My favorite part about our planet are seeds and their ability to hold and pass down information. Each seed contains an extensive and unique collection of nucleotide bases—forged by millions of years of evolution, adaptation, and natural selection. My family’s rich agricultural heritage mirrors this beauty. I come from a lineage of farmers. I belong to the rice paddies of Ilocos Norte, the corn fields of Pangasinan, and the sugar plantations of North Kohala. Although I was planted five thousand and five hundred miles across the Pacific Ocean from my ancestral homeland, I still find myself drawn to beds of fertile earth. Marred by the colonial hands of Great Britain, my home is a prime example of the sheer disconnect between people and the land which supports them. Ninety percent of Hawaii's food is imported from elsewhere—leaving us vulnerable to disruptions in the food transportation system. With rapid climate change, this issue becomes even more pressing. El Niño years are only anticipated to intensify, propagating stronger storm systems that threaten our wellbeing. What happens when the barges of Matson containers cannot reach our shores? When the grocery shelves run empty? What would the people of Hawai’i have to survive? We have the 'āina (land), but what good is it if we don’t know how to use it. I sought out opportunities to share my family’s knowledge. I worked with the College of Tropical Agriculture and Human Resilience to supply Hawai’i Island families with resources to grow edible plants. A few months later, these families engaged in culinary webinars that taught them how to prepare healthy recipes using their homegrown produce. We reached seventy six families across my island, rekindling their connection to the 'āina. It moved me to further explore ways to heal the connection between land and people, a covert wound that needs more attention. I spent three summers interning with the non-profit organization Mālaʻai Garden. The one acre oasis serves as the basis for the project-based learning at Waimea Middle School. I helped to prepare a healthy hands-on environment conducive to learning for the following school year by implementing various horticultural techniques and proactive measures. Working with Māla‘ai Garden not only honed my horticultural skills but also deepened my appreciation for cultivating spaces where education and nature intersect. I interned with ‘Ano ‘Ano farms to gain insight into commercial organic farming. I spent most of my summer days setting up lines of irrigation, harvesting rows of lettuce, and striking up conversations with my boss to learn more about his story. I harvested around one thousand and fifty pounds of lettuce and gained a harsh farmer’s tan. More importantly, I gained firsthand insight into the dedication and resilience of local farmers, inspiring me to pursue innovative solutions in agriculture. Regardless, innate passion can only go so far. A seed can germinate in a paper towel, sustain itself with its starchy cotyledons, but will eventually rot away if left alone. They need nourishment to thrive and proliferate, and my passions are no different. I began growing on my windowsill, started a home garden, volunteered in small-scaled growing spaces, and eventually worked on a commercial lettuce farm. Now, I want to pursue an education at University of Hawai’i at Mānoa to expand these practices on a larger scale—to grow beyond the boundaries of my island. Sowing seeds of knowledge across communities creates a foundation for innovation, resilience, and intercultural collaboration. By rekindling a connection to the land, we can foster a future where Hawai’i thrives as a model of sustainability and resilience, inspiring other communities to follow suit.

As I opened the plastic container and unfolded the moist white blanket, I thought about how my grandmother had smuggled its precious contents into the country. In my hands lay five quarter-sized patani beans that had once fed her impoverished family of eight. Smiling at the sight of germination, I reflected on how this single act of preservation connected generations of my family and how the seed, like my values, thrived when nurtured. From a young age, I was captivated by the concept of germination—a word I learned from my father, who teaches high school agriculture. Hours of reading Kerin Lilleeng-Rosenberger’s Growing Hawaii’s Native Plants inspired me to experiment on my windowsill, nurturing seeds in plastic containers with care and patience. I trialed techniques like scarification and stratification, learning how to coax life from these tiny, dormant vessels. Each attempt—whether successful or moldy—taught me to see seeds as more than biological phenomena. They became a metaphor for connection: to family, community, and the land that sustains us all. The lessons of kindness and generosity came early. As an eighth grader, I found myself with an abundance of seedlings—far too many for one person to care for. I started a business called "Brayden’s Native Plants" to share these seedlings with my community. My mom wasn’t thrilled when strangers came to our house looking for Mamaki plants, but the joy of seeing others connect with the earth made it worth it. In all my excitement, I forgot to ask her for permission. Oh well. Later, I partnered with the College of Tropical Agriculture and Human Resources to share not just plants but also knowledge. Together, we provided seventy-six families across my island with resources to grow edible plants and hosted culinary webinars that taught them how to prepare meals using their homegrown produce. This work embodies generosity in its purest form—empowering others with the tools and knowledge to sustain themselves and their loved ones. By gifting seeds and nurturing their potential, I shared more than just plants; I shared the hope and resilience that my grandmother’s patani beans symbolized. However, sustainability requires more than kindness and generosity; it demands perseverance. From germinating seeds as a child to volunteering in small-scale growing spaces and eventually working on a commercial lettuce farm. Sustainability means facing challenges head-on, whether it’s battling mold in a plastic container or addressing the broader disconnect between people and the land that sustains them. My family’s agricultural heritage, spanning the rice paddies of Ilocos Norte to the sugar plantations of North Kohala, taught me that perseverance is deeply rooted in survival and growth. This legacy inspires me to continue sowing seeds of knowledge, even when faced with setbacks. My dream is to expand these practices on a larger scale, using my education to nurture communities and create a foundation for innovation and resilience. My passion for sustainability embodies kindness through sharing knowledge, generosity through empowering others, and perseverance through a commitment to long-term growth. I hope that by continuing to sow these seeds, I can inspire others to cultivate their own connection to the land and to one another. The taste of sustainability—the very one that captured me at age seven—is a gift I will spend my life passing on.

