There is sawdust everywhere. It smells like soldering irons and hot glue. In one corner, two of us blowtorch sheets of acetate to create flames of a giant fire. In another, three more discuss incorporating electromagnetic signage into our story about a dysfunctional bakery. This is the small, chaotic space where I do Destination Imagination: a creative problem-solving competition where teams develop a performance-based solution to a complex challenge. In my eight years of DI, I’ve done everything from building a xylophone from PVC pipe, to researching parasitic antidotes, to constructing a collapsible two-story building, to conducting exhaustive fundraisers to ensure that my teams could participate in the Global tournament. I have participated in challenges based in everything from Fine Arts, to Science, to Improvisation, to Engineering, and have gleaned unique skills and perspectives from each one. In recent years, my teams have consistently placed among the Top Ten at the Global Tournament. More importantly, though, my teammates have become some of my closest friends. DI has taught me that there is no better bonding experience than spending often grueling, ten-plus hour meetings trying to get a hydraulic, lion-shaped fountain to function without human interference, or trying to make a bedroom set piece seamlessly transform into a stage in under ten seconds. Through DI I’ve learned to speak and perform confidently, to lead without being overbearing, and to function as a member of a cohesive unit. DI has challenged me, inspired me, and above all, taught me to stay weird.

I want to see the world. I want to go to countries that I know nothing about. I want to build a tiny house in Mount Kerling, overlooking Akureyri, Iceland, and cut myself off from all society and technology for an extended period of time, just to see what my isolation might produce. I want to make an impact on the entertainment industry. I want to create art that makes people think, while keeping them engaged. I want to break the perception that challenging books or movies are pretentious. I want to cross the United States with nothing but the clothes on my back, a camera, and my transportation of choice: a unicycle. I want to make a documentary detailing my journey, or perhaps write a book about it, if my camerawork while unicycling turns out to be too shaky. I want to challenge the flaws I see in the education system. Einstein said a fish could go its whole life thinking it's stupid, if it were judged by its ability to climb a tree. I want to provide alternatives for current academic programs and institutions that I have seen firsthand make kids feel they are unintelligent just because they can't climb a tree with the mindless, efficient obedience as the student to their left. I want to break four minutes in the mile. I want to run the Badwater 135-mile Ultramarathon. I want to be an accomplished author, or screenwriter, or both. I want to settle down and start a family, somewhere along the way. I want to make the world a better place than when I found it. I want to respond to opportunities that excite me with an enthusiastic yes, rather than a logical no. Most of all, I want to live with no regrets.

“Let’s take the train!” “I don’t want to take the train!” Your heart drops. Just like that, the metaphorical train that had just moments ago been chugging along so smoothly has had its break slammed, forcing it to reach a clunky and suffocating stop. You’re a sixth-grader, and you’re rapidly perspiring in front of an expectant audience. It is in this environment, the challenging but rewarding world of team-based competitive improvisation, that I first learned the simple, two-word principle that has shaped my mindset ever since: the “yes, and.” The idea of the “yes, and” is simple: in an improvised dialogue between two performers, when one suggests a path for the story to take (ex. “Let’s take the train”) the other performer must not only agree to that suggestion but build on it through another productive statement (ex. “Let’s do it! I’ll order our tickets!”). If someone disobeys the “yes, and” by shooting down a teammate’s idea, the performance’s natural flow will inevitably be disrupted, and the story will awkwardly fizzle out rather than blossom as intended. While my improv career was decidedly brief, the "yes, and" philosophy has stuck with me, and over time become a key pillar of my mindset in all endeavors I pursue. Whether it is trying to set the world record for longest ping-pong rally with my brother, writing a three-hundred-page novel, or working my way from a 6-minute mile in 9th grade to a 4:29 mile in 11th, the concept of "yes, and" reminds me that rather than shutting out an opportunity for growth and self-improvement (no matter how silly it may seem) I would be better off embracing it whole-heartedly. I have lived and plan to continue living my life in this way, and I strongly believe that I am better for it.

I collapse across the finish line; my glaring weaknesses settle over me like a blanket made of lead. It's the first cross-country meet of senior year, and I've just run the worst race of my life. And yet, I am thrilled. Much of the cross-country season is determined over the summer, where runners devote themselves to hundreds of grueling, anonymous miles in pursuit of accolades that won't be up for grabs for months. However, the hard summers that athletes put in can often leave them burnt out well before the most important, end-of-season meets occur. For the past three years, I was one of those athletes. I would work myself to exhaustion over the summer and watch it pay off the first few meets, as I ran fast times and felt amazing doing it. However, from there my momentum would slowly fade, and despite continuing to work hard, I would never find that same groove I had just weeks ago, and would never run as fast. This season, however, that changed. Being Captain of a team pursuing a state championship has inspired me to hone a trait I have never realized pertained to distance running: patience. This meant getting myself into peak shape gradually, being consistently good over a matter of months, so that when the big day comes November 6th, I will be itching for the opportunity to finally break free and be great. This new process has been a challenge at times, and I have found myself frustrated as I struggled through my first few races. However, with the State meet on the horizon, I am feeling more prepared both mentally and physically than I ever have, and I know that mastering the art of patience has been the crucial trait that's made all the difference.

