For millions of years, humanity has been transfixed by the stars. We gaze endlessly up, searching for meaning in the lights’ patterns. In April 2017, eight telescopes followed this tradition by turning their sights to the same infinitesimal patch of sky. They weren’t looking at the stars, however. They were looking at the 6.5 billion solar mass black hole at the center of the Messier 87 galaxy. This team was the Event Horizon Telescope and they gave humanity its first image of a black hole. The reason the EHT team was able to accomplish this feat was through a technique called Very Long Baseline Interferometry. Capturing an image of M87*, roughly 53 million light-years away, would require a telescope with a diameter nearly the size of the Earth. However, by using VLBI, telescopes across the world synchronized, creating an Earth-sized virtual aperture. The technique was not entirely new, but it had never before been tested on such a large cosmic object. Scientists from as far as Spain to the South Pole came together, across barriers of language, discipline, and culture, all for the chance to look up at the sky together and see something new. This gigantic collaboration serves as a reminder that despite all of the surface differences and divisions, we are all united by the same fundamental human qualities. Black holes draw on conjure a primal sense of fear, yet we find ourselves unable to look away. We dream and we hope and we keep asking questions. Distinctions of class, race, and gender cease to matter when faced with such cataclysmic power. When I first learned about the EHT, I was captivated by the existential awe of M87*. My initial fascination never subsided, but as the years went by, I found myself increasingly drawn to the logistics of the undertaking. Behind each physicist and astronomer was a team of computer scientists creating new algorithms to sift through the combined 5 petabytes of data. In a time in which algorithmic aversion is at an all-time high, this little footnote reminded me of why I got into computer science. Technology has this immense power to bring people together, to allow for Earth-sized telescopes to capture impossible images, and to make sense of internet-breaking data. It is this hopeful vision of technology I aim to encourage through my work. At Vanderbilt Summer Academy, I took a course called Anthropology in Action in which I explored the role of technology in activism and presented my research on algorithmic bias. Two semesters later, I submitted my capstone project on the implications of human-like artificial intelligence to my local community college. Through each of these experiences, recentering the human in the technology conversation was my driving purpose. As I transition to my next phase of life, I carry that knowledge and mindset with me. For my first semester at Duke University, I will a member of the Modeling in Economic and Social Sciences FOCUS group. By living and learning with these talented people, I hope to channel the spirit of collaboration exhibited by the EHT team. As a woman in STEM, too often have I felt alone and excluded by my peers. In traversing this path, I have gotten comfortable with this discomfort, but as I progress, I pave the way for other women and marginalized groups to follow. I have learned that while I can accomplish much alone, we would all do well to remember the EHT and the great heights we can reach when we hold each other up.

As I looked down at my class schedule, my stomach filled with dread. I wanted to major in computer science, but all my classes were in math. I didn't hate math like most people. What I felt towards the subject was much closer to anxiety. I have always enjoyed learning and most subjects came naturally to me. Math was always the exception. I could memorize rules and formulas, but I didn't always have the instincts to use them. My fear tempted me to abandon my dream, but I decided to give math a chance. After eating, sleeping, and breathing math for a year, I believe we have come to an understanding. I see the world through a new lens. The invisible hand of mathematics shapes our lives, but many never notice. Every social media algorithm relies on dozens of complex formulas. The media reports on "the algorithm" all the time but how many times do we ask what that really means? When Big Tech holds all our information, understanding their math is vital. In a very real sense, knowledge is power. Math's power over us extends all the way from the macro levels of society to within the individual. This fact was never more clear than during the Covid-19 pandemic. Each day, we relied on mathematical projects to tell us if we were safe. We even structured laws around them. Our ability to comprehend Covid data determined our responses. A miscalculation in any area had the potential for real-world consequences. Misrepresenting and misunderstanding the data is even more dangerous. If society had respected math more, there could have been lives saved. Throughout history, math has been a tool for enormous good and evil alike. The power of math can be wielded by anyone, and thus subject to abuse. Learning about math is the key to preventing such abuses. By studying mathematics, I guard the rights of myself and others. Math binds us together. The language of math transcends all borders, governs nature, and it guides us to the stars. How we see math is a reflection of ourselves and our own perceptions. It reflects the human desire to understand. It brings order out of chaos. I love the way it challenges us, dares us to think differently. I love how it changed the way I see myself, my past and future. I love math because I love our world, and I believe math can save it.

Learn: to acquire skill or knowledge through study, experience, or instruction. The concept is deceptively simple. As humans, we constantly absorb and process information, adapting our conceptions accordingly. These infinitesimal shifts compound over time and shape our personalities, but the most important lessons are not always that subtle. More often than not, it is our darkest moments that teach us to truly change. In my case, the lesson began freshman year. The start of my first year of high school promised countless opportunities. Overcome by zeal, I attempted to pursue all of them. I wanted to be the best. What I failed to acknowledge, however, were my own needs. In my quest for high school perfection, I neglected my own well-being. Without my noticing, my mental health began to deteriorate. By the start of my second semester, I had developed a severe eating disorder and had to be hospitalized. My stay at the hospital provided ample time for a reconsideration of my priorities. That semester had been its own lesson in what not to do, but I was stuck. What does success mean to a “healthy” person? More urgently, how could I heal enough to go home? I was more confused than ever. I felt lost. Luckily, I wasn’t alone. It was the support of my fellow patients, doctors, and staff that taught me my most cherished lesson: success isn’t a number. It’s leaving the world better than you found it. It’s giving back to the communities that make us who we are. Success is found in each of us and the relationships we build with each other. That kind of lesson changes your whole life. And I am all the better for it.

