Freshman year, I walked into yearbook class not even knowing how to work a camera. I didn’t know anything about design either. All I had was a gut feeling about what looked good and what didn’t. That was about it. When I submitted my first assignment, I got an 82 percent — the lowest grade I’d ever received. To make it worse, the teacher even used my page as an example of what not to do in front of the whole class. That moment was definitely humbling. But that same teacher ended up becoming one of the most influential people in my high school experience. Instead of getting discouraged, I took the feedback seriously. I pulled six different yearbooks from other schools and studied them to figure out what made their layouts work. I learned how to actually take photos, practiced on my own time, and focused on every small detail. Slowly but surely, I got better. By sophomore year, I became layout editor. Even though I still felt like a rookie, the teacher saw something in me and gave me more responsibility. Eventually, I worked my way up to editor-in-chief. But the biggest lesson I learned had nothing to do with yearbook skills. It was about leadership. At first, I thought being a leader meant being firm and critical. I became overly focused on the final product and didn’t think much about how I was treating my team. I was quick to point out mistakes and slow to give praise. I thought that was how things got done. People around me were scared to speak up or ask questions. Then one day, the teacher pulled me aside and had an honest conversation with me. They told me I needed to shift my approach if I wanted people to trust me and grow under my leadership. That moment changed everything. They introduced me to a more thoughtful way of giving feedback — starting with a compliment, then offering specific constructive advice, and ending with something supportive. That structure helped me become more patient, more clear, and honestly, more human. It taught me that leadership is not about being the loudest person in the room, but the one people feel safe turning to. Now, whenever I lead a group project — whether it's in class, with a club, or even casually — I use that method. I try to be someone who makes others feel heard while still pushing for excellence. It’s something that’s also changed the way I communicate with my friends and even my family. Looking back, I’m grateful I didn’t walk away from that first 82 percent. The experience taught me how to grow from criticism, how to reflect, and most importantly, how to lead with empathy. I’m still figuring things out, but that class and that teacher shaped the way I show up — not just in school, but in life.

If you ask my friends, they’ll probably say I’m the most vocal person they know — the school gossip, always talking. But one of the things I value most about myself isn’t how much I talk, but how much I listen. People tell me everything. Their problems, their heartbreaks, their family drama. I think that’s because I’ve learned that sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is just be there and listen. One time, a friend of mine was going through a really tough situation. I could tell something was wrong. He wasn’t acting like himself, seemed a little distant, and just kind of off. So I did the simplest thing: I asked, “Are you okay? I’m here if you need anything.” That one question opened the door. He started telling me everything — no filter, just raw emotion — and I stayed on the phone with him for the next six hours. For the first part of that call, I didn’t offer any advice. I didn’t interrupt or ask for more details. I just let him talk. Every now and then, I’d say things like, “Yeah, that sucks,” or “I get it,” because I’ve realized sometimes people don’t want a solution right away. They want to feel heard. After he’d gotten everything off his chest, he finally asked, “So what do I do?” That’s when I gave him my honest thoughts — but I made sure to be fair. I didn’t hype him up or justify every emotion. I told him I understood his side, but I also helped him consider the other perspective. I think being a good friend means supporting someone while also giving them the truth they need to hear, even when it’s hard. I encouraged him to take action, to not just sit in the pain but to move through it. I told him to send a message to the person he was having issues with and walked him through what he might say. I cleared my schedule for the rest of the day just to be there for him, even when the conversation moved beyond the original problem. We talked about how he’d been feeling lately, about his environment, his stress — everything. I realized the issue went deeper than just this one situation. It was about how overwhelmed and unseen he had been feeling for a while. What stuck with me most was that we weren’t even super close at the time. But after that conversation, everything changed. I saw a whole new side of him — emotional, thoughtful, and incredibly self-aware. That day, I didn’t just help a friend. I built a real connection and understood the power of simply being present. It reminded me that helping someone isn’t always about having all the answers. Sometimes, it’s about making time, listening fully, and showing up when it matters most.

