The football field is silent, save for the echoing tap of a lone snare drummer. The drumline and I scurry to our positions as so carefully rehearsed and the field transforms into a stoic forest of marchers, waiting patiently for the announcer to boom, “Agua Fria Band of Owls, the field is yours.” The sun is in my eyes and sweat is soaking into my drumsticks, but once the drum major begins conducting, I feel my focus sharpen as I lock in the rhythm and snap my sticks up to play. Throughout my high school years, participation in marching band helped me overcome various personal adversities and empower my sense of self. Freshman year, I struggled with gender dysphoria and social anxiety, but I befriended upperclassmen who introduced me to D&D and remained a reliable source of support. Sophomore year, I was weighed down by the prospect of divorce between my parents, but marching band gave me a place to focus on something productive and meaningful that distracted me from my uncertain future. My junior year struggle revolved around marching band, for once, as I was thrust into the position of section leader, but the support of my friends and staff spurred my decision to push through the hardship and work diligently to improve. This senior year, the COVID-19 pandemic shut down our competitive season and forced me to implement remote methods of passing down essential skills, music, and traditions to our underclassmen. Marching band has been a footing for personal growth, and I am forever grateful for the opportunity to be involved. When I put my sticks down and march off the field for the last time, I am confident that I can draw inspiration from my passions to adapt to any circumstance and continue discovering myself throughout my education at Arizona State University, where I will be studying astrobiology.

Throughout my high school experience, I've consistently challenged myself to reach for higher standards and step out of my comfort zone with difficult AP classes. In the fall, I’ve had to balance a mostly-AP-or-honors class schedule with rigorous involvement in marching band. However, through a combination of time management and personal responsibility, I always manage both at once without slipping. In addition to the requirements of marching band, about once a school year I’ve experienced some sort of ordeal that turns my mental health and social life upside down for a few months. Yet, I’ve found that I’ve maintained a strong, healthy distinction between my personal life and my education. For better or for worse, I’ve periodically used study as an escape from the stresses around me and I instinctively reroute my motivation into my passions in science and art. I also have a history of academic achievement outside of school. In 8th grade, I won a scholarship for academic excellence that waived tuition to Space Academy in Huntsville, Alabama. I was also accepted to participate in the virtual 2020 STEM Enhancement in Earth Science internship, hosted by the University of Texas and NASA. I attended webinars with notable scientists and astronauts to learn about their experience and collaborated with other students on a research project about media reliability during COVID-19. Both of these experiences were wonderful ventures into the work of STEM researchers. They taught me a lot about real-world career expectations and offered me valuable staff connections. I have always been fascinated by the complexity of how planet Earth sustains life, as well as the prospect of life on other worlds. Accordingly, I believe that understanding our own planet lends itself to understanding other planets, and vice versa. By studying how Earth’s biosphere, atmosphere, hydrosphere, and lithosphere interact with each other, we can project those findings onto other planets and hypothesize about their conditions; conversely, observing other planets gives us glimpses of how our planet may have come to be, how it evolved over time, and how it may change in the future. Hence, I have found myself particularly compelled by biology and chemistry and am working hard to set myself up for postsecondary research at Arizona State University in connecting these fields with planetary science.

