By the time I was eleven years old, I had waited eleven years to be a sister. And so you can imagine my excitement when my parents told me the wait was over. I was ecstatic. Within minutes, I had mentally planned the first five years of the young girl's life. The games we would play, the food we would eat, the places we would travel. I rehearsed the sisterly dialogue I would recite when she needed it and vowed to be the best sister to Aspen Grace, now the size of a bell pepper. Remember that I was living in Sudan at this time, just as the revolution kicked off. It was a Sunday afternoon; as we drove to my mom's appointment, I watched children playing soccer barefoot, the clouds of dust that swarmed their feet as they kicked the ball. It was quite the scene. We finally reached the office. It was rundown, but in Sudan, what wasn't? They hooked my mom up to some machine; that was the first time I saw Aspen Grace (now the size of an artichoke). I saw her face and her fingers. I heard her heartbeat, and I saw her move. She was perfect. They printed the pictures from the scan, and I have never cherished a piece of paper more. In the following weeks, unknowingly to my parents, I slept with that picture every night. I took a pair of half-heart-shaped necklaces that, when put together, spelled "Best Friends," with a sharpie, I added, "And sisters," just below the text—one for me and one for her. But as you can imagine, maternal health in a third-world country on the brink of civil war is less than ideal. I was sitting in the same chair in the same rundown office where I had fallen in love for the first time when my heart broke for the first time. Aspen Grace, now the size of a grapefruit, was on the screen; her face was still there, and so were her fingertips. But she wasn't moving, and silence took over the room, amplified by the missing sound of her heartbeat. The silence continued on the way home. But the kids playing soccer just kept playing soccer like nothing had happened, like the world wasn't over like everything was okay. I hated them for that. That night, when I should have been sleeping, I found myself sitting crisscrossed on the floor. Across from me was some cheap lipgloss, the picture of Aspen's ultrasound, and her necklace lined up neatly by my feet. I put on some of the gloss before I locked the picture in my bottom drawer. I couldn't stand to have it, but I couldn't stand to lose it either. Then, it was just me and the necklace. I faced the physical manifestation of my promise to sisterhood, to the games and the food and the travel, to the advice and the makeovers, and the end of my loneliness. I threw both necklaces in the trash; I regret it every day. When we left Sudan, I was not given the luxury of time or the chance to pack up. I lost that picture. I like to think that it is still in my house, in my room, untouched, locked in my bottom drawer forever. Safe and sacred, like Aspen's memory. I never got to meet Aspen Grace, but that did not keep me from loving her with my whole self. She was my sister, and when she died, so did a part of me.

. From a very early age, I had a clear idea of what success looked like. It was an apartment overlooking the New York City skyline and a closet full of shoes I bought with my own money. It was a wall littered with framed degrees. It was my late twenties, and appearing on Forbes's famous list of names. You asked me to describe what success looked like to me; however, what is more telling is what my vision of success feels like. While I can see my life in detail, perfected by my efforts, the feeling of pride is more apparent than anything else. Yes, it is shoes, the degrees, and the fancy apartment, but even now, I can feel how amazing it will be to swipe my card and sign my name on the bottom of the receipt. I can sense how pretty I will feel with the added inches beneath my feet because I deserve to stand tall. Just thinking about it makes my chest flutter with motivation and excitement as if I am so sure of my future; the clarity has earned me an advance in my satisfaction. That is my primary vision, a version of success. However, I believe that it can occur on a variety of scales. Today, as I grow older, as I bear the weight of harder classes and higher standards, I find that yearning for far-off imaginary success simply is not enough anymore. My one-bedroom dream with a washer/dryer and exposed brick is essential to my motivation but must be supplemented. Gratification, the feeling you get when you conquer a goal, is inspiring, and finding ways to embed this feeling into my life changed it. Thus, I have found that success can look like other minor things, as simple as a circled letter A in the corner of my test or a guilt-free day of rest. A vision of success should be multifaceted. It can be small or big, academic or not, so long as you walk away feeling proud. Little victories are a new subdivision of my triumph. Still, success should be challenging. While I aim to find ways to bridge the gap with small doses of gratification, I understand that you can only reap what you sow. Hard work is fundamental. However, still, opportunities are limited by chance. You see, financially speaking, there is a long way between my concrete jungle paradise and here. If I were honored with this money, I would put it toward my education. I could earn my undergraduate degree and then go to law school. I could have a chance to work hard to reach the highest level of success I have dreamed of since grade school. My visions of success went from simple images of a lavish, well-earned life to a more nuanced understanding of personal fulfillment. As I navigate growing up and the challenges presented, I understand that feelings of success manifest under different circumstances. However, I hope that my opportunities will be more optimal with time and dedication. I plan to one day dangle my stilettos from a high-level fire escape after a long lifetime of work and feel proud.

