Twelve years ago, I woke up to a frozen and hushed West Texas morning. Having freshly immigrated from tropical Vietnam, the cold softness of snow on my skin instantly cautioned me that I was in a land of strangers. For many tumultuous years, my family moved around Vietnam and then to the U.S. to chase financial stability. As a first-generation immigrant and the youngest of three, I learned to navigate adult responsibilities early on as I watched my parents struggle to support us. My mom worked long hours in a nail salon and my dad in a blue-collar job; they took on physically demanding jobs without any guarantees. Their hard work helped keep us afloat, but we constantly lived on the edge of economic uncertainty. As I got older, the possibility of homelessness loomed, and the reality of losing our modest home became part of our everyday fears. We lived paycheck to paycheck, and each month was a delicate balance of managing what little we had. As I focused on my studies, I saw how every piece of knowledge brought me closer to the possibility of a different future where I could support myself and help my family. This vision gave me purpose and a focus that helped me push through challenges. Education gives me the power to dream bigger than survival and allows me to see a future where my parents can finally rest after years of sacrifice. Often, first-generation students share a common distinct experience - one of balancing family obligations with the pursuit of personal goals. This can feel isolating as the pressures and responsibilities can be hard for others to understand. Nevertheless, I will take any chance to break this cycle and build a different future for my family. Beyond academics, my goal is to retire my parents. They’ve given everything to provide me and my siblings opportunities to thrive, and I want to honor their legacy by creating a stable life for us. This scholarship would help me continue on this path and empower me to build a secure future for my family and to contribute to a larger community of first-generation students. I want to uplift others who, like me, are fighting to change their trajectories. Education gave me a chance to rewrite my family’s story, and given the opportunity, I hope to extend the same grace to others who are driven to do the same.

CRISPR gene editing revolutionizes human health and represents one of the most transformative technological advancements in recent history. Originally developed to allow precise alterations to DNA, CRISPR technology now allows editing genes within living cells. This capability has profound implications for treating genetic disorders, targeting certain cancers, and addressing inherited diseases once deemed incurable. CRISPR also underscores the crucial role of women in driving scientific innovation. Dr. Jennifer Doudna, who co-discovered this technology, exemplifies the impact of women scientists on advancing research. Women like Dr. Doudna help reshape the narrative of those who contribute to groundbreaking scientific research and inspire a new generation of women to pursue careers in STEM. CRISPR gene editing’s versatility became especially visible during the COVID-19 pandemic. Early on, researchers turned to CRISPR to learn how the virus infects cells and use its precise targeting to analyze which parts of the virus could be vulnerable to treatment or prevention. Additionally, researchers relied on CRISPR for vaccine development to identify which viral proteins might trigger the best immune response in humans. This potential for immediate and long-term impact inspires my interest in using technology as a force for positive change. While CRISPR is an amazing tool, its ethical implications remind us of the responsibility that accompanies any innovation. As CRISPR progresses, there is a collective responsibility to apply it responsibly with a commitment to human welfare and equity. The collective work of innovators in this field highlights the importance of diverse voices in such conversations, as inclusivity can lead to more ethically grounded and universally beneficial advancements.

One of the unique contributions I want to make to mental health care is hosting cooking classes in my Austin community. Coming from a Vietnamese immigrant background, I've experienced firsthand how food can bring people together and foster a sense of connection. Cooking has been a way for me to manage my bipolar disorder by offering comfort and stability when I need it most. I want to share that with others by creating spaces where people can learn not only about cooking but also about self-care. By hosting these cooking classes, I hope to build a supportive community that emphasizes connection, mental wellness, and self-expression. Cooking together can be a low-cost and accessible way for people to decompress, share lasting memories, and take care of their mental health. My goal is to make these classes available in underserved communities where access to costly mental health care might be limited. Cooking transcends cultural background and creates an immediate sense of belonging. Thus, I want to replicate this experience for others.

