Boldly, Unapologetically Me For a long time, I was told, directly or not, that I was “too much.” Too emotional. Too opinionated. Too expressive. It wasn’t always said harshly, but it was there. In the way people laughed things off. In the way, being sensitive was treated like something to outgrow. The message was clear: it would be easier, more acceptable, to soften myself. To take up less space. And for a while, I tried. I learned when to quiet down, when to make myself smaller, and when to hold back reactions that came naturally to me. But the more I did that, the more disconnected I felt, not from other people, but from myself. So I stopped. Not all at once, not dramatically, but intentionally. I began to trust that the way I experience things, as deeply and fully as I do, is not something to fix. It’s something to use. In choir, in leadership, in my everyday life, I lead with that now. I speak when something matters to me. I show up fully, even when it would be easier to stay neutral. I allow myself to care, visibly and unapologetically. Because I’ve realized something important: the same qualities I was told to tone down are the ones that allow me to connect, to lead, and to create spaces where other people feel understood. I’m not less because I feel deeply. If anything, that’s exactly what makes me who I am Creating Connection A choir is supposed to sound unified, but it should never feel uniform. That’s something I’ve come to understand not just as a long-time singer, but as Choir President and Soprano Section Leader. On the surface, everything about choir suggests sameness. Blend. Balance. Precision. But the truth is, no two voices are alike, and if people feel like they have to erase those differences to belong, the music loses something real. I’ve seen the leaders before me subtly create an environment that rejected uniqueness, and I’ve watched the singers around me respond to that. The quieter voices. The hesitation. The way some people hold back, not because they can’t sing, but because they’re unsure if there’s space for them to be heard. So I’ve tried to change that. Not through big, dramatic shifts, but through the culture we build every day. I focus on how we speak to each other, how we respond to mistakes, and how we recognize growth. I make it clear, through actions not just words, that this is a space where individuality isn’t something you have to hide to fit in. I’ve implemented new policies like vocal check-ins and organizing vocal splits on a public spreadsheet so everyone feels that their voice truly belongs. People yearn to be understood, and just a simple check-in can change the whole mindset of a singer. I believe that connection doesn’t come from sounding the same. It comes from knowing you’re valued as you are. When that happens, everything changes. People stand differently. They sing differently. There’s more confidence, more presence, not forced, but natural. And ironically, the balance and tone of the choir significantly improves. That’s the kind of environment I’ve worked to create. Not just a choir that performs well, but one where people feel like they belong to something real, something built on growth, trust, and the understanding that every voice matters.

Being a good citizen to me means more than just meeting expectations or doing what is asked quietly. It’s easy to picture a good citizen as someone who blends in, follows the rules, and doesn’t cause disruption, and I even think that’s what some of the largest political figures in the world reward, but I don’t think that picture is true. If anything, it’s the opposite. Being a good citizen means being willing to stand out. Not for attention, not to be different just to be different, but because change doesn’t happen when everyone stays comfortable. And change doesn’t have to be big to matter. It’s not always something you can clearly point to. Sometimes it’s in small conversations, in questioning something that’s always been accepted, in choosing not to go along with something just because it’s easier. That kind of change is quieter, but it builds. A country doesn’t move forward all at once; it shifts because people decide, individually, that it should. That’s what progress actually looks like. Voting is one of the clearest ways that shows up. It’s talked about like it’s just a right, but it’s more than that, it’s a citizen’s responsibility. It’s one of the only direct ways people have to shape the direction of the country. And in a representative democracy, that only works if people actually use it. Not just showing up, but understanding what they’re choosing and why. Otherwise, it becomes something passive and when that happens, it stops meaning as much. At the same time, voting only works the way it’s supposed to if people are willing to think for themselves. That’s where it starts to break down. There’s so much pressure to agree, to follow what’s expected, to not be the one who thinks differently. But when that happens, everything starts to blur together. There’s no real discussion, no tension, no reason to grow. And without that, there’s no real progress either. At the same time though, too much polarization only further separates the country. If everyone is worlds away on isolated sides, there is no middle ground to be found. That’s why compromise matters so much, and that’s what the Constitution represents to me. Not perfection, not agreement, but effort. It’s the result of people who didn’t think the same way, didn’t want the same things, and still chose to work through that. That’s not easy. It wasn’t then, and it isn’t now. The foundation of our country was built on debate, disagreement, and ultimately compromise, and even though that feels lost in how polarized our nation is today, I believe it’s still what can bring us back to what democracy is really meant to be.

From a young age, I have felt things the way animals hear sounds — sharper and louder. Although I have grown to manage my emotional intensity, I believe it is still an important aspect of what makes me, well, me. It is also the driving force inspiring me to pursue a career in public service — not just to argue a case in court, but to amplify the voices, especially young ones, that often go unheard. I am currently a high school senior balancing advanced classes, a part-time job, and extracurriculars while exploring my passion for law. My experiences working with kids, from tutoring to summer theatre, have inspired me to help children, especially. I've seen firsthand what neglect, addiction, or just an emotionally draining household can do to a child. I've watched how it can cause them to act out in ways that are often just cries for help. A lot of these kids just need someone to listen, not just be there, but be present for them. I want to be that person for all children. Just because they are young does not mean their opinions or insights should go unheard, especially in the court. My long-term goal is to one day become a family lawyer, focusing on Guardian ad Litem cases, where I am able to represent children in the legal processes and advocate for their holistic needs. I also have the goal of starting a family and having children of my own once I have financial stability. I want to live alongside my career, not fully engulfed in it, which will give me the motivation to continue down this path as a human, not a robot. This scholarship would help me get closer to that future financially while affirming that protecting children in a legal setting is a purpose worth the investment. I want to use the law to protect the whole person, including their emotional well-being, especially in moments when they can't protect themselves. Many others are often deterred from this career path due to its draining nature. I believe that since I have grown up with an advanced emotional capacity and intellect, I can devote myself to helping children in the legal system. I know the work will be hard. But I also know that hard things are usually the ones worth fighting the most for. One day, I hope to be the reason a child felt seen — not just another case, but a real person. That’s what I would call success.