My musical education in violin performance has been the core of my long-term goals and has shaped my lifestyle and direction for as long as I can remember. Ever since my first violin lesson at seven years old, my studies of violin performance have expanded my knowledge and skill in fields beyond just violin technique in ways I never would have imagined. When I was seven, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” felt like an easy question. I’d answer without hesitation: a professional violinist. People would smile, impressed, maybe even a little charmed. But by the time I entered high school, that same answer landed differently. Now that I was attending a public arts high school and taking music seriously, the smiles faded into something else. Their curiosity turned into concern, and I was constantly being urged to keep the violin as a hobby and aim for medicine or law instead. As an academically high-achieving Asian American student, people constantly discouraged me from pursuing music, claiming I was “too gifted” to choose something so uncertain, something that wouldn’t lead to a “real job.” Despite constant pressure to choose a different path, I refused to let go of music. My insistence on choosing music despite the opinions of others showed me from a young age where my values lay, and what it meant to choose my own path. I achieved a deep understanding of what I was passionate about and learned to set my goals based on those passions, rather than living according to the blueprint that others drew out for me. Given this strong sense of direction, I became determined to work as hard as I could to achieve my goals. I willingly practiced 4-6 hours daily, sometimes even up to 13 hours a day, chasing perfection. Through that process, I gained discipline and learned how to manage my time and push myself even on days when I felt unmotivated. But that intensity soon caught up with me, and by sophomore year, I hit a plateau. Despite the long hours I would spend in my practice room, I made no progress. After talking with my orchestra conductor, I began to understand that true mastery of music is achieved through a combination of collaborative elements, rather than solely spending endless hours alone in the practice room. Since then, my approach has shifted from solitary perfectionism to a more curious, outward-looking practice. I started by changing the way I approached my school orchestra. Instead of solely focusing on playing well, I started connecting with my orchestra members on a personal level. As concertmaster of my high school orchestra, I began offering one-on-one lunchtime support to my violin section. The conversations I had with my classmates during those lunchtime sessions about their personal experiences and relationship with music ended up inspiring me in ways I didn’t expect and opened my eyes to perspectives I never would have reached on my own. After seeing how much I grew through conversations with others, I started seeking out opportunities to work with artists outside my usual world as a classical instrumentalist. I joined the school’s opera pit and talked with singers, dancers, and theater students, listening to their various artistic journeys. I also joined a project led by my Chemistry teacher and a few student vocalists called Freeman & Friendz, and ended up recording an album with them as a pop violinist. Writing the violin part for rock tracks and playing in a recording studio alongside pop singers showed me a completely new side of my instrument and craft. Fascinated by the magic of interdisciplinary work, I began exploring collaborations beyond the arts. I published a systematic review on the cognitive benefits of music therapy, then formed a group of high school musicians to perform nostalgic Korean songs at a rehabilitation hospital in Koreatown, observing these effects in real-life settings. Watching residents who had been silent or asleep suddenly start humming along, dancing, or even crying opened my eyes to a completely different kind of musical power. For my next project, I plan to integrate music therapy into hospital care as a recognized and prescribed part of patient care. Over the years, my musical education transformed from a personal ambition into the lens through which I experience the world. It challenged me, broke me out of isolation, and ultimately connected me to people and ideas far beyond myself. Through it, I discovered not only new artistic possibilities but also the power of collaboration and human connection. My goals are no longer to merely achieve personal mastery of the violin, but to keep pushing limits and inspire others to collaborate beyond their disciplines. I hope to use my musical education to continue connecting and learning from others, inspire others to question the “impossible,” and foster the development of forward-thinking perspectives together.

