Communities function best when everyone gives what they can. In 2018, I began working with Family Promise of Orange County. Family Promise is a national nonprofit organization that supports families experiencing homelessness. Later, I helped open another branch closer to my home, Family Promise of Riverside. We support families through a rotational housing model and by providing wrap-around services. I am currently a board member and the social media manager for this branch. When I first volunteered with Family Promise, I started by simply making a dessert to share. I baked over a hundred chocolate chip cookies, wanting to make sure everyone could have their fill. The priority of Family Promise is to provide support, with community as a key value of the organization. This community is created by individuals: volunteers who attend events, share the organization with others, and donate meals. By baking all day, I had joined this community permanently, something I will never regret. Over the years, I have continued to bring food to unhoused families and make desserts for fundraisers, and I have expanded my volunteer work by becoming an advocate for the organization. Starting Family Promise of Riverside was not a piece of cake. Quickly, a movement began against our organization. Neighbors put up signs saying “Not in my backyard” and spoke against us at meetings. I learned that engaging with them with anger could alienate, preventing productive conversations and understanding. As hard as it was, I knew that to have these conversations, I needed to understand their perspectives. So, I learned: they were afraid of homeless people being in the places they live, where their kids go to school, and where they work. These fears, I was able to recognize, were rational. It is a common stereotype: the dirty homeless man on the street, or the mentally unstable woman outside the grocery store. The truth is, homelessness lives everywhere, not just in the man you might turn your eyes away from at the freeway offramp. There are countless unhoused kids in K-12 classrooms, anxious college students roaming from couch to couch, and parents who are clinging to the only job that would hire them. These people need advocates, friends, and services. Family Promise is an organization with a niche, making—as the name implies—a promise to families experiencing homelessness that they have a support network of people willing to drop what they are doing to bring them a meal, a crib, or some school shoes. I cannot say that I was able to rid people entirely of their fears of the homeless, but by fostering conversation about the people we want to help, Family Promise of Riverside was able to get off the ground. I service the people in my community not only by helping the unhoused, but I am able to engage in conversation with those who need encouragement to lend a helping hand. So far, Family Promise of Riverside has housed 44 families, and by the time you read this essay, that number may have gone up. Over time, cooking and baking have become more than hobbies—they are how I interact and engage meaningfully with my community. As a student, it is easy to get caught up in what I can’t do, but I have learned that to have a great impact on others, I must start with something simple. Right now, this means talking to people, making Instagram posts, attending board meetings, playing board games, and whipping up desserts. My actions are small, but my impact, helping the people in my community who need it the most, is lasting.

"It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe. To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that I'd been happy, and that I was happy still. For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of execration." -An excerpt from The Stranger by Albert Camus, translated by Stuart Gilbert A person with absurdist values is not necessarily apathetic, and is still able to experience happiness from pleasurable aspects of the world without believing that these aspects have intrinsic meaning beyond the surface level pleasure they offer. The final pages of Albert Camus’ novella The Stranger explores Meursault’s reflections of his own life as he comes to face imminent execution. Meursault is different from all other people in the novella because of his absurdist perspective on life, and while this fact could be isolating, Meursault chooses to find peace in his isolation and fleeting impact on the world. In this closing section of the novella, Camus' main purpose solidifies: absurdism is the only rational, fulfilling way to live and to die. Humanity tends to be desperate to be remembered—wars are waged out of desperation for success, buildings are designed to outlast their architects, and the earliest civilizations carved their names into stones, leaving lasting impressions, all for the purpose of creating a life with meaning. Camus found this perspective to be limiting and impossible. In the mind of Camus’ absurdist, all things end and disappear, so it is a waste of finite time to dwell on the nonexistent potential for immortal remembrance. This is time that could be spent doing things that cause individual happiness, and are not concerned with future or legacy. The world is not permanent and it does not