As immigrants from Vietnam, my parents leaned on me to help them figure out a system that felt confusing and sometimes alienating. I clearly remember one doctor’s appointment when I was 15. I translated what the doctor said to my mom and watched her face change as I explained the medical jargon in my broken 6th-grade level Vietnamese. “Mom,” I said “you have high blood pressure, so that means your body is pumping too much blood.” Even though I didn’t fully understand everything, I knew how important it was to get the details right. That experience was more than just a difficult day. It sparked my interest in science and technology and showed me how knowledge, or lack thereof, could deeply affect people’s lives. This is why I chose to study STEM and Geographic Information Science (GIS). I wanted to make sense of complicated systems and use that understanding to help others. In particular, GIS can be a powerful tool in solving real-world problems. Take natural disasters like hurricanes or wildfires for example, GIS helps map out where resources and aid are needed most and allows for quicker emergency responses. This is important because I’ve always wanted to give back to communities that don’t get enough attention or help, like the one I grew up in. The true strength of GIS lies in its ability to present complex data in an easy-to-understand manner. Not everyone can sift through spreadsheets or interpret dense reports filled with numbers. When disaster strikes, real-time data visualized through maps can cut through the noise and make the information more accessible. Picture this: a map that shows flood zones in a color-coded format, where red signals immediate danger and green shows safety. This straightforward display can guide people to safer areas, and it would be faster than if they had to figure it out on their own. As the climate crisis worsens, tools like these are becoming even more vital for ensuring that the most vulnerable populations get the help they need. My journey into STEM hasn’t been without its challenges, particularly as a woman. When I told my dad I wanted to pursue STEM, he wasn’t exactly supportive. He said I shouldn’t bother and that women aren’t “cut out” for leadership roles. He even suggested I focus on being a good partner instead and let my future husband handle things while I stay home. Conversations like these remind me of the deep-rooted gender biases that still exist, even within our own families. Despite it all, these moments fuel my determination to go above and beyond. I don’t want to fill a seat at the table. Rather, I want to change the narrative of what’s possible for women in the workforce. I want to set an example for the next generation of girls who are told, just like I was, that they don’t belong in STEM.

Life was never exactly easy for me and my family. We immigrated from Vietnam to the U.S. in 2012, and they worked really hard to provide for us. My mom worked long hours at a nail salon washing feet and scrubbing floors, while my dad did tough manual labor in the oil fields. English wasn’t their first language, so I stepped in early to help with things like translating insurance forms or navigating doctor’s visits. By the time I was 15, I was basically the family’s go-to for all things paperwork. While that taught me responsibility, it also opened my eyes to the harsh realities of financial struggle. We didn’t have much growing up, and it made me appreciate everything I had. I learned how to stretch every dollar, to think twice about spending, and to value hard work above all else. That upbringing shaped my determination to pursue education. My goal is to retire my parents so they no longer have to work so hard just to make ends meet. Despite the challenges, I graduated as valedictorian of my high school class. It wasn’t easy. There were nights when I stayed up late to study with books borrowed from the library or use free online resources because we couldn’t afford tutors. The hard work paid off when I scored in the 98th percentile on the SAT. That score opened doors that allowed me to attend UT Austin without the crushing weight of student debt hanging over me. As for the future, I’m currently pursuing a master’s degree in Geographic Information Science, a field where I believe I can make a real difference. I’m particularly interested in hazard mitigation and emergency response—how we can use data to better prepare for natural disasters and protect vulnerable communities. I remember watching the news during Hurricane Milton when Florida coastal towns were hit hard. It was heartbreaking to see the images of people stranded in neighborhoods that didn’t have proper flood defenses. These were the same areas that were already struggling before the storm. Families couldn't afford to evacuate due to financial struggles. That stuck with me, and thus, I want to use my career to help prevent these kinds of tragedies by working with local governments and nonprofits to ensure that no community is left behind when disaster strikes. That’s why receiving this scholarship would mean so much. Currently, I’m balancing part-time work at the nail salon with my studies. There are days when the financial stress feels overwhelming, and it distracts from my ability to fully focus on my academic and personal care. Given the opportunity, this scholarship would lift some of that burden and allow me to fully dedicate myself to my studies and continue chasing my dream. At the end of the day, I’m driven by the desire to give back. My parents worked hard to get us to where we are, and I want to honor that by helping others in my career.