My most significant challenge by far is easy to name: becoming the drumline section leader. As a sophomore, I first learned to march snare under an accomplished junior. We all expected him to take up the mantle the following year, but he surprised us by moving to a neighboring school. This left me as technically the most experienced battery member as a junior. However, I had not learned the essential skills of marching snare: how to tap-on-and-off the field, how to lead our school’s fight song, how to effectively manage a sectional rehearsal. I felt lost, alone, and entirely out of my league. I was convinced that I could not live up to the leaders before me. That season, we faced low section morale due to high turnover and the band fell victim to severe attendance issues. This led to us being placed in the wrong competition division, where we competed against bands that sometimes marched twice our numbers. Additionally, I was struggling with intrusive attention, memory, and anxiety issues due to traumatic events I experienced the year before. It was incredibly difficult to keep track of my thoughts and hold my focus on music. Yet, after a grueling band camp, I realized that I had to roll with the punches and force myself to keep trying, keep trying. I was the only snare; I could not continue passing responsibilities off to other students like I had when I struggled. I told myself, “I will get it eventually. It sucks right now and it is going to suck for a while, but I’ll never get it unless I keep trying. The drumline depends on me to be a capable musician who they can trust to lead. I am the only one who can do this.” Once I grabbed the reins and pushed forward, I was able to grow and thrive within my role as section leader. I spent hours each night teaching myself the skills that our previous section leader neglected to teach me. I embraced the discomfort of stepping out of my comfort zone knowing that rep, I was inching my way closer to proficiency. Once I was content with my personal skill, I extended my attention outward to help my peers grow stronger as marchers, musicians, and successors. I strived to lead by example and enforce high standards of accomplishment while cultivating a strong, uplifting section culture. Consequently, I was regarded as one of the most capable student leaders by our staff, and I am working to ensure that this remains the legacy I leave behind. My marching band leadership journey pushed me to recognize that improvement never comes with wishing or griping or evasion, only resilience and determination to change. I realize that I am fully capable of pushing myself to reach my full potential in any environment, whether it is through community contribution, academic achievement, or leadership in the work environment. In fact, I am certain that I am obligated to be my best self, as this is how I can most effectively impact the lives of others in a positive manner, such as through education or moral support.

I have always been fascinated by the complexity of how planet Earth sustains life, as well as the prospect of life on other worlds. Accordingly, I believe that understanding our own planet lends itself to understanding other planets, and vice versa. By studying how Earth’s biosphere, atmosphere, hydrosphere, and lithosphere interact with each other, we can project those findings onto other planets and hypothesize about their conditions; conversely, observing other planets gives us glimpses of how our planet may have come to be, how it evolved over time, and how it may change in the future. Hence, I have found myself particularly compelled by biology and chemistry and am working hard to set myself up for postsecondary research in connecting these fields with planetary science.

The COVID-19 pandemic has, above all, exemplified how proactive leadership and reliable social resources can ensure security for one’s job, education, or home life. It was striking to witness how expectations for school or work can be thrown into disarray at the drop of a hat and how the absence of a safety net or backup plan can make recovering from these setbacks far more difficult. Personally, our school’s relocation of schooling to virtual learning has emphasized the importance of self-advocacy in times of crisis. I could have taken the path of least resistance and refused to adapt to the new circumstances, but I chose to step outside of my comfort zone and push myself to succeed within this new environment. I was solely responsible for studying and organizing material; there were no more review games or notebook checks that acted as crutches for my grades. I plan to remain a self-sufficient student and work towards maintaining my independence, even when confronted with significant academic challenges. It was also disconcerting to watch college programs grind to a halt due to COVID-19 and raise questions about tuition, online learning, housing, and travel costs for millions of students. No matter how much planning you put into your future, how many scholarships or promotions you receive, you can never be truly certain about what the next day may bring. Thankfully, my family’s life was not drastically affected by the pandemic, but I’ve seen how quickly someone can lose their livelihood when caught without a backup plan. Even on a smaller scale, I know that a medical accident, fender bender, or stolen phone can put a significant dent in one’s bank account. For my senior year, I’m committed to setting myself on track to financial security and preparing rainy day funds in case my plans for college go south due to outside circumstances. Finally, I’ve learned that I shouldn’t take for granted the ability to travel and interact in-person. COVID-19 hit our state just as my AP Biology class was returning from an educational trip to Catalina Island in March. Everyone in the class was anxious about the possibility of having caught it along the way, and our efforts to self-quarantine were followed by the relocation of our fourth quarter classes to online learning. Since then, many of the programs I expected to attend were cancelled or reworked: my internship with University of Texas and NASA was restricted to digital participation, all of our state’s Girl Scout Camp summer programs were cancelled, including the counselor-in-training course I was planning to finish, and our competitive marching band program was cancelled. These opportunities were the last of their kind for me, as I will be graduating high school this year. I understand now the importance of travelling to experience new ideas and activities, as the chance to do so can be taken away at any time.