I had my first confrontation with mental illness after my mom got cancer. I was 11 years old. My middle school career became a cycle of competing anxieties and depressions. What I can remember of it, that is. I blocked out much of that time in favor of remaining productive. That bandaid did not fix my bullet holes, however, and I continued bleeding in the form of an eating disorder. By my second semester of high school, I was hospitalized. Miraculously, my story didn't end there. I still had a long road of treatment, therapy, and growth ahead of me. I'm still on that road now. Moving forward meant picking up new skills and confronting old memories. That process became the catalyst for a complete reorganization of my priorities. Shallow measurements of success, my grades, my size, my weight, lost their appeal. I had tried living up to the world's standards, but that path only led to pain and disappointment. Now it was time to try living for myself. Rediscovering my purpose was not a solitary quest, ironically enough. It was my relationships with others that were my most valuable assets. Only through their support and guidance could I have ever gotten to where I am now. Experiencing the depths of depression, true loneliness, taught me the value of community. As I listened to my friends, both old and new, I gained the perspective I lacked. Mental illness had blinded me to the outside world for so long. I had been so focused on dealing with my issues that I missed what was right in front of me. Helping others and strengthening those bonds was the key to finding happiness. My support network taught me that I am not alone, even when I can't see past the darkness. Giving others what they gave me is my purpose. I've been granted a second chance at life and I intend to do my best to earn it.

Covid-19 dragged healthcare into the global spotlight. This new attention highlighted all the ways American healthcare continues to fall short. The medical crises didn't end with the virus, though. The ensuing social upheaval had a catastrophic effect on the nation's mental health. In March of 2020, I witnessed these effects firsthand. I was a resident at a specialized treatment center for eating disorders. The onset of the pandemic presented a unique challenge to the staff and my fellow patients. Many patients needed extra therapy to address anxieties, but quarantines made scheduling difficult. Possible contamination limited visiting hours, but there weren't enough phones to call home. Eventually, those of us deemed "healthy enough" were sent home. I was one of them. Treating mental illness is never easy. Treating anxiety, depression, and anorexia over zoom was a whole other ordeal. I was absent of the staff's watchful eyes. I could no longer rely on authority approval to motivate me. No one would know if I relapsed. It was this thought, however, that pushed me to recover. I was forced to look within and find my own motivation. My priorities shifted. I needed to become an agent of change in my own story rather than let life happen to me. I was more than a victim, more than my diagnoses. Believing in myself became a means of survival. Believing in others, though, was about more than survival. It was about truly living. Isolated and away from my treatment team, I struggled to look forward to a recovered life. Creating an environment that encouraged me to get better was crucial. Quarantine removed the crutch of proximity that I had been leaning on. Once again, mental illness had made me a bystander in my own life. By approaching my relationships with intention, I was able to build my own network of support. However, I soon realized that I wasn't alone in this project. The more I recovered, the more I was able to see the struggles of those around me. Even those without mental illness had a hard time during Covid and everyone could use a friend. Supporting others as they had supported me brought a new depth to my interactions. Finally, I began to feel a sense of purpose. In many ways, my unique experience with mental illness changed the trajectory of my life. I saw the emptiness of the places I had sought fulfillment. Society could no longer reduce success to a number. No size, grade, or salary determined my happiness. Though I am not immune to social pressure, I can use my new knowledge to confront these ideas. My mental health journey is far from over. I don't know where my new path will take me, to which college or career. What I do know is that I will be able to overcome it. I know that I am not alone, that there are always those who can help and also those that need help. Wherever I go, I carry my experiences with me. I only hope to leave this world a little better than I found it.

In many ways, joy is a choice. Life is not so much about seeking joy as it is intentionally cultivating it. There can be goodness and light in all things. No shortage of happiness exists in this world, but nor does a shortage of sorrow. From our biology to our societies, humans are hardwired to focus on the negative aspects of our experiences. We instinctively brush off compliments and internalize every criticism. From every news station, we broadcast our fears, reliving tragedies for a higher view count. Look closer, though, and you will see that it is not so black and white. Life does not end when the cameras stop rolling. First responders and essential workers continue to risk their lives every day. Communities share in their grief but rebuild anyway. Our perception is not their reality. Each person is more than the things that have happened to them. We become what we choose to be, the parts we choose to feed. The sparks of joy were never absent, simply buried, and with just a little care, they have the potential to grow. I don't look for joy, I create it, and then, I share that joy with others.