My favorite piece of art is a novel called “Going Bovine” by Libba Bray. Despite not being a physical piece of art such as a painting, this work has stuck with and inspired me more than any visual I have ever seen. The novel centers around an angsty teenager named Cameron, whose lackluster existence turns upside-down when he learns he has contracted Mad Cow Disease. He is quickly hospitalized, and soon finds himself embarking on a mystical quest to find a doctor capable of curing him. Only the reader, however, knows that this “quest” is simply a figment of Cameron’s fevered imagination. What makes the work so incredible is how Bray weaves aspects of Cameron’s everyday life into his fantasy. For example, before Cameron contracts the disease, he draws a parallel between a figure he sees in a snow globe and the frigid disconnect he feels between himself and his father. This negative attitude Cameron harbors towards snow globes sits in his subconscious, and when he begins his hallucination it manifests itself in the United Snow Globe Wholesalers corporation, which becomes the novel’s primary antagonistic body. As an aspiring author myself, Bray’s attention to detail throughout this novel is incredibly inspiring. I have probably read Going Bovine over ten times since I first picked it up in sixth grade, and with each read I notice another subtle way Bray wove an aspect of Cameron’s life into his fantasy to make it feel more authentic. From this work, I have learned the importance that the little details have in any piece of art. I believe that letting those subtle elements of a character’s world take on a life of their own allows a work to leap of the page and, just like Cameron’s hallucination, become almost indistinguishable from real life.

You are four miles in. The sun is beating down. Your breathing is pinched and shallow as you make the turn, only to come upon the largest, steepest staircase you have ever seen. At the top, your coach stands, looming like a deity, blowing his whistle, urging you to get yourself up to him as fast as possible. You think, “Just right for us,” and attack the staircase with everything you have in you. This mantra, “Just right for us,” is the primary way I remain optimistic through tough times. Whenever I find myself faced with a giant staircase, whether literal or metaphorical, I force myself to repeat that phrase, and convince myself that the situation at hand is exactly the one I want to be in. The mantra forces me to be positive and grateful for things that the majority of people would complain about. And in the difficult moments, when all I want to do is stop, it gives me a valuable sense of perspective that I have been greatly privileged to live the life I do, and rather than feel weary about the obstacles in my path, I should be thankful I get the opportunity to overcome them in the first place. As my coach says, “Toughness translates.” The discipline learned in distance running extends far beyond the sport itself; it influences the way you approach life as a whole. I believe that the “Just right for us” mantra is the most influential lesson I have learned in the sport, and perhaps in my life entirely, as it has allowed me to see every challenge that comes with life as not a terrible, indomitable barrier, but as an incredible gift: an opportunity to better myself.

I want to see the world. I want to go to countries that I know nothing about. I want to build a tiny house in Mount Kerling, overlooking Akureyri, Iceland, and cut myself off from all society and technology for an extended period of time, just to see what my isolation might produce. I want to make an impact on the entertainment industry. I want to create art that makes people think, while keeping them engaged. I want to break the perception that challenging books or movies are pretentious. I want to cross the United States with nothing but the clothes on my back, a camera, and my transportation of choice: a unicycle. I want to make a documentary detailing my journey, or perhaps write a book about it, if my camerawork while unicycling turns out to be too shaky. I want to challenge the flaws I see in the education system. Einstein said a fish could go its whole life thinking it's stupid, if it were judged by its ability to climb a tree. I want to provide alternatives for current academic programs and institutions that I have seen firsthand make kids feel they are unintelligent just because they can't climb a tree with the mindless, efficient obedience as the student to their left. I want to break four minutes in the mile. I want to run the Badwater 135-mile Ultramarathon. I want to be an accomplished author, or screenwriter, or both. I want to settle down and start a family, somewhere along the way. I want to make the world a better place than when I found it. I want to respond to opportunities that excite me with an enthusiastic yes, rather than a logical no. Most of all, I want to live with no regrets.

I stay true to myself in my daily life by keeping a small green mouse in my pocket. I got the mouse, a small, beanie baby-type stuffed animal with beady black eyes and a short yarn tale, from a souvenir shop in Michigan. I remember staring at the mouse, finding myself utterly transfixed by its deep, almost lifelike gaze. However, I ignored the impulse and left without it. Just moments later, though, walking along the street with my family, I felt a sharp wave of regret. I rushed back, grabbed the little mouse, and placed a few crumpled bills from my pocket onto the counter. He has not left my side since. I believe that moment defined a philosophy that I follow to this day: when something speaks to you, listen. Because I listened, the slight heft of the mouse in my pocket as I went through the rest of elementary, then middle, then high school, provided a source of comfort and reminder of who I am, even in the most dire situations. My mouse was there with me when our family dog had to be rehoused in fourth grade. He was there when my dad was hospitalized the summer of sophomore year. He was there when I first broke six minutes in the mile, and he was there when I broke 4:30 this past season. He has seen my highs and lows, and centered me through them all. My little green mouse reminds me to embrace my inner child. He reminds me to seize the moment. He reminds me that when something inspires me, I must follow its call. He encourages me to stay weird, and stay passionate, because no matter what the future may hold, he will be there, resting in my pocket, dutifully along for the ride.