I am planning to attend Northern Arizona University or Arizona State University to major in environmental sciences or astrobiology, respectively. I have been accepted to both colleges, but I have not yet decided to which I will enroll. While receiving my postsecondary education, I intend to participate in as many internships, apprenticeships, volunteer opportunities, and study abroad trips as possible that will guide my path to a career in exploring planetary science. I want to analyze the biological and chemical aspects of Earth’s processes and use that knowledge to understand how worlds beyond ours function, preferably by working hands-on in laboratories, observatories, or other on-site research facilities. As of now, I have applied to half a dozen undergraduate research experiences, and am planning to apply to several more once the application periods open. This grant would help me save money for college and allow me to work stress-free with internship programs that will help me get a head start on my college education.

It is incredibly humbling to witness magnificent technological breakthroughs in reducing pollution and harnessing renewable energy. Scientific advancements such as solar energy, electric cars, nuclear power, plastic recycling mechanisms have the capacity to change society as we know it for the better. Unfortunately, this road to sustainability is paved with obstacles, but as I see it, not the technological kind--the human kind. Humanity, as it is, has always held a culture of tradition and the path of least resistance at any scale. At some point, we've all waited to throw out that old threadbare shirt or get gas when the meter is empty. Why change when the status quo is not detrimental to me, personally? When harm is not taking place in plain sight, it is difficult for us to muster the motivation to step out of our comfort zone, but eventually that aforementioned shirt will rip or your car will sputter to a halt at an unfortunate time. We are already seeing the irreversible effects of climate change manifest on Earth; the worsening severity of tropical storms, the failure of crops, the melting of glaciers and polar ice, the extreme heat and cold in unexpected locations. These threats may seem distant to us, but they are approaching at a rapid rate, and if we do not act before it is too late, we will stand no chance in reversing them. Scientific advancement in stopping climate change is not the ultimate obstacle--though there is certainly more to be done, we have already made an incredible amount of progress. The ultimate obstacle in managing climate change is convincing politicians and businesspeople to implement these changes and break free of the old "status quo" for the good of Earth and humanity. The idea that the average citizen should do more to stop climate change is, well, preposterous. Everyday people do not manufacture single-use plastics, nor legalize fracking, nor strip protections from natural reserves, nor are the culprits of massive oil spills and waste dumping. Everyday people do not hold the power in acting to fix the climate change crisis. However, we should not underestimate the impact that our voices can have. Personally, I intend on raising awareness in my social circle about these misconceptions about climate change legislation and prevention measures, as well as expressing my views during local elections that decide how we treat the environment. There is not much I can do personally to change our society's culture on change itself, but I will do my best to improve the open-mindedness and environmental awareness of my own community, one step at a time.

The woman in STEM who inspires me is my mother. My mother has been teaching earth science for over 20 years, ranging from 7th graders to high schoolers to college students looking to become teachers themselves. She is incredibly knowledgeable and curious about science as a whole, and has instilled in me a wonder for astronomy. She is very passionate about education and truly cares about the success of her students. I have many fond memories of visiting her classroom and looking at all the cool posters, rocks, and lab material on display. Perhaps most importantly, she is human--she is not perfect and she knows she isn't. Sometimes she fails or makes a mistake, but she knows to reach out for help and pick herself back up. She wants to improve people's lives through education, and that is a goal I quite admire. As for myself, my mother passed on to me her fascination with the complexity of how planet Earth sustains life, as well as the prospect of life on other worlds. Accordingly, I believe that understanding our own planet lends itself to understanding other planets, and vice versa. By studying how Earth’s biosphere, atmosphere, hydrosphere, and lithosphere interact with each other, we can project those findings onto other planets and hypothesize about their conditions; conversely, observing other planets gives us glimpses of how our planet may have come to be, how it evolved over time, and how it may change in the future. Hence, I have found myself particularly compelled by biology and chemistry and am working hard to set myself up for postsecondary research in connecting these fields with planetary science.

