The person I admire most—the person who has shaped my ambition, my confidence, and my desire to pursue higher education—is my mom. She is the definition of a “boss lady,” not because she is loud or demanding, but because she leads with strength, intelligence, and grace in spaces where women are often underestimated. As the Head of HR at Andretti Global, she works in a male‑dominated field where she has had to prove herself again and again. Watching her navigate that environment with confidence and resilience has inspired me to pursue my own goals boldly, even when the path isn’t easy. Growing up, I watched my mom balance leadership, family, and faith without ever losing her sense of self. She showed me that being a woman in a male‑dominated industry isn’t a disadvantage—it’s an opportunity to stand out, to bring a different perspective, and to open doors for others. She never let stereotypes define her, and she never allowed me to limit myself either. Whenever I doubted my abilities, she reminded me that strength doesn’t always look like being the loudest in the room; sometimes it looks like being the most prepared, the most thoughtful, or the most determined. My mom also played a direct role in my interest in speech. She practiced her presentations and speeches on me constantly—sometimes at the kitchen table, sometimes in the car, sometimes while I was trying to do homework. At the time, I didn’t realize how much I was absorbing. I watched her rehearse, refine her words, and adjust her tone until her message was clear and powerful. Seeing her prepare taught me that strong communication isn’t something you’re born with—it’s something you build through practice and intention. When I eventually joined an advanced speech class, I understood why she valued communication so deeply. Speech taught me how to express myself clearly, how to organize my thoughts, and how to speak with confidence even when I’m nervous. It pushed me out of my comfort zone and helped me develop a voice I didn’t know I had. My mom encouraged me every step of the way, reminding me that communication is one of the most important skills I can take with me into college and beyond. My motivation for participating in speech came from wanting to grow into the kind of leader my mom is—someone who can advocate for herself and others, someone who can speak with clarity and conviction, and someone who can stand strong in challenging environments. Speech has helped me develop those skills. It has taught me how to think critically, how to listen actively, and how to communicate with purpose. These are skills I know will serve me well in higher education, where I hope to continue growing academically and personally. My mom’s example is the reason I’m determined to pursue a four‑year degree. She showed me that education opens doors, builds confidence, and creates opportunities that last a lifetime. She taught me that being a woman in a competitive field isn’t something to fear—it’s something to embrace. And she showed me that leadership isn’t about being perfect; it’s about being persistent, prepared, and willing to grow. Because of her, I’m motivated to work hard, push myself, and pursue higher education with the same determination she modeled for me. She is the reason I believe in myself, the reason I value communication, and the reason I’m ready to take the next step in my education and my future.

Being in an advanced speech class has shaped me in many ways, but the most meaningful impact it has had is on my ability to confidently and respectfully share my Christian faith. Before taking the class, I often felt unsure of how to express what I believed without worrying about saying the wrong thing or being misunderstood. Speech taught me that communicating my faith isn’t about having perfect words — it’s about speaking with clarity, humility, and love. One of the first lessons I learned in speech was the importance of understanding your audience. Every person comes from a different background, carries different experiences, and listens through a different lens. This mirrors what I’ve learned in my walk with Christ: sharing the gospel isn’t a one‑size‑fits‑all conversation. Jesus met people where they were, and speech class taught me how to do the same. Whether I’m giving a persuasive speech, a personal narrative, or an impromptu response, I’ve learned to listen first, speak second, and always approach others with empathy. Another skill speech strengthened in me is confidence — not the loud, attention‑seeking kind, but the quiet confidence that comes from knowing who I am and what I stand for. Standing in front of a room and delivering a message requires courage, and that courage has carried over into my faith. I’ve learned how to speak about what I believe without fear of judgment, and how to stay grounded even when others disagree. My teacher often reminded us that confidence comes from preparation, and in many ways, my faith is the same. The more I study Scripture, pray, and grow spiritually, the more prepared I am to share my beliefs with others. Some of the most impactful speeches I’ve heard weren’t filled with statistics or complicated arguments — they were simple stories that revealed something true about the speaker’s life. Sharing my faith works the same way. People connect with authenticity. When I talk about how God has worked in my life, how He has given me strength during difficult times, or how He has shaped my character, it opens the door for real conversations. Speech class helped me find my voice, but my faith gives that voice purpose. One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned is how to communicate with grace. In speech, you learn quickly that not everyone will agree with your viewpoint. But disagreement doesn’t have to lead to division. My class taught me how to respond respectfully, how to defend my beliefs without attacking others, and how to stay calm under pressure. These skills are essential when sharing my faith, especially in a world where conversations about religion can become tense. I’ve learned that my goal isn’t to win arguments — it’s to reflect Christ in the way I speak, listen, and treat others. Finally, speech taught me leadership. Whether I’m helping classmates practice, giving feedback, or presenting in front of the room, I’ve learned how to guide others with patience and encouragement. Leadership rooted in service mirrors the example Christ set. My speech class didn’t just teach me how to speak — it taught me how to lead with humility, kindness, and integrity. Because of speech, I feel prepared to share my Christian faith in a way that is thoughtful, confident, and compassionate. I’ve learned how to communicate clearly, listen deeply, and speak with purpose. Most importantly, I’ve learned that sharing my faith isn’t about being perfect — it’s about being willing. And thanks to the skills I’ve gained, I feel ready to continue sharing the hope and love of Christ wherever I go.

