My version of leadership isn't about things coming easily to me; it's about the grit I've had to develop just to keep moving, understand myself better, and grind through obstacles that a lot of people don’t even see. Living on the autism spectrum with ADHD has completely redefined how I learn, communicate, and navigate the world. It dictates how I process information, how I handle overstimulation, and honestly, just how much raw energy it takes for me to stay organized and balanced. Academic environments can be brutal about this because they’re usually built for a specific, narrow way of thinking. I’ve had to claw my way through that system while staying honest about what I actually need to succeed rather than just pretending everything is fine. That process has forced me to be incredibly disciplined and deeply self-aware. I’ve had to build my own systems from scratch, manage my time with surgical precision, and learn to advocate for myself instead of trying to blend into a mold that wasn’t built for me. I’ve started to realize that’s its own form of leadership. It’s not just about directing a group; it’s about knowing how to guide yourself with resilience and purpose when the map you’ve been given doesn't actually match the terrain you're walking on. Living with these unique challenges has also made me much more tuned into other people. When you spend a lot of time feeling misunderstood or overlooked because you don't fit the standard expectations, you naturally become more sensitive to others who might be struggling in silence. It’s made me more empathetic. I catch it when someone else feels overwhelmed or excluded, and to me, leadership isn't about being the loudest voice in the room. It’s about being the person who quietly pivots the environment to make sure everyone else feels capable, respected, and included. My education is also a deeply personal mission—I’m doing this to honor my mother. We lost her to cancer right before I started college, and her absence changed everything. She was a natural leader and community organizer who had this incredible ability to make people feel seen and valued. Watching her lead with that kind of warmth, conviction, and generosity taught me that leadership truly has nothing to do with titles or status. It’s entirely about service, courage, and how you treat people. Getting good grades while navigating neurodivergence and grief has taken everything I’ve got, but it’s also shown me exactly what I’m capable of. I’ve learned how to harness challenge and turn it into strength. I want my education and my future career to reflect the kind of leadership she embodied: focused, compassionate, and unwavering in its commitment to making space for others to thrive.

My drive for cybersecurity comes from a mix of genuine technical curiosity and something much deeper. I’ve always been fascinated by how digital systems function—and how they fail—but my real motivation started with my mother. A month before I headed off to college, we lost her to cancer. Before that, we used to spend time watching shows about cybercrime and investigations together. What was just a shared interest back then slowly morphed into something far more significant, eventually becoming the spark for my career path. I love that this field isn’t just endless lines of code; it’s about actual problem-solving with a sense of purpose. Our whole lives are essentially digitized now, from our finances to our private conversations, and there’s something important about being the one who helps keep those things secure. I’ve found that the mindset required here—that blend of sharp attention to detail and a slightly paranoid way of looking for vulnerabilities before they happen—really meshes with how I think. Getting here hasn't been a straight line, though. Starting college while processing such a profound loss was the hardest thing I’ve dealt with. There were plenty of days where just showing up felt like a win, let alone focusing on a degree. But that period taught me a kind of grit and resilience I didn’t know I had. It forced me to learn how to keep moving forward even when things felt incredibly heavy, and that experience ultimately gave me a much stronger sense of purpose. I’m doing this because I want to build a career that makes my mother proud. The technical learning curve in this field is also a beast in its own right; it’s easy to feel intimidated when there is always more to learn. I’ve handled that by just focusing on getting the fundamentals of computer science right, step by step. I’ve stopped getting hung up on what I don't know yet and started focusing on just being curious. I’ve realized that being okay with hitting a wall and working through the struggle is actually the only way to get genuinely good at anything. Ultimately, I want a career that uses these skills to fix real-world problems and help people. Cybersecurity is demanding and constantly shifting, which keeps me engaged, but more than that, it’s a way to keep a piece of my mother with me as I move into the future. It’s not just a job; it’s how I’ve decided to move forward.

When I was ten, I remember standing in our living room on Christmas Eve, watching my dad light a candle while my mom played a recording of her favorite hymn. They weren't fighting — not exactly — but the air was thick with quiet tension. My dad's family came from Europe, and he followed his childhood faith. My mom practiced a different one, and both were sure they were right. I stood there between them, holding a match that had burned out, feeling like I didn't really belong to either side. That feeling has followed me most of my life. My father came to this country thirty years ago with practically no money. He built a life for us, but the price was that we grew up far away from our extended family. No grandparents at the dinner table, no aunts or uncles telling stories about who we were. For me, identity was something I had to figure out on my own. My parents' beliefs clashed often, and I learned early how to navigate two faiths without setting either one off. Sundays meant choosing my words carefully, dressing differently depending on whose relatives were visiting, and pretending the contradictions didn't confuse me. I wanted to make both of them proud, but it felt like living two separate lives. Then there was another secret — one that didn't fit into either world. I realized I was gay. Both of my parents come from cultures where being gay isn't really talked about, and when it is, it's not kind. I spent years hiding who I was, even from my closest friends. Every time someone asked if I was dating anyone, I'd smile and change the subject. It was exhausting, always editing myself. For a while, that fear made me shrink. I avoided social events and focused on school because it was the one area I could control. But that's also where I started finding strengths I didn't know I had. I learned how to use writing and coding as quiet forms of expression. When I couldn't talk about what I was feeling, I built things — stories, projects, little worlds of my own design. Eventually, I started confiding in a few trusted friends who reminded me that I didn't have to be afraid all the time. I joined an online LGBTQ+ youth group where I could speak freely. Those conversations helped me see that being different didn't make me broken — it just meant I had a messier story to tell. Growing up without clear roots taught me to build identity from within. Navigating two religions taught me how to see value in multiple perspectives without needing to pick just one. And hiding who I was taught me empathy — for anyone who's ever had to live a double life or stay quiet to stay safe. As a student, that mindset pushes me to explore deeply and create spaces where people can feel seen. As someone interested in technology and cybersecurity, it drives my belief that systems should protect people, not just data. Behind every screen or algorithm, there's a human being who deserves safety and respect. I know what it feels like to hide, and I want to build a world where fewer people have to. When I think back to that moment years ago — standing between my parents and their two candles — I realize that "between" isn't such a bad place to be. It's where I learned how to listen, adapt, and bridge differences. It's where I became me.