have a memory, a fact that causes panic in all existentialists. Meursault is able to find peace in this fact, stating, while awaiting his execution, that he “laid [his] heart open to the benign indifference of the universe.” The word “indifference” generally has a negative connotation in works of literature, implying apathy or the inability to care. Meursault acknowledges that the world, and life itself, is inanimate but not immortal, and that while it must be acknowledged that the world does not care whether or not an individual person is accomplished or good, these are not reasons to be discouraged. The existentialist may feel hopeless when recognizing this fact, the nihilist will feel depressed, but the absurdist has the capacity to feel free and happy. This, therefore, is the only rational mindset to have according to Camus—people should be like Meursault, and choose to experience joy in every situation, because joy is a more pleasant emotion to feel than sadness. Meursault has lived the majority of his life struggling with the knowledge that he is unlike everyone else, and he has been persecuted for this. He does not understand why others spend so much time trying to find meaning in his actions and reason in his emotion-based actions, when he believes that the only rational reaction to being forced to live is to respond to your emotions in ways that make you happy and do not consider others. Meursault is indifferent, just like he realizes the world is, which leads him to find a sense of community with the concept of the world, despite not ever finding true community with other humans. He believes that the world is “so like [himself], indeed, so brotherly.” By calling the world "brotherly" Camus personifies planet earth as a being that exists similarly to Meursault's interpretation of his own humanity. The earth can be perceived as cruel, in its natural disasters and harsh climates, but these are largely rational reactions, the same as Meursault's behavior. They are similar in their indifference, and the incapability of others to recognize their rationality in order to live their happiest, most fulfilling lives. This is the problem with the existentialist in the eyes of Camus: they are so preoccupied with finding truth and fulfillment that they are never able to recognize simple truths and truly experience happiness without internal conflict. Meursault’s life is peaceful, unlike every existentialist, and it is his time in prison that leads him to develop further into his absurdist mindset. He is no longer angered by the fact that he is misunderstood, and that other humans are not as enlightened as him, because he has been given the company and brotherhood of the world. Meursault is sentenced to death based on the judgment of people who do not, and cannot, understand him or his life. The absurdist, being Camus, would argue that the most correct view of other people and how the world should exist relies on only personal feelings and actions of others, without regard for the feelings of others. This is reflected in Meursault's peace before his execution; while an existentialist person may feel panic and regret, an absurdist will be happy. It is therefore ironically rational for an existentialist world to be absurd because existentialists seek fulfillment in life; absurdists are always fulfilled.

Percy Jackson was my best friend when I was in the fourth grade. He was not a real person, but a character in Rick Riordan’s bestselling fantasy series, Percy Jackson and the Olympians. I read all ten novels and every spin-off series that year. That is more than two million words I tore through at nine years old, eagerly taking in every last bit of information I could find in the series. When I finished, I turned to Harry Potter. Then Shadowhunters, Divergent, and Shadow and Bone. These fantasy worlds held my attention, and I could not understand when the main characters seemed to become bored of their magical training. It was typical for them, but incredible for me. While Percy struggled through lessons on mythical gods and Harry failed his potions class, I convinced myself that if I were in their places, I would be the most studious demigod or wizard ever to live. When I began IB Chemistry last year, I was proven right. Chemistry is like our own earthly magic. Everything is perfectly balanced and connected, forming life as we know it—the worldbuilding, flawless, but the plotholes, many. Learning the nomenclature for chemical equations was like unlocking a new spell, and the laws that governed elements fit like puzzle pieces in my brain. My younger self was finally satiated. I no longer longed for a letter from Hogwarts or for a satyr to track me down and take me to Camp Half-Blood. I had magic with me in my thirty-by-thirty-foot classroom. Every time I struggled through a particularly complex stoichiometry problem or cursed at Le’Chatelier’s principle, I reminded myself to find the magic in what I was doing. Because who needs potions when you can perfectly titrate a weak acid? I have wanted to work in behavioral neuroscience for years, but my first year of chemistry sparked a fascination with the chemical and molecular level of neuroscience. This past summer, I began work with a lab at California State