"I am built like a mother and a total machine." Seconds after the album's release, this very lyric from the song All American Bitch was doodled across my notebooks, math homework, and a sticky note posted above my bed. These words were not the focal point of any song nor the hook to any chorus. The line was overlooked by many, but still, it stuck out for me, capturing the balance of my forceful drive and soft essence—a ratio only genuinely understood by eldest daughters. You see, I have been motivated since I was a little kid; my head lived five years in the future. I would meticulously plan away a perfect life, first how it would be in high school and then college, and I would work as hard as possible to get there. I am also the oldest daughter by twelve years. While I maintained this Elle Woodsian lifestyle from a young age, it was only a partial aspect of my identity. In sixth grade, I did my homework on the floor, bouncing my baby brother in his rocker; now, I take him to the library on Sundays, where we sit and learn about the AP argument essay or the concept of repeated addition. I pack lunches, get good grades, kiss boo-boos, drill for my bio test at my desk, and drill the four times table at the kitchen counter. I still have my vision boards, study guides, and college pamphlets in an organized stack by my dresser, but it sits next to a framed baby picture Roald Dahl books piled high. Any eldest daughter will tell you it is her honor to keep a house running. I am a machine; it is how I am wired, and although I am not a mother, while avoiding calls from MTV, it is the closest I can be. Oliva Rodrigo was able to describe me and my teenage experience in 10 words. I am a machine: rugged, ambitious, Macbethian, and addicted to caffeine. I am also a mother: Soft when needed, tough when needed, organized, and so full of love. I always thought of these two defining parts of my identity as contrasting. However, Rodrigo conveys how beautiful these things are when combined, and she did so in a way that made me feel seen for embracing these two sides of myself because, truly, I am built like a mother and a total machine.

I have always loved the news. I vividly remember sitting on my grandmother's living room floor, attentively absorbing Kate Boulden, David Moore, and Ginger Zee. I was no more than six years old. You see, I have always been a headline fanatic from my moment of comprehension, perhaps even a little before. I was nine, passionately debating the Parisian yellow vest protests at a dinner party. I guess the kids' table was never my scene. My awareness of the word was seemingly innate as if I found a twisted comfort in understanding the events that defined it. And still, I was hesitant to discuss my honest, albeit pessimistic, outlook on Earth's trajectory. I knew people were messing up; I know they are messing up. Since kindergarten, I have carried the apprehension that the mistakes made today will fall on my shoulders tomorrow. Being 17 is scary, but the idea of leaving adolescence at the same time the world adds gas to this dumpster fire is absolutely daunting. I speak for my generation when I say we are eager to stand up, clean up, and extinguish this fire. But we approach this situation while compounded urgency suppresses our resentment, based solely on the fact that we shouldn't have to clean anything up. This isn't our mess. It shouldn't burden the shoulders of overly curious 9-year-old girls, or the reluctantly discouraged young women. We are the next "greatest generation," but we, like our predecessors, are a product of necessity. We have grown up knowing how close we are to the edge but were trapped in our inability to do anything. We aren't kids anymore. It's finally our turn to fix this, and I believe that we will, only to satisfy those helpless childhood idealisms and do what is essential for our world to survive.