Throughout high school, I’ve had many teachers who taught me formulas, facts, and skills I’ll carry into college. But only one teacher fundamentally changed the way I approach my life. My calculus teacher, Mr. Brunty, didn’t just teach derivatives and integrals—he taught perspective. Every single day, without fail, he would begin class with the same phrase: “Make today the best ___ of your life.” He would fill in the blank with the date, and then pause long enough for us to actually think about what he was saying. At first, it felt like a quirky routine. Over time, it became a mindset that reshaped how I move through the world. What made his message powerful wasn’t the words themselves, but the way he lived them. He taught calculus in a way that even the most intimidating concepts felt possible. He challenged us to think, not memorize. He encouraged questions that went beyond the curriculum. And he treated every student with the same level of respect and belief. His classroom wasn’t just a place to learn math; it was a place to learn how to think boldly. Before his class, I often approached school with a survival mindset: get through the day, finish the assignments, move on. But hearing his famous quote, every morning forced me to reconsider what I was doing every day. It made me realize that I had control over my attitude, my effort, and my impact. Instead of waiting for “big moments” to feel proud of myself, I started looking for ways to make ordinary days meaningful—whether that meant pushing myself academically or simply choosing to show up with a better attitude. What stood out most about Mr. Brunty was his willingness to go beyond the standard curriculum. He encouraged us to think creatively, to question assumptions, and to trust our ability to figure things out. His teaching style wasn’t about getting the right answer—it was about becoming the kind of person who doesn’t give up when the answer seems impossible. That mindset helped me far beyond calculus. It helped me navigate personal challenges, including moments when life at home felt unstable or overwhelming. On days when I felt discouraged, I would hear his voice in my head: “Make today the best ___ of your life.” Not because every day would be perfect, but because every day held the possibility of meaning. That simple phrase reminded me that I could choose resilience, even when circumstances weren’t ideal. His influence also shaped the way I treat others. I try to bring the same encouragement into my own community—whether through volunteering, supporting classmates, or simply being someone others can count on. I learned from him that leadership doesn’t always look like being in front of a room; sometimes it looks like showing up consistently, believing in people, and helping them believe in themselves. As I prepare for college, I carry his lesson with me. I want to pursue an education that allows me to create impact, uplift others, and approach challenges with curiosity instead of fear. I want to build a future where I don’t just move through life but actively shape it. And I want to continue making each day the best version of itself—not because life is perfect, but because I have the power to make meaning out of it. Mr. Brunty didn’t just teach me calculus. He taught me how to live with intention. His daily reminder changed the way I think, the way I work, and the way I show up for others. And that influence will stay with me long after high school.

