Growing up as a member of the LGBTQ+ community, I learned early that identity can shape how the world responds to you. It can be a source of pride and strength, but it can also make you stand out in ways that invite scrutiny. For me, that reality became especially clear when I joined a male high school hockey league as the only girl on the ice. Hockey was more than a sport. It was confidence, discipline, and belonging. I loved the rhythm of skates cutting across the ice and the intensity of competition. Stepping into a league dominated by boys did not intimidate me at first; I believed my dedication and skill would speak for themselves. Instead, my presence was treated as an exception that needed justification. My mistakes were magnified, my abilities questioned, and my commitment doubted. What began as subtle comments and side glances evolved into direct bullying. I was made to feel like I did not deserve the space I had earned. Eventually, the hostility became overwhelming, and I was pushed out of the league. Losing hockey felt like losing a part of my identity. As a young LGBTQ+ woman already navigating questions of acceptance and authenticity, the experience reinforced a painful message: difference is often met with resistance. But being forced off the ice did not silence me. It redirected me. Writing became my outlet and my refuge. On the page, I could unpack the anger and confusion that I could not voice aloud. I could explore what it meant to feel isolated while still refusing to shrink myself. Writing gave me control when other spaces tried to take it away. It allowed me to transform painful experiences into reflection, and reflection into purpose. Through writing, I began to understand the power of narrative. Stories shape perception. They humanize experiences that others may misunderstand. They build empathy where judgment once lived. When I wrote about exclusion, resilience, and identity, I was not just processing my own experiences—I was creating space for others who felt invisible. I realized that writing is more than expression; it is advocacy. The challenges I have faced because of my identity have shaped my passion. Being bullied out of hockey taught me how deeply words and actions can wound. Writing showed me how words can also heal. I am passionate about pursuing writing because I want to amplify voices that are often dismissed, especially within the LGBTQ+ community. I want to challenge narrow expectations about gender, strength, and belonging. I want to tell stories that affirm that there is no single way to exist authentically. My experiences have taught me resilience, empathy, and courage. They have also given me purpose. Writing is how I turn adversity into impact. It is how I claim space when it is denied. It is how I ensure that difference is not something to hide, but something to honor. Through writing, I have found my voice—and I intend to use it.

Growing up as the child of a military parent shaped every part of who I am. My father served 22 years in the United States Air Force, and with that commitment came constant change, long separations, and lessons in resilience that most children do not learn so early in life. Some of my earliest memories are rooted in Japan, where we lived during part of my childhood. Japan did not feel foreign to me — it felt like home. The neighborhoods, the schools, the rhythms of daily life overseas were all I knew. I built friendships there, became comfortable in the culture, and developed a sense of belonging. When it came time to move back to the United States, I was no longer just adapting to something new; I was grieving something familiar. Returning stateside was overwhelming and stressful. I felt out of place in what was supposed to be my “home” country. While other students seemed to move confidently through their routines, I struggled to find where I fit. That transition taught me that home is not simply a location — it is the people and experiences that shape you. But the most defining part of my experience was not just the relocations — it was the deployments. My father was deployed multiple times throughout his career. Each deployment meant months of uncertainty. It meant birthdays celebrated over grainy video calls, holidays with an empty seat at the table, and the quiet fear that lives in the back of your mind when someone you love is in harm’s way. As a child, you do not fully understand geopolitics or global conflict, but you understand absence. You understand the heaviness in your home. Watching my mother manage everything alone overseas was one of the most formative experiences of my life. She navigated a foreign country, raised children, handled finances, and carried the emotional weight of worrying about my father — all while trying to keep life as normal as possible for us. There were moments when I saw her exhaustion, even though she tried to hide it. That quiet strength taught me what resilience truly looks like. It is not loud or dramatic. It is steady. It is showing up every day even when you are afraid. As I grew older, I began to take on more responsibility at home. I helped where I could, became more independent, and matured quickly. I learned that service is not limited to the person in uniform; it extends to the entire family. The sacrifices are shared. The growth is shared too. Being a military child has given me a unique perspective on commitment, discipline, and gratitude. I have witnessed firsthand the cost of service and the strength required to support it. I have learned to be adaptable in unfamiliar environments, empathetic toward others facing unseen struggles, and determined in the face of uncertainty. My father’s 22 years in the Air Force were defined by dedication to something greater than himself. Watching his service — and my mother’s unwavering support — instilled in me a deep sense of responsibility to pursue my own goals with the same level of perseverance and purpose. The challenges of military life did not weaken me; they strengthened me. They taught me that resilience is built in moments of absence, growth happens through change, and strength often looks like simply continuing forward. Those lessons will guide me not only through my education, but through every chapter of my life.