My favorite part about seeds is their ability to hold and pass down information. Each seed contains an extensive and unique collection of nucleotide bases—forged by millions of years of evolution, adaptation, and natural selection. My family’s rich agricultural heritage mirrors this beauty. I come from a lineage of farmers. I belong to the rice paddies of Ilocos Norte, the corn fields of Pangasinan, and the sugar plantations of North Kohala. Although I was planted five thousand and five hundred miles across the Pacific Ocean from my ancestral homeland, I still find myself drawn to beds of fertile earth. Marred by the colonial hands of Great Britain, my home is a prime example of the sheer disconnect between people and the land which supports them. Ninety percent of Hawaii's food is imported from elsewhere—leaving us vulnerable to disruptions in the food transportation system. With rapid climate change, this issue becomes even more pressing. What happens when the barges of Matson containers cannot reach our shores? When the grocery shelves run empty? What would the people of Hawai’i have to survive? We have the 'āina, but what good is it if we don’t know how to use it? I sought out opportunities to share my family’s knowledge. I’ve devoted a large number of volunteer hours to Mala'ai Garden, the culinary garden of Waimea Middle School. The one acre oasis serves as the basis for the project-based learning for Waimea’s youth. Countless weekends spent at community workdays, short walks from home to let out the chickens, and early arrivals to help prepare for fundraising events. My volunteer efforts landed me three consecutive summer internships. Although the internships were paid, the countless hours I've spent past my shifts were not. I loved working and being in the garden, always offering to stay behind to work even more. Working with Māla‘ai Garden not only honed my horticultural skills but also deepened my appreciation for cultivating spaces where education and nature intersect. Regardless, innate passion can only go so far. A seed can germinate in a paper towel, sustain itself with its starchy cotyledons, but will eventually rot away if left alone. They need nourishment to thrive and proliferate, and my passions are no different. Now, I want to pursue an education at UH Mānoa to expand these practices on a larger scale—to grow beyond the boundaries of my island. At the Lyon Arboretum, I’ll immerse myself in botanical practices that preserve Hawai’i’s native fauna. I see myself volunteering in the micropropagation department, performing laboratory germination tests, tissue cultures, and other lab work. Through these volunteer efforts, I’ll be directly contributing to the mission of the Hawaiian Rare Plant Program, an honor that deeply aligns with my personal beliefs. Within the classroom, I’ll take advantage of the opportunity to take numerous sustainability courses that highlight Hawai’i’s invaluable offers. I’ll take courses like Introduction to Integrative Systems Biology: Hawaiian Biomes as Frameworks (SUST 103), Historical Ecology of Hawai’i (SUST 204), Hawaiian Perspectives in Ahupua’a (SUST 217), and more. Beyond the campus grounds, I see myself involved with the O’ahu community. I plan to directly participate in agroecology, sharing my unique experiences and collaborating with others who share similar interests. I’ll participate in community work days, intern with nonprofit organizations, and ultimately devote a large portion of my time giving back to the island. Sowing seeds of knowledge across communities creates a foundation for innovation, resilience, and intercultural collaboration. By rekindling a connection to the land, we can foster a future where Hawai’i thrives as a model of sustainability and resilience, inspiring other communities to follow suit.