Kindness has always been something I try to practice quietly, without expecting anything in return. One of the most meaningful acts of kindness I’ve taken part in was donating my hair to be made into a wig for someone undergoing cancer treatment. It wasn’t dramatic or done for recognition. It was simply a moment when I realized I had something that could bring comfort to someone facing one of the hardest battles of their life, and I chose to give it. Growing my hair out took years, and like many people, I saw it as part of my identity. Cutting it off felt like a big change, but when I learned how many cancer patients lose their hair during treatment—and how deeply that loss can affect their confidence and sense of self—I knew I wanted to help. Hair grows back. But the courage to face illness, the strength to feel beautiful during treatment, and the hope to keep going—those things are much harder to restore. If my hair could help someone feel even a little more like themselves again, then giving it away was the easiest decision I could make. When I finally sat in the salon chair, I felt a mix of nerves and excitement. The stylist braided my hair into sections, and with each snip, I felt lighter—not just physically, but emotionally. I wasn’t just losing inches of hair; I was letting go of the idea that kindness has to be complicated. Sometimes it’s as simple as recognizing that you have something someone else needs and choosing to share it. I never met the person who received my hair, and I probably never will. But that’s part of what made the experience meaningful. Kindness doesn’t always come with a thank‑you or a story to hold onto. Sometimes it’s an act of quiet generosity, done with the hope that it will make someone’s day—or their life—a little easier. Knowing that my hair might help someone feel beautiful, strong, or seen during a painful chapter of their life is enough. This experience taught me that kindness is not measured by the size of the gesture, but by the intention behind it. It reminded me that compassion is powerful even when it’s silent, and that we all have the ability to uplift others in ways we may never fully see. Donating my hair was a small act, but it shaped the way I think about giving and encouraged me to continue finding ways to help others feel valued and supported. Community has always mattered to me, not just as a place where people gather, but as a space where people feel seen and welcomed. I’ve learned that building community doesn’t require big speeches or leadership titles. Sometimes it’s about showing up consistently, choosing kindness, and creating moments where people feel like they belong. That belief has shaped the way I move through my school, my friendships, and my volunteer work. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve contributed to my community is through my involvement in Ecology Club. Our club organized a shoe drive where we collected used shoes and donated them to be repurposed into new, useful materials. It was a simple project, but it showed me how collective effort can transform something ordinary into something meaningful. Watching students, teachers, and families come together to donate shoes reminded me that people want to help—they just need someone to start the conversation. That experience taught me that leadership isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s the quiet act of creating opportunities for others to participate in something bigger than themselves.

Education has been more than a pathway to opportunity for me; it has been a source of direction, stability, and identity. Growing up, my father struggled with alcoholism, and that shaped my early life in ways I did not fully understand until I got older. Addiction creates a kind of unpredictability that seeps into everything—your routines, your sense of safety, and even your confidence in the future. For a long time, I felt like I was living in two worlds: the one at home, where I learned to stay quiet, stay small, and avoid conflict, and the one at school, where I slowly discovered who I could become. School became the first place where I felt in control of my own story. In the classroom, effort mattered. Hard work paid off. Adults were consistent. Expectations were clear. That structure gave me something I didn’t always have at home: the belief that my choices could shape my future. Education became my anchor, the thing I could hold onto when everything else felt uncertain. I pushed myself to be the best in the classroom even when I was not always. I forced myself into hard classes that I knew would maybe be a challenge. I learned that the harder I worked, the stronger I became academically but most importantly, mentally. But it wasn’t just stability that education gave me—it gave me direction. As I learned more about the world, I started to see possibilities for myself that I had never imagined. I realized that I didn’t have to repeat the patterns I grew up around. I could build something different. I could become someone different. That realization became the foundation of my ambition. One of the biggest challenges I’ve overcome is learning not to let my circumstances define my potential. When you grow up around addiction, you learn early that you can’t control everything. But you also learn resilience. You learn empathy. You learn how to adapt. Those lessons shaped my goals more than anything else. Instead of letting my father’s struggle limit me, I decided to let it motivate me. I wanted to create a future where stability wasn’t something I hoped for—it was something I built. Education helped me understand that I could turn my experiences into purpose. I became interested in entrepreneurship because it represents the freedom to create solutions, build opportunities, and design a life that reflects your values. I want to study business and sustainability so I can build a career that not only supports me, but also helps others who feel stuck in circumstances they didn’t choose. My long‑term goal is to create a business centered around environmental responsibility and community impact. I want to build something that reduces waste, supports families, and gives young people opportunities to get involved in sustainability work. This goal didn’t come out of nowhere—it grew from the small but meaningful experiences I’ve had giving back to my community. One example is my involvement in my school’s Ecology Club. We organized a shoe drive where we collected used shoes and donated them to be repurposed into new, useful materials. It might seem like a simple project, but it taught me something important: even small actions can create real change. Something as ordinary as an old pair of shoes—something most people would throw away—could be transformed into something valuable. That experience opened my eyes to the power of community action and the importance of environmental responsibility. It also showed me that giving back doesn’t require perfection or huge resources. It requires intention. It requires people who care enough to act. That’s the kind of entrepreneur I want to become—someone who uses their skills and education to create solutions that matter. I hope to use my education to build a future that is not only better for me, but meaningful for others. I want to create programs that help students learn about sustainability, offer internships that give young people hands‑on experience, and build partnerships with schools and local organizations. I want to show others—especially those who come from difficult backgrounds—that their circumstances do not define their ceiling. They can rise above what they’ve experienced. They can build something new. Education has shaped my goals by showing me that growth is possible, that perseverance matters, and that I have the power to create a different future than the one I grew up in. It has given me direction, purpose, and the confidence to believe that who I am becoming matters just as much as where I am going. I am not defined by the challenges I faced. I am defined by the strength I gained from overcoming them. And with my education, I plan to turn that strength into impact—one step, one project, and one community at a time.