When my brother came out as gay, it wasn’t some big, dramatic moment. There were no loud arguments or slamming doors. It was quieter than that. For me, nothing changed. He was still the same person I grew up with. Yet, for my traditional Vietnamese parents, this was a shock. They didn’t know what to do, or what to say. At first, they said nothing. It was just a thick and awkward silence that stretched through dinner and beyond. I knew they didn’t understand. For them, this was completely outside the world they’d always known. Growing up in our culture, life had a certain path: you get a good education, a good job, marry (someone of the opposite sex), and then you have kids. It’s a roadmap they followed, and my brother being gay? That didn’t fit anywhere on it. I had to speak up. Not because I had all the answers, but because I couldn’t stand by and let the silence grow any louder. I told them, “He’s still the same person. Nothing’s changed. He loves you, respects you, and cares for this family, just like he always has.” Of course, it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t like they suddenly got it after one conversation. In fact, it took many conversations, and each one was tough. There were moments when they’d ask me things I didn’t know how to explain, or they’d say things that hurt to hear. I knew that, for them, this was about more than just accepting something new. Rather, it was about reshaping their entire way of thinking. I learned quickly that you can’t force people to change. You can’t make them see things your way in one go. What I could do was try to connect my brother’s life to things they already understood. I’d remind them of how much he’s done for the family. “Remember when he spent all day helping to fix up the backyard after that storm?” I’d say. “He’s still that same person. Who he loves doesn’t change that.” Those moments of connection helped. Slowly, my parents started asking more questions. They still didn’t fully get it, and I think part of them was scared. They were trying, and that was something. The lesson I learned from advocating for my brother is simple: change takes time. It’s easy to want quick fixes, but that’s not how real life works. It’s about the small steps, the slow, steady work of opening someone’s mind, even if it takes longer than you’d like. It’s about staying in those tough conversations, even when it feels frustrating or pointless. Eventually, my parents began to ask my brother about his life again, about his friends, and about how he was really doing. That might not sound like much, but it was huge. They were trying to understand, and that effort meant everything. This experience showed me that selflessness isn’t always grand or heroic. It’s often found in the persistence to keep explaining when it feels like you’re not getting through, and the patience to let people change at their own pace. It’s about showing up for the people you love, no matter how hard it gets, and guiding others toward understanding, one conversation at a time.

Snow has always been a paradox to me: soft yet biting, silent yet powerful. When my family first arrived in West Texas from Vietnam, that first snowfall felt like stepping into an unfamiliar world. It wasn’t just the climate that felt foreign, but the entire landscape of this new life. As we moved across continents, my family faced one challenge after another from homelessness to financial instability. In this landscape of uncertainty, I found my refuge in schooling. It was a place where every question had a potential answer, and every unknown could be explored with the right tools. I’ve always been passionate about geography, but Michel de Certeau's essay “Walking in the City” changed my perspective on humans and Geographical Information Science (GIS). In this essay, de Certeau contrasts the panoramic view of the city from above – the totalizing perspective of maps and planners – with the everyday lived experiences of individuals below who "walk" in the city. From the aerial view, the city seems like a fixed and structured entity. Yet from the ground level, the city becomes something fluid and unpredictable because it is shaped by the inhabitants’ practices of walking through and interacting with street corners or local businesses. Going further, GIS offers the tools to visualize and understand these layers of human experience. Each point, line, or polygon on a map represents real people with stories. As I study and work with spatial data, I want to carry this awareness into my professional and academic pursuits As an immigrant, I took on significant responsibilities early in life. My parents do not speak English fluently, so I often translate for them at doctor’s appointments or call insurance as early as 15 years old. This experience taught me not just about perseverance but also about meeting people where they are. This connection drives my interest in using GIS to improve emergency responses during crises. I care deeply about the people impacted by my work, and understanding how people navigate spaces can help build safer environments that consider emotional well-being alongside physical needs. Lastly, my parents have worked tirelessly to support me and my brothers. Therefore, I hope to build a more stable foundation to retire my parents and allow them to enjoy their time off in Vietnam. The stability I’m working toward will allow me to care for my family’s well-being and create a legacy that honors their sacrifices. Given the opportunity, this scholarship would be your investment in my potential and a way to give back to my family which has given me so much.