When I was seven, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” felt like an easy question. I’d answer without hesitation: a professional violinist. People would smile, impressed, maybe even a little charmed. But by the time I entered high school, that same answer landed differently. Now that I was attending a public arts high school and taking music seriously, the smiles faded into something else. Their curiosity turned into concern, and I was constantly being urged to keep the violin as a hobby and aim for medicine or law instead. As an academically high-achieving Asian American student, the message felt especially pointed: I was “too gifted” to choose something so uncertain, something that wouldn’t lead to a “real job.” Despite constant pressure to choose a different path, I refused to let go of music. I practiced 4-6 hours daily, sometimes up to 13 hours, chasing perfection, until that intensity caught up with me. By sophomore year, I hit a plateau. Despite the long hours I would spend in my practice room, I made no progress. After talking with my orchestra conductor, I began to understand that true mastery of music is achieved through a combination of collaborative elements, rather than solely spending endless hours alone in the practice room. Since then, my approach has shifted from solitary perfectionism to a more curious, outward-looking practice. I started by changing the way I approached my school orchestra. Instead of solely focusing on playing well, I started connecting with my orchestra members on a personal level. As concertmaster of my high school orchestra, I began offering one-on-one lunchtime support to my violin section. The conversations I had with my classmates during those lunchtime sessions about their personal experiences and relationship with music ended up inspiring me in ways I didn’t expect and opened my eyes to perspectives I never would have reached on my own. After seeing how much I grew through conversations with others, I started seeking out opportunities to work with artists outside my usual world as a classical instrumentalist. I joined the school’s opera pit and talked with singers, dancers, and theater students, listening to their various artistic journeys. I also joined a project led by my Chemistry teacher and a few student vocalists called Freeman & Friendz, and ended up recording an album with them as a pop violinist. Writing the violin part for rock tracks and playing in a recording studio alongside pop singers showed me a completely new side of my instrument and craft. Fascinated by the magic of interdisciplinary work, I began exploring collaborations beyond the arts. I published a systematic review on the cognitive benefits of music therapy, then formed a group of high school musicians to perform nostalgic Korean songs at a rehabilitation hospital in Koreatown, observing these effects in real-life settings. Watching residents who had been silent or asleep suddenly start humming along, dancing, or even crying opened my eyes to a completely different kind of musical power. Over the course of high school, music transformed from a personal ambition into the lens through which I experience the world. It challenged me, broke me out of isolation, and ultimately connected me to people and ideas far beyond myself. Through it, I discovered not only new artistic possibilities but also the power of collaboration and human connection. Music is no longer just one part of my life, but has come to define how I grow, how I lead, and how I hope to make an impact.

I once challenged myself to practice forty hours of violin in three days. It felt like the kind of extreme discipline great performers all seemed to have, and I wanted to prove I could match it. By the end, I’d barely eaten, gone record hours without talking, and driven my family crazy. Instead of becoming the virtuoso I dreamt of, I had squeezed all the joy out of what I cared about most. That experience made me realize that growth and mastery as a musician are achieved through a combination of collaborative elements born from human relationships, rather than simply spending endless hours alone in the practice room. Thus, my artistic practice has evolved from a personal and internal pursuit into one that is collaborative, curious, and outward-facing. I started by changing the way I approached my school orchestra. Instead of solely focusing on playing well, I started connecting with my orchestra members on a personal level. As concertmaster of my high school orchestra, I began offering one-on-one lunchtime support to my violin section. The conversations I had with my classmates during those lunchtime sessions about their personal experiences and relationship with music ended up inspiring me in ways I didn’t expect. Those exchanges opened my eyes to perspectives I never would have reached on my own and showed me how much I could learn simply by talking with other musicians. After seeing how much I grew through conversations with others, I started seeking out opportunities to work with artists outside my usual world as a classical instrumentalist. I joined the school’s opera pit and talked with singers, dancers, and theater students, listening to their various artistic journeys. I also joined a project led by my Chemistry teacher and a few student vocalists called Freeman&Friendz, and ended up recording an album with them as a pop violinist. Writing the violin part for rock tracks and playing in a recording studio alongside pop singers showed me a completely new side of my instrument and craft. Fascinated by the magic of interdisciplinary work, I began exploring collaborations beyond the arts. I published a systematic review on the cognitive benefits of music therapy, then formed a group of high school musicians to perform nostalgic Korean songs at a rehabilitation hospital in Koreatown, observing these effects in real-life settings. Watching residents who had been silent or asleep suddenly start humming along, dancing, or even crying opened my eyes to a completely different kind of musical power. For my next project, I plan to integrate music therapy into hospital care as a recognized and prescribed part of patient care. The more I explore music and its connections to other fields, the more convinced I am that there’s no end to what I can learn. There’s a unique human and artistic growth I can only attain by studying music and collaborating with others in a college environment, and that’s what compels me to major in violin performance. I want to stay curious, continue connecting and learning from others, and inspire them to think creatively, fostering the development of forward-thinking perspectives together.