In 2016, after years of questioning, I deduced that I was asexual. I never felt sexual attraction in any capacity, but I still desired a strong romantic bond. The puzzle pieces of my self-image quickly fell into place and I was overjoyed in finding my community, so I mustered my courage and came out to my parents. My optimism dissolved rapidly; they were not understanding, nor willing to understand. I heard every dismissal in the book: “You are too young to know. You will find the right person. Asexuality does not exist. None of this will go on under my roof.” It certainly could have been worse, but I was crushed. My parents failed miserably at supporting me during a period of suffocating social anxiety and gender dysphoria. They refused to open their minds, so they shut me down and ignored how their condemnation dug me deeper into distress. Today, the permanence of my asexuality is gingerly danced around in family conversation. I am incredibly thankful for the support of my close friends during that time. I came out to them shortly before I told my parents; they gave me the initial confidence to speak up and had my back when I was rejected. They assured that they would always accept me no matter how I identified, and they have proved it by remaining respectful and open-minded. Our platonic bond has since strengthened; we attended pride parades, educated ourselves about the LGBT+ community, and lent support to other friends who came out since then. In the end, speaking up was worth the risk, and I emerged with more self-confidence and awareness of others’ struggles. Hopefully, when I’m financially independent during college, I’ll be able to dust off the pride flag stashed under my bookshelf and be truly visible.

Throughout my high school experience, I've consistently challenged myself to reach for higher standards and step out of my comfort zone with difficult AP classes. In the fall, I’ve had to balance a mostly-AP-or-honors class schedule with rigorous involvement in marching band. However, through a combination of time management and personal responsibility, I always manage both at once without slipping. In addition to the requirements of marching band, about once a school year I’ve experienced some sort of ordeal that turns my mental health and social life upside down for a few months. Yet, I’ve found that I’ve maintained a strong, healthy distinction between my personal life and my education. For better or for worse, I’ve periodically used study as an escape from the stresses around me and I instinctively reroute my motivation into my passions in science and art. I also have a history of academic achievement outside of school. In 8th grade, I won a scholarship for academic excellence that waived tuition to Space Academy in Huntsville, Alabama. I was also accepted to participate in the virtual 2020 STEM Enhancement in Earth Science internship, hosted by the University of Texas and NASA. I attended webinars with notable scientists and astronauts to learn about their experience and collaborated with other students on a research project about media reliability during COVID-19. Both of these experiences were wonderful ventures into the work of STEM researchers. They taught me a lot about real-world career expectations and offered me valuable staff connections. Education continues to be the facet in which I push myself to improve.

I hardly remember the August night that my family life unraveled, but I do recall the chill of apprehension and wave of queasiness that ran through my body as I made out the words being screamed from my parents’ bedroom. My clearest memory of that night is texting to a group chat of friends, “I think my dad cheated on my mom.” It took over a year for their relationship to heal again, but until it did, arguments, fights, and raised voices were a regular aspect of my sophomore year household. The consequence I did not expect was the abrupt degradation of my memory recall; sometime in early November, I forced myself to imprint the realization that within a few days, my short-term memory had suddenly become very limited. I struggled to remember anything immediate and found it incredibly easy to forget a series of simple tasks or mentally note something. My attention span was miniscule; for the next year and a half, I felt that I was floundering in chaotic mental currents and couldn’t hang onto a thought for more than, at best, a few hours. Short-term memories were like soap bubbles: difficult to hang onto and capable of disappearing at any moment. My ability to keep up with schoolwork and marching band leadership responsibilities was impaired to the point my acquaintances noticed, pointing out how I frequently lost my train of thought and joking that I had “the memory of a goldfish.” That summer, I attended the counselor-in-training program at Girl Scout Camp Maripai, hoping that the distinct environment would spur improvement; regrettably, those two weeks were an absolute low point for my concentration capabilities. At the beginning of my junior year, I convinced my family to let me see a therapist so I could work through these problems. My therapist identified my attention issues as a common coping mechanism developed by children in stressful environments, which enables them to block out upsetting memories. This absolutely applied to me; although my parents were attending couple’s therapy, I felt myself dissociating whenever I perceived hostility in my parents’ attitudes because I was used to blocking out their muffled arguments. Unfortunately, this bled out into my social and school life, and there was no easy-off switch to stop myself from forgetting my day-to-day life. My therapist and I worked together on this for about six months. In that time, she taught me many grounding skills that helped me remain attentive in stressful situations, such as fidgeting with scraps of paper, focusing on breathing, and identifying sensory inputs. Her support laid the groundwork for my return to confidence; it took several months for my grounding work to sink in and for my home life to stabilize. Although I occasionally feel blips in my attention span while stressed, it is nothing compared to how I felt a couple of years ago, and I am thankful that I am able to close this chapter of my life. This brush with trauma has opened my eyes to how important it is to seek help and support from professionals, and has reinforced my determination to remain an anchor during my friends' own trying times.