I remember the day when the cold was too intense, and my family had to store our food in snow-packed coolers. Huddling by the fireplace, our struggles felt overwhelming, but something shifted in me that night. I realized that even in the face of chaos, solutions could be found. My education soon became the steady rhythm in an otherwise unpredictable life, and it showed me that the unknown could be navigated with the right tools. I’ve always been passionate about the connection between humans and geography, but Michel de Certeau's essay “Walking in the City” transformed how I view Geographical Information Science (GIS). In this essay, de Certeau contrasts the panoramic view of the city from above – the totalizing perspective of maps and planners – with the everyday lived experiences of individuals below who "walk" in the city. From the aerial view, the city seems like a fixed and structured entity. Yet from the ground level, the city becomes something fluid and unpredictable because it is shaped by the inhabitants’ practices of walking through and interacting with street corners or local businesses. Going further, GIS offers the tools to visualize and understand these layers of human experience. More specifically, each point, line, or polygon on a map represents real people with unique stories. This connection between humans and data drives my interest in using GIS to improve emergency responses. Mental health can be unpredictable and requires a strong support system to mitigate harm. From personal experience, I know that one moment might feel like scaling an emotional mountain, while another feels like wandering through a fog. Therefore, understanding how people navigate spaces can help build safer environments that consider emotional well-being alongside physical needs. As I study and work with spatial data, I am committed to integrating the human element into my professional and academic pursuits. Similarly to other applicants, my immigrant background has given me a deep sense of empathy rooted in witnessing my parents’ sacrifices. My mom washes people’s feet in a nail salon, while my dad spends long grueling hours as an oil worker. They were so busy working that they didn’t have the time or energy to learn English. From the age of 14, I took on the role of translator to help them through doctor’s appointments, insurance calls, and anything else they needed. This experience taught me about meeting people where they are, understanding their struggles, and advocating for them when they’re overlooked. It is this empathy that drives what I do because I know the value of hard work and how much the contributions of blue-collar workers often go unnoticed. Given the opportunity, this scholarship is a step toward achieving my goal of retiring my parents and creating a legacy that honors their sacrifices.

Snow has always been a paradox to me: soft yet biting, silent yet powerful. When my family arrived in West Texas from Vietnam, that first snowfall felt like stepping into an unfamiliar world. It wasn’t just the climate that felt foreign, but the entire landscape of this new life. As we moved across continents, my family faced one challenge after another from homelessness to financial instability. In this landscape of uncertainty, I found my refuge in schooling. It was a place where every question had a potential answer, and every unknown could be explored with the right tools. I’ve always been passionate about geography, but Michel de Certeau's essay “Walking in the City” changed my perspective on humans and Geographical Information Science (GIS). In this essay, de Certeau contrasts the panoramic view of the city from above – the totalizing perspective of maps and planners – with the everyday lived experiences of individuals below who "walk" in the city. From the aerial view, the city seems like a fixed and structured entity. Yet from the ground level, the city becomes something fluid and unpredictable because it is shaped by the inhabitants’ practices of walking through and interacting with street corners or local businesses. Going further, GIS offers the tools to visualize and understand these layers of human experience. Each point, line, or polygon on a map represents real people with stories. As I study and work with spatial data, I want to carry this awareness into my professional and academic pursuits As an immigrant, I took on significant responsibilities early in life. My parents do not speak English fluently, so I often translate for them at doctor’s appointments or call insurance as early as 15 years old. This experience taught me not just about perseverance but also about meeting people where they are. This connection drives my interest in using GIS to improve emergency responses during crises. I care deeply about the people impacted by my work, and understanding how people navigate spaces can help build safer environments that consider emotional well-being alongside physical needs. Lastly, my parents have worked tirelessly to support me and my brothers. Therefore, I hope to build a more stable foundation to retire my parents and allow them to enjoy their time off in Vietnam. The stability I’m working toward will allow me to care for my family’s well-being and create a legacy that honors their sacrifices. Given the opportunity, this scholarship would be your investment in my potential and a way to give back to my family which has given me so much.

Twelve years ago, I woke up to a frozen and hushed West Texas morning. Having freshly immigrated from tropical Vietnam, the cold softness of snow on my skin instantly cautioned me that I was in a land of strangers. My family moved around Vietnam and then to the U.S. for many tumultuous years to chase financial stability. There were times when electricity or gas bills were not paid, so food was stored in snow-packed coolers and everyone slept in the living room by the fireplace to stay warm. While my upbringing was chaotic and often unpredictable, my schooling had become my refuge amongst instability and homelessness because it showed me a universe where problems had solutions. Since those times of economic hardships, what has remained the same throughout has been my interest in applying technology to understand something previously unknown. I’ve always been passionate about Geographical Information Science (GIS), but Michel de Certeau's essay “Walking in the City” changed my perspective about humans and geography. In this essay, de Certeau contrasts the panoramic view of the city from above – the totalizing perspective of maps and planners – with the everyday lived experiences of individuals below who "walk" in the city. From the aerial view, the city seems like a fixed and structured entity. Yet from the ground level, the city becomes something fluid and unpredictable because it is shaped by the inhabitants’ practices of walking through and interacting with street corners or local businesses. Going further, GIS offers the tools to visualize and understand these layers of human experience. Each point, line, or polygon on a map represents real people with stories. As I study and work with spatial data, I want to carry this awareness into my professional and academic pursuits Beyond my academic journey, my battle with bipolar disorder has also shaped the way I connect with geography. Bipolar disorder brings significant mood swings and unpredictability. One moment might feel like scaling an emotional mountain, while another feels like wandering through a fog. Over the years, I have learned to cope through meaningful relationships with friends and family, especially with my mother. We have grown closer over the years, particularly as I invite her into my world through cooking and hosting dinner parties. These small rituals are a lifeline for me because they create spaces where the dearest people in my life can gather around the same table. These moments of connection ground me and remind me of the importance of finding peace within chaos. Compared to other applicants, my immigrant background has given me a unique sense of empathy. As an immigrant, I took on significant responsibilities early in life. My parents do not speak English fluently, so I often translate for them at doctor’s appointments or call insurance as early as 15 years old. This experience taught me not just about perseverance but also about meeting people where they are. This empathy is key to why I’m passionate about what I do. I care deeply about the people impacted by my work, and understanding how people navigate spaces can help build safer environments that consider emotional well-being alongside physical needs. This scholarship is an opportunity for myself and a way to give back to my family which has given me so much. Thank you for your consideration.