Every day after school, my mom picks me up and asks the same question: “How was school?” For most of high school, my answer was an automatic “good,” usually followed by the latest drama with friends or complaints about upcoming tests. But during junior year, I found myself giving her full debriefs of the books and poems we were reading in English class. My English 11 teacher, Dr. P, was infamous for having the most dreaded class–his grading was ruthless, his lectures seemed endless, and his expectations were higher than anyone else’s. I left every lesson with my head buzzing from the insane connections he uncovered between passages, but unable to share my enthusiasm out of fear of looking like a nerd or a goody-goody in front of my friends. So by the time I got in the car, you can imagine how ready I was to spill my excitement to somebody, anybody, about the brilliance I had just witnessed. I became particularly obsessed with “The Great Gatsby.” Dr. P had dissected nearly every word in each chapter, uncovering hidden meanings and cross-references between colors, objects, and movements. I could read the same chapter hundreds of times, and he would still point out something I had never noticed or offer a perspective that completely shifted my understanding of the story. I was stunned by his ability to notice such small details, but even more so by the idea that Fitzgerald, the author, had packed so much meaning into every word and phrase. I began to wonder if some of Dr. P’s observations were coincidental. I nervously walked up to him after class one day, with a question that challenged the core assumptions of his field: Did Fitzgerald even intend to create such complex, implied layers in the story? He responded in a way that changed how I see art forever. He said it wasn’t about what the author meant to do, but about what the author did do. As a violin major, that moment taught me what makes not just literature, but also music so compelling. The ambiguity, the freedom to interpret, and the space left for the audience to explore. I sat in my practice room with my violin that day, overwhelmed by this new freedom. Suddenly, the white paper behind the dark notes of my sheet music became a canvas. I had been practicing Wieniawski’s first violin concerto, arguably the most technically demanding violin piece. For months, I had approached it like a math problem, focusing on hitting the right finger in the right place at the right time. Now, with this newfound perspective, I began annotating the sheet music the way I annotated poems in Dr. P’s class. I highlighted recurring themes, underlined meaningful passages, and drew arrows connecting ideas across the page. Music, like literature, became a space for exploration and personal expression. Dr. P. taught me that art is not something to be merely solved or mastered, but also to be inhabited. I realized that every note, every word, is a doorway into thought, emotion, and imagination, and the act of engaging with it is as important as the final performance. I discovered that the beauty of art lies in the gaps it leaves, in the space for interpretation, for feeling, and for my own perspective to emerge. That permission to explore, to make connections, to create meaning, expanded my discipline into curiosity, and a simple practice session into an encounter with something larger than myself.

I once challenged myself to practice forty hours of violin in three days. It felt like the kind of extreme discipline great performers all seemed to have, and I wanted to prove I could match it. By the end, I’d barely eaten, gone record hours without talking, and driven my family crazy. Instead of becoming the virtuoso I dreamt of, I had squeezed all the joy out of what I cared about most. That experience made me realize that growth and mastery as a musician are achieved through a combination of elements, rather than simply spending endless hours in the practice room. Thus, my artistic practice has evolved from a personal and internal pursuit into one that is collaborative, curious, and outward-facing. I started by changing the way I approached my school orchestra. Instead of solely focusing on playing well, I started connecting with my orchestra members on a personal level. As concertmaster of my high school orchestra, I began offering one-on-one lunchtime support to my violin section. The conversations I had with my classmates during those lunchtime sessions about their personal experiences and relationship with music ended up inspiring me in ways I didn’t expect. Those exchanges opened my eyes to perspectives I never would have reached on my own and showed me how much I could learn simply by talking with other musicians. After seeing how much I grew through conversations with others, I started seeking out opportunities to work with artists outside my usual world as a classical instrumentalist. I joined the school’s opera pit and talked with singers, dancers, and theater students, listening to their various artistic journeys. I also joined a project led by my Chemistry teacher and a few student vocalists called Freeman&Friendz, and ended up recording an album with them as a pop violinist. Writing the violin part for rock tracks and playing in a recording studio alongside pop singers showed me a completely new side of my instrument and craft. Fascinated by the magic of interdisciplinary work, I began exploring collaborations beyond the arts. I published a systematic review on the cognitive benefits of music therapy, then formed a group of high school musicians to perform nostalgic Korean songs at a rehabilitation hospital in Koreatown, observing these effects in real-life settings. Watching residents who had been silent or asleep suddenly start humming along, dancing, or even crying opened my eyes to a completely different kind of musical power. For my next project, I plan to integrate music therapy into hospital care as a recognized and prescribed part of patient care. The more I explore music and its connections to other fields, the more convinced I am that there’s no end to what I can learn. There’s a unique human and artistic growth I can only attain by studying music and collaborating with others in a college environment, and that’s what compels me to major in violin performance. I want to stay curious, continue connecting and learning from others, and inspire them to think creatively, fostering the development of forward-thinking perspectives together.