I hardly remember the August night that my family life unraveled, but I do recall the chill of apprehension and wave of queasiness that ran through my body as I made out the words being screamed from my parents’ bedroom. My clearest memory of that night is texting to a group chat of friends, “I think my dad cheated on my mom.” It took over a year for their relationship to heal again, but until it did, arguments, fights, and raised voices were a regular aspect of my sophomore year household. The consequence I did not expect was the abrupt degradation of my memory recall; sometime in early November, I forced myself to imprint the realization that within a few days, my short-term memory had suddenly become very limited. I struggled to remember anything immediate and found it incredibly easy to forget a series of simple tasks or mentally note something. My attention span was miniscule; for the next year and a half, I felt that I was floundering in chaotic mental currents and couldn’t hang onto a thought for more than, at best, a few hours. Short-term memories were like soap bubbles: difficult to hang onto and capable of disappearing at any moment. My ability to keep up with schoolwork and marching band leadership responsibilities was impaired to the point my acquaintances noticed, pointing out how I frequently lost my train of thought and joking that I had “the memory of a goldfish.” That summer, I attended the counselor-in-training program at Girl Scout Camp Maripai, hoping that the distinct environment would spur improvement; regrettably, those two weeks were an absolute low point for my concentration capabilities. At the beginning of my junior year, I convinced my family to let me see a therapist so I could work through these problems. My therapist identified my attention issues as a common coping mechanism developed by children in stressful environments, which enables them to block out upsetting memories. This absolutely applied to me; although my parents were attending couple’s therapy, I felt myself dissociating whenever I perceived hostility in my parents’ attitudes because I was used to blocking out their muffled arguments. Unfortunately, this bled out into my social and school life, and there was no easy-off switch to stop myself from forgetting my day-to-day life. My therapist and I worked together on this for about six months. In that time, she taught me many grounding skills that helped me remain attentive in stressful situations, such as fidgeting with scraps of paper, focusing on breathing, and identifying sensory inputs. Her support laid the groundwork for my return to confidence; it took several months for my grounding work to sink in and for my home life to stabilize. In fact, I have been able to teach others these skills, and I am glad that I can use this knowledge to help friends going through similar situations. Although I occasionally feel blips in my attention span while stressed, it is nothing compared to how I felt a couple of years ago, and I am thankful that I am able to close this chapter of my life.

In 2017, after years of questioning, I concluded that I was asexual. My friends, who I came out to first, were incredibly supportive. They had my back when I came out to my parents, who waved it off. "You're too young to know," they said. "You'll meet someone eventually." I felt bitter, heartbroken, and unheard, but I drew on my friends' unwavering loyalty. When my freshman year started, I joined our school's Sexuality & Gender Acceptance Club. During second semester, I (pictured leftmost) marched in the 2018 Phoenix Pride Parade, where I felt strong, valid, and unafraid to express myself.