’s not just a metaphor for freedom—it’s a reminder that we all have a choice. That’s what the movie gave me: permission to question. To notice. To live intentionally, even in the smallest ways. And to understand that the most meaningful parts of life often begin when you step outside the script.

In a small community, every action echoes louder. Whether it's mowing someone’s lawn without being asked or cheering on a little sibling from the stands, there’s a shared rhythm of looking out for one another. Growing up in Georgia, I’ve been part of that rhythm in ways that have felt both natural and, at times, eye-opening. My role hasn’t been about big declarations of service or formal leadership titles—it’s been about noticing what needs to be done and stepping into it without waiting for a spotlight. One of the most consistent ways I’ve given back is through mentoring freshmen at my high school. It started informally—answering questions in the classroom, helping someone find their classes, showing up to support them outside the classroom—but it grew into something more intentional. I realized that for a lot of students, especially the ones who are quiet or unsure of where they fit, high school can feel like a maze of unwritten rules. Being someone who’s socially active and connected in different groups, I had the ability to help them navigate it. I didn’t just want to be someone they looked up to—I wanted to be someone who made them feel seen. That same mindset extended into the student section, where I was a student section leader, which became a surprising space for change. It may just look like a crowd of loud teenagers in themed outfits, but what happens there sets the tone for school spirit and inclusion. When we started organizing cleanups after games and reaching out to students who didn’t typically come to events, the section became more than a place to shout—it became a place to belong. These small acts didn’t make headlines, but they shifted the culture. They reminded people that community pride doesn’t have to come at the cost of kindness. But I’ve also learned that serving your community means being willing to question it. There’s a deep-rooted sense of tradition here, and while that brings stability, it can also make change feel threatening. I’ve seen how hard it can be to talk about mental health, or how cultural differences are sometimes brushed off instead of embraced. For future generations, I want to help create a space where listening matters just as much as leading. That starts with conversations—quiet ones in locker rooms, honest ones in classrooms, and bold ones at dinner tables. One idea I’d love to see take root is a student-led community roundtable—something that brings together students, teachers, local leaders, and families to talk openly about what our community needs and where it's headed. Not a formal meeting, but something more human. Real food. Real voices. A place where people of different ages and backgrounds get to tell their stories and listen to others. I believe that kind of space can lead to real projects—better resources for students, more support for working families, new ways to celebrate the diversity that exists quietly in every neighborhood. Helping a community doesn’t always look like charity drives or volunteer hours logged on paper. Sometimes it’s about walking slowly enough through your day to notice who’s being left behind, and caring enough to reach back. The ways I’ve served my community so far have been simple, even ordinary—but they’ve taught me that the most powerful changes often begin that way.

The world I’ve grown up in has always spoken before I had to. In the South, the air is thick with tradition—everything from the way people wave at each other on the road to how Friday nights feel under stadium lights. It’s a place where faith, family, and football are pillars, and where you’re often expected to follow a path already laid out for you. But within that structure, I’ve learned to observe more than I speak, to pay attention to what people value, and to question what those values mean for me. Being surrounded by a culture that’s both warm and rigid has taught me the importance of curiosity. It’s why I’ve found myself pulled toward languages I don’t speak yet, countries I haven’t seen, and ideas that don’t always align with what’s around me. Even things like conspiracy theories, odd as they seem, have shown me how people crave truth, meaning, and control in a complicated world. I’ve realized that identity isn’t just inherited—it’s discovered through contrast. My sense of self has come not from standing apart, but from understanding the rules deeply enough to know when to challenge them. The world around me hasn’t boxed me in; it’s given me the blueprint. It’s taught me that identity is less about what you declare and more about what you choose to carry forward, change, or question.