Watching my uncle fade away from the effects of long-term drug use has been one of the most difficult experiences I’ve faced. My uncle’s passing wasn’t sudden; it was a gradual decline over the years. Over time, his body and spirit deteriorated from the toll that drugs and alcohol took on him. Each update about his condition – from his organ failures to his inability to perform basic bodily functions on his own – felt like another step toward an inevitable end. Growing up in Vietnam, my family was and is deeply shaped by the traumas of the War. My uncle, who was only ten when the Vietnam War ended in 1975, struggled to process the difficult realities that followed. The aftermath took a heavy toll on him, and he turned to drugs and alcohol as ways to cope with the emotional scars. Even though my uncle was in a rehabilitation center, it felt too little, too late. In his case, the traumas that he experienced led him down a path that ultimately took his life. The emotional toll that comes with holding onto hope while watching someone you love disappear bit by bit was difficult to process. I hoped for recovery or a turnaround, but addiction’s grip is strong. Reality isn’t always kind. Witnessing my uncle’s decline has forced me to navigate feelings of grief, helplessness, and anger. Yet, I’ve also learned about resilience – not just in myself, but in my family. My grandmother, now 93 years old, has been my guiding light through this journey. Despite enduring the loss of her husband and facing the daily hardships of life in post-war Vietnam, she never wavered in her commitment to her family and community. She worked tirelessly to ensure that her sons had food to eat and a roof over their heads. It’s incredible to see her still standing today after everything she’s been through. I am often reminded that no matter how much pain we’ve endured, there is always a way to move forward. As I’ve grown, I’ve realized that healing from generational trauma requires intention. For me, creative outlets like DJing and cooking have been essential tools in this journey. They have become meditative practices to keep me grounded. When I’m DJing, I can focus on the rhythms, the melodies, and the crowd’s energy. It allows me to stay present and helps to quiet the noise in my mind. Cooking offers the same grounding effect; I simply concentrate on each step while finding peace in the process. These moments of creation are my self-care, for they remind me that there is beauty to be found. I aspire to continue my education in graduate school because I want to make meaningful contributions to the world. In closing, my grandmother is the greatest influence in my life, and my uncle’s passing does not erase the memories we share. I see both of them as people full of love and carried so much from a life filled with agony. These impressions are what I will always remember about them. They have shown strength in ways that many people can’t understand, and their resilience is rooted in love even when the odds feel insurmountable. Regardless of what holds in my future, my family’s stories teach me how to thrive, to continue living with purpose, and to honor those who came before me.