University, San Bernardino, studying the effect of longitudinal computerized cognitive training on cognitive skills in elementary, high school, and college-aged students. Working with Dr. Eugene Wong, Dr. Lisa Looney, and Dr. Kevin Rosales has taught me how to engage with the studies I find meaningful. With their help, I am becoming not only a scientist but a wielder of our world’s magic: research, analysis, and application. I am incredibly excited to present our work at my first conference with the Western Psychological Association in April. As a neuropsychological lab, our results are based on participants’ progress with specially designed game-like tasks. These results are valuable, but in our lab meetings, I often find myself wondering how the effects we are seeing would present on an MRI scan or what the chemical changes within the brain would look like. This type of evidence is considered to be of the highest caliber in neuropsychology. This unquenchable curiosity has fueled my desire to engage with behavioral and psychological neuroscience through brain scanning, mapping, and biosensing technology, which are able to measure concentrations of chemicals within the brain. To me, this technology is like a Nimbus 2000 broom or a celestial bronze sword—high-tech tools that will allow me to be as successful in my world, just like Harry and Percy are in theirs. However, instead of winning a Quidditch match or defeating monsters, I will work to solve problems of cognitive decline and mental health. My school work has blended with my career ambitions, and for that I am incredibly grateful. Chemistry was able to unlock a passion in me that rivaled my childhood obsession with fantasy novels. I am a wizard. Not in the way nine-year-old me dreamed to be, but a wizard nonetheless. My lab coat is my robe, and my test tubes are my magic wands.

“Boldly, Unapologetically Me” Da Vinci is known for the Mona Lisa, but he also designed futuristic technology. Einstein may be remembered for his influential work in physics, but he played the violin in his free time. Hedy Lamarr was an actress, but she also created the foundations of modern wifi. The arts and sciences are not often considered to be complementary fields, but these great minds serve as proof of their inherent ties—after all, creativity is creativity, whether that is on a canvas or in a lab. When I first auditioned for my school’s musical, I thought I was being illogical. I want to be a neuroscientist, and what lab wants to hire a girl who knows every line to the musical Hadestown? But I knew I wanted to act, even if it was just for those four years of high school. I did, however, approach my audition like a scientist—starting with research. I joined the Mock Trial team, where I played the role of a witness. From rewording my lines to avoid hearsay objections to singing a line from A Chorus Line on the witness stand, I learned to not be afraid of improvisation. As a neuroscientist, I know I will have to tap into my actress side, ensuring that I am engaging the audience during conferences and working through mishaps in the lab. Art and science are no longer warring subjects in my mind—they work together, with science solving life’s biggest problems, and art making these problems worth fixing. “Creating Connection” Few things bring me as much joy as crushing a clove of garlic or mixing cake batter. I learned how to cook before I could reach the counter, on a step stool in my grandparents’ kitchen; I tested pasta sauces, chopped vegetables, and made my little brother’s birthday cakes. Over time, cooking and baking have become more than hobbies—they are how I interact and engage meaningfully with my community. In 2018, I began volunteering to organize a new branch of Family Promise—a nonprofit dedicated to supporting families experiencing homelessness—in my city. I am now a board member and social media manager for this branch, supporting unhoused families in my community by giving them the tools they need to get back on their feet. Over the years, I have cooked and baked to bring food to unhoused families and make desserts for fundraisers. When my family first volunteered with Family Promise, my mom asked me to make dessert to bring to unhoused families. I baked over a hundred chocolate chip cookies that day, wanting to make sure everyone could have all they wanted, and more. That night, I sat down to dinner with several families who were struggling to stay afloat. We ate dinner with them, shared my cookies, and I spent hours playing Monopoly with the kids my age. The priority of Family Promise is to provide support, with community as a key tool. This community is created by individuals: volunteers who attend events, share the organization with others, and donate meals. By baking all day, I had joined this community, permanently—something I could never regret. As a high school student, it is easy to get caught up in what I can’t do, but I have learned that in order to have a great impact on others, I must start with something simple. Right now, this means running community meetings, making Instagram posts, and whipping up the occasional dessert. My actions are small, but my impact, helping the people in my community who need it the most, is meaningful.