Two continents, four countries, 3 US states, and 34 doctors. These numbers represent the lengths I went to, searching for someone willing to take me seriously as a chronically ill young woman. You see, in September of 2021, my freshman year, I became very sick very fast. Among other things, I was fatigued, nauseous, and of most concern, passing out up to 6 times daily. Years later, we discovered that I had undergone a rare tumor-associated stroke, and it was too late to treat due to misogynistic medical neglect. After months of diagnostic testing, accumulated dead ends, time spent in Jakarta, Dubai, across the USA, and Singapore. My digestive system, menstrual cycle, hormones, and heart were not working correctly. I had to drop out of school, separate from my family, and essentially lose every part of myself. All that being said, this essay is not about estrogen levels and low blood pressure – this is about how I navigated the healthcare space. The problem with my stroke is that it is so complex, so intersystematic, that there is no simple blood test to say yes, this is what's wrong with you. It's subjective. It requires lots of data and a committed doctor to figure it out. I was instead met with overworked doctors whose concerns were often aloof from my case. With the lack of a clear-cut route to clarity and my being an "emotional teenage girl," doctors repeatedly questioned and dismissed my symptoms, saying I was anxious, dehydrated, or grappling with the raging hysteria of female adolescence. In other words, they brushed off my pain under the pretense of age and reproductive organs. At this point, no one was taking me seriously. While I had the support of my family and friends, I needed answers and medication that worked. While I never doubted the realness of my symptoms – doctors' repeated apathetic responses brought me to a place lacking hope, fueled by my distrust of medical authority. I became more and more anxious in anticipation of appointments. Anxiety I couldn't risk showing, in the likely chance that doctors would use it as a scapegoat to pin my symptoms on, something that fit my emotional character. But I'm done with that. After 18 months of this hellscape, I found a doctor who cared and rescued me. He diagnosed me with pituitary apoplexy, which has affected only 22 adolescents since 1980. While the lack of urgency in treatment has rendered my symptoms irreversible, I have made it my life's mission to take this away from my life's center. During the school year of 2022-2023, while making time for the countless IV sessions, appointments, and trips to Singapore, I still managed to receive a 4.0, a five on all my AP exams that year, spearheaded committees on student government and was an active member in 9 clubs. Every day I feel the effects of my illness. Every day I grapple with the notion that if someone had cared sooner, my life would be different and less painful. But instead of letting the pain, emotional and physical weigh me down, I use it as an excuse to push myself forward. It lights the flame in my literally broken heart and makes intelligence, not tumors, the focal point of my brain. Yes, I'm angry, and yes, I'm sick, but more than that, I'm motivated.

My suitcase is lying open in the corner of the hotel room; my computer on the desk is open to my latest article as I add the finishing touches; my passport lies askew; the window showcases the city below, and I jump in the big hotel bed that I bought for myself, all by myself with my unwavering ambition.

To me, feminism is the product of a breaking point. It results from centuries of homemaking, corset-wearing, and walking to our cars with our keys between our fingers. It is the result of biting our tounges while others say, "a lady should be seen but not heard" and "well, what was she wearing that night?" Feminism is honoring those who did before us, from Elizabeth Cady Sutton to Ruth Bader Ginsburg; these women, and many more, made feminism possible. Not in the sense that they paved the road that we now must blindly follow, but rather that they passed on their efforts as if in a relay race against the patriarchy. Today, it is my generation's turn to take the torch and light our way in the shadows of those who came before us. It is our turn to make a change, and I intend to contribute. I feel as if I was born with an innate awareness of feminism and inequality, an inherent belonging to the feminist community, and a withstanding determination to leave my mark. My mission to make a difference was nurtured by a mirroring determination of my mother. However, it wasn't until about 6th grade that two women, in particular, showed me how I would make that mission a success; their names were Joan Didion and Gloria Steinem. They taught me the power of the written word and its influence when backed with passion. Since then, in the likeness of my idols, I have dedicated myself to the art of journalism, reinforced by my intention to use it for good. Accordingly, I am a staff writer for my school's award-winning publication, Feedback Magazine. Thus far, I have published articles concerning inclusion, mental health, discrimination, and gender inequality. My work with Feedback aligns with My most defining goal; to continue and grow my writing career outside of high school and use my words to reach the people, the women who need them. Feminism is a product of a breaking point. We are so fed up with so many things that each day seems to be topped with a final straw. That is why this movement is indefinitely and everlastingly necessary. It was necessary in 1848, 1963, and 2022. Feminism is honoring those who did before us because what they did was challenging and without a manual. While we can not follow in their footsteps exactly, we can let their mistakes and successes influence and guide where our stilettos take us today.