Anxiety. Test anxiety. Depression. I’ve been told I have all three. For a while, I didn’t know what that really meant. In sixth grade, I was diagnosed with anxiety, but I brushed it off. I thought maybe if I just worked harder or focused more, it would go away. Then came the pandemic, and suddenly everything I had been avoiding caught up with me. School became harder. Sleep became rare. I felt more pressure than ever, but I kept pretending I was fine. By my junior year, I couldn’t pretend anymore. I was officially diagnosed with anxiety, test anxiety, and depression. I started medication, I started therapy, and I started to realize that this wasn’t something I could fix by just “trying harder.” I needed to take care of myself, not just academically, but mentally and emotionally too. One moment that really changed my perspective was a random conversation with my best friend, who I’ve known since kindergarten. We were talking about school, and then somehow the topic shifted to mental health. She told me she was on medication too. I remember us comparing dosages like we were talking about favorite movies. It was weirdly comforting. For the first time, I didn’t feel alone. I didn’t feel ashamed. It was just another part of life — like homework or choosing what to eat for lunch. That conversation made me realize how powerful it is to talk about mental health openly, and how much it helps when someone says, “I get it.” Since then, I’ve been more honest with the people around me. I’ve learned that struggling doesn’t make me weak. In fact, asking for help and showing vulnerability takes strength. That belief has changed my relationships completely. I’ve had friends open up to me because I shared my own story. I’ve had classmates thank me for being real about what I’m going through. I’ve emailed teachers on days when I couldn’t focus because the thoughts in my head were too loud. And you know what? They understood. Being honest about my mental health helped me build stronger, more supportive connections. There were times when things got really dark. Nights when I couldn’t sleep because my thoughts were spiraling. Days when I felt completely disconnected, like I was floating through everything without really being there. But I’ve learned how to manage those moments. Through therapy, I’ve picked up tools that actually help. I write down my thoughts. I take breaks when I need them. I do breathing exercises. I’ve even taken a Stress Management class at my local community college. It wasn’t for a grade or a requirement — I just wanted to understand myself better. Now, mental health isn’t just something I live with. It’s something I care deeply about. It’s influenced my goals and the path I want to take. Before, I thought I might go into business or something “safe.” Now, I’m interested in psychology, counseling, or any career that allows me to support others through what I’ve experienced. I want to be the person who listens, who understands, and who helps people realize that what they’re feeling is valid. I’ve also enrolled in a mental health careers course, and it’s only made me more passionate. I don’t want to keep quiet about this. I want to speak up for people who feel like they can’t. I’ve seen too many friends go through similar struggles in silence. I’ve watched people I care about pretend they’re okay because they’re scared of being judged. I don’t want that anymore. I want to create a space where people feel safe being real — where talking about therapy or medication is as normal as talking about weekend plans. Mental health has taught me that perfection isn’t the goal. Presence is. Connection is. Honesty is. It’s shown me that what I go through doesn’t make me less capable — it makes me more compassionate. It makes me stronger, not weaker. And that belief is something I carry into everything I do, from school projects to late-night conversations with friends. This journey isn’t over. I still have days when things are hard. But I’ve come a long way from the kid who thought mental health didn’t matter. Now, I know it’s one of the most important things in life. And I want to use what I’ve learned to help others realize that too. Whether I go into counseling, advocacy, or education, I know I want to keep these conversations going. I want to be part of the change that makes mental health something we all talk about, support, and prioritize. Because no one should have to face it alone. I didn’t, and I’ll never forget how much that mattered.

In first grade, I had the smallest backpack in the class. I know that might sound random, but hear me out. Every morning, we would hang our backpacks in the cubbies, and I would glance left and right, comparing my tiny blue backpack with cartoon characters from some Asian show no one recognized to everyone else’s giant ones. While my classmates pulled out their 8.5 by 11 binders, I held mine in my hands because it literally couldn’t fit. As a Taiwanese American, I always felt a little out of place. During “All About Me” presentations, I would proudly say things in Chinese, but no one knew what they meant. My favorite food was 日本鰻, which I spelled “oonagi,” and not a single person understood what I was talking about. I wasn’t embarrassed, I was proud, but I quickly learned what it felt like to be different. Growing up, my cousin was the only person I saw who shared my heritage and made it something to celebrate. He read Chinese books, joined exchange programs in Taiwan, and was also a top athlete at school. He made being Taiwanese feel like something powerful and cool. But the moment that shaped me most was when he chose to attend community college. In my family and community, that path comes with a lot of judgment. Still, he pursued it with confidence, kept a 4.0 GPA, and didn’t let the stigma affect him. His example pushed me to challenge expectations too. I enrolled in six dual enrollment classes at my local community college while managing my high school workload. I kept a 4.0 GPA, stayed active in school activities, and grew into a leader. Thanks to his encouragement, I applied for Editor-in-Chief of our yearbook and became both the first Taiwanese student in leadership and the first male EIC. That experience showed me the value of representation. I also became a leader on my cross country team, helped coach our runners as a team manager, and qualified for state and national competitions. Every time I doubt myself or feel out of place, I think about how my cousin used his identity as a strength. He didn’t try to fit in. He made space for himself, and by doing that, he gave me permission to do the same. He showed me that success doesn’t have to follow a traditional path, and that being different can be the thing that sets you apart in the best way. I hope to honor his influence by continuing to lead, create, and represent. Whether it’s through storytelling, mentoring, or just being visible, I want to make space for others like me. Kids with small backpacks and big dreams, who might not feel seen at first, but who have something special to offer. Being Taiwanese is not just part of who I am. It is something I want to represent proudly. Just like my cousin did for me, I hope to inspire someone else to be proud of where they come from and unafraid to stand out.

When I first wake up, I open Snapchat, send my streaks. Snapchat isn’t just an app, it’s my whole archive. Same with TikTok and Pinterest, where they’re my go-to’s for literally everything. Trying a new food? On Snap with a “good day” sticker and 2x speed. Senior tradition idea? Straight to Pinterest. TikTok scroll, obviously, and save any videos that I want to do, but will never have enough time to do all of the things I do. For school projects, I link my Pinterest account as part of my portfolio because it shows who I am creatively. My passion project I plan to do vlogging, recording myself like it’s a personal reality show. I have four private Snapchat stories. One’s for shopping hauls and “look at me” moments, one’s for vlogging, one’s just random chaos, and the last is my closest circle where I post the real stuff. Each social platform has a specific purpose. Snapchat is where I’m the most honest. My main Instagram is polished for public view, my spam Instagram is a weekly photo dump archive, and my spam stories are for the unhinged texts and random commentary live. It might look like all these apps do the same thing, but they each hit different. They all help me process life in their own way. It’s like organized chaos, yet in a digital format. Social media has become a daily part of my life and crowns for me the dub of Gen Z.