My goal as an entrepreneur is to build solutions that strengthen the communities that raised me. Growing up, I was raised in a small community that cherished unity and collaboration to make the world a better place. I have always believed that entrepreneurship is not just about creating a business—it’s about creating impact. I want to develop a venture that focuses on sustainability and community accessibility, whether that means designing eco‑friendly products, launching a recycling‑based business model, or creating programs that help families reduce waste and save money. My academic plan is to study business with a concentration in entrepreneurship and environmental sustainability so I can learn how to build organizations that are both profitable and socially responsible. One of the ways I plan to give back is by creating opportunities for young people to get involved in environmental work. Many students want to help their communities but don’t know where to start. In my community, we host events like youth volunteer days, and community days. Although these opportunities are perfect for students who want to get involved in community volunteering, they usually only take place once or twice a year with little to no advertising. I want to build a business that partners with schools and local organizations to offer workshops, internships, and hands‑on projects that make sustainability feel accessible and empowering. Community service is a requirement for students like me who are in National Honor Society, but I see a common trend of student who just volunteer to get their community service hour points. It is my goal to make this something that is wanted to be done without anything in return. My long‑term vision is to create a community hub where people can donate, repair, repurpose, or recycle everyday items—reducing waste while also supporting families who need affordable resources. My commitment to giving back didn’t start with entrepreneurship; it started with small actions. Through my school’s Ecology Club, I participated in a shoe drive where we collected used shoes and donated them to be repurposed into new, useful materials. It was a simple project, but it showed me how collective effort can transform something as ordinary as an old pair of shoes into something meaningful. That experience taught me that environmental change doesn’t always require huge inventions—it often begins with community, creativity, and a willingness to act. Entrepreneurship gives me a way to scale that mindset. I want to take the values I learned—service, sustainability, and responsibility—and turn them into something that can make a lasting difference. My goal is to build a business that doesn’t just succeed, but one that helps my community succeed too.

The movie that has had the greatest impact on my life is Call Me By Your Name, not only because of its artistry, but because of one question at its emotional core: “Is it better to speak or to die?” That single line, posed quietly in a conversation about love and fear, became a mirror I didn’t know I needed. It forced me to confront how often I stayed silent—about my ambitions, my struggles, and even my hopes—because silence felt safer than vulnerability. Before encountering this film, I tended to move through life cautiously. I avoided raising my hand in class unless I was absolutely certain of the answer. I hesitated to apply for opportunities unless I felt overqualified. I kept my real opinions tucked away, worried they might be “too much” or “not enough.” Silence felt like protection, but it was really a cage. Watching Call Me By Your Name changed that. The film doesn’t present “speaking” as easy or painless; in fact, it shows how terrifying honesty can be. But it also shows the cost of withholding ourselves from the world—the missed connections, the what‑ifs that echo long after the moment has passed. For the first time, I saw my own fears reflected back at me, and I realized that avoiding risk was its own kind of loss. Since then, I’ve tried to live by the question the film posed. “Is it better to speak or to die?” has become a quiet mantra, nudging me to choose courage over comfort. It pushed me to run for leadership positions I once assumed were out of reach. It encouraged me to ask for help when I was struggling academically instead of pretending I had everything under control. It even gave me the confidence to share my writing publicly—something I never would have imagined doing a few years ago. The impact of Call Me By Your Name isn’t that it gave me all the answers. It’s that it taught me to stop hiding from the questions that matter. It reminded me that a meaningful life requires vulnerability, and that silence, while safe, can also be a slow kind of disappearing. By choosing to speak—to advocate for myself, to express what I care about, to take risks—I’ve discovered opportunities and connections I would have missed if I’d stayed quiet. This film changed the way I move through the world. It taught me that courage isn’t the absence of fear; it’s the decision to show up anyway. And every time I face a moment of doubt, I return to that line and ask myself again: Is it better to speak or to die? So far, choosing to speak has made all the difference.