In my life, I’ve always believed that kindness can manifest in many forms - from small gestures to sustained efforts that ripple out into the community. I’ve experienced the power of kindness through my involvement in initiatives that have allowed me to support and uplift others, such as the ATX Free Fridge program and the Metz Elementary archive project. These experiences have taught me that acts of compassion are not only about helping in the moment but also about creating a lasting impact by fostering a sense of connection and care. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve been able to show kindness and compassion is through my work with the ATX Free Fridge program, a mutual aid initiative in Austin that provides free food to those in need. This initiative aligns closely with my values, not only in terms of sustainability but also in creating a sense of community support. Having grown up in Vietnam, my grandmother saved leftover sauces in yogurt containers and my mother grew vegetables in our backyard. Inspired by the resourcefulness my family practiced, I felt drawn to the program as a way to contribute back to my community. Through ATX Free Fridge, I’ve been able to donate homemade meals and surplus groceries to provide fresh and nutritious food. I take pride in cooking these meals with care, while knowing that even something as simple as a warm meal can bring comfort to someone’s day. For me, this act of kindness is about more than just providing food; it’s about making people feel seen and cared for. Seeing the fridges filled with meals and knowing that the food I prepared will be enjoyed by someone else brings me a deep sense of fulfillment. What’s particularly rewarding about the Free Fridge program is its emphasis on reciprocity. Community members can both give and take, creating an ongoing cycle of kindness. This ethos resonates deeply with me, as I believe that kindness should be mutual and continuous. My involvement with the program has shown me how small acts of compassion, like cooking a meal or donating groceries, can contribute to a larger network of care that supports the most vulnerable in our city. It has also opened my eyes to the power of community-based solutions and how compassion can create a butterfly effect that ripples outwards. In addition to my work with the ATX Free Fridge, I’ve also had the opportunity to contribute to the Metz Elementary archive project, a community-focused effort to preserve the rich history of a school that closed down after the pandemic. This project allowed me to use my research skills to help tell the stories of the children, teachers, and families who were part of the school’s long legacy. Working alongside educators and community members, I saw firsthand the importance of honoring the past while making space for future generations to thrive. My role in this project was organizing metadata for the online archive and creating the timeline for the website. More importantly, I am grateful to have an opportunity to give back to a community that had long nurtured and educated their children. I believe the impact of this archive will resonate for years to come as future generations look back on the stories we helped preserve. Both of these experiences—the ATX Free Fridge and the Metz Elementary archive—have shaped my understanding of what it means to live a life defined by kindness, love, and generosity. Through these efforts, I have learned that kindness is not always about grand gestures but about showing up for your community in meaningful and consistent ways. On a more personal note, kindness is a way of making the world a little easier to breathe – one act at a time. It’s about fostering connections, uplifting others, and contributing to a shared sense of belonging. As I move forward in my academic and professional journey, I am committed to carrying these lessons with me. I strive to live a life that embodies the values of kindness, compassion, and generosity – just as Jennifer and Rob Tower did. I believe that through small acts of goodness, we can create a ripple effect that transforms lives and communities.

Growing up in Vietnam, I witnessed sustainability in action long before I understood the concept. My childhood was filled with the sights and sounds of my grandmother’s kitchen and my mother’s backyard garden. Both of these maternal role models of mine exemplified how to live in harmony with the environment. These experiences not only shaped my understanding of resourcefulness but also inspired my commitment to sustainability in my own life. Every evening after dinner, my grandmother carefully collected the leftover scraps from our meal and scooped them into empty plastic yogurt containers that she had washed and set aside. In our home, nothing went to waste. These containers, which many would consider disposable, became the vessels for tomorrow’s lunch or dinner. While I didn’t fully grasp it at the time, my grandmother was practicing sustainability by repurposing materials and reducing waste. This wasn’t a grand gesture; it was simply a part of daily life rooted in necessity. My mother’s backyard garden was another example of this mindset. She raised chickens in our backyard. This act of care was not only to provide eggs for our family but also as part of a sustainable ecosystem. After cracking eggs for breakfast, my mom would crush the eggshells and scatter them around her plants to serve as fertilizer. She showed me how nature works in cycles. What we took from the earth could be returned to nourish it. The chickens helped keep the garden healthy. In return, the garden supported our family. It was a delicate balance that required intentional choices and a deep understanding of our environment. After moving to Austin for college, I was inspired by my family to find a way to give back to my community while practicing sustainability. Learning from my grandmother’s daily practice of repurposing food, I began donating meals and surplus groceries to the ATX Free Fridge program – a mutual aid initiative that provides free food to those in need. I not only help nourish my community but also combat food waste – an issue I’ve long been conscious of due to my immigrant upbringing. Just as she used leftover eggshells to enrich her plants, I see the meals I prepare as a way to feed both bodies and the community. Personally, living sustainably is about more than just reducing my personal carbon footprint; it’s about fostering a sense of community and reciprocity. By donating food to the ATX Free Fridge program, I’m carrying forward my family’s legacy of resourcefulness and care into my community in Austin. Just as my grandmother found new life for yogurt containers, I seek out ways to repurpose waste and continue the lessons passed down through generations.