In a clinic in Mumias, Kenya, I learned what it felt like to do work that left no room for doubt. I was pricking fingers, running malaria tests, sitting with children who were scared, and trying to make them feel less so. The work was small in scale and enormous in consequence, and I knew exactly who I was helping and how. That clarity is what drew me to public service in the first place, and it is what has guided every professional decision I have made since. I am studying Business, Economics, and Societies at Colorado College, working toward a Community Engaged Scholar distinction that asks students to engage with communities as partners rather than subjects. That framing has shaped how I think about service more broadly. The most effective organizations I have encountered do not treat the people they serve as recipients of help. They treat them as people whose own knowledge and experience should inform the work itself, and there is a meaningful difference between those two things. As a Resident Advisor and Orientation Leader, I have sat with students in their hardest moments of transition and learned that the difference between help that works and help that doesn't usually comes down to whether someone felt genuinely seen. That is not a complicated insight, but it is a durable one, and I have watched it hold true across every context I have worked in, from a rural health clinic to a college dormitory. I hope to join The Arc Pikes Peak Region as a Development Associate Fellow this summer. I believe that every person deserves to live fully in the world regardless of the circumstances of their entry into it, and that our current systems do not always make that possible for people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. The Arc is doing the hard, specific work of changing that. When I visited, what struck me was not just the mission but the feeling of the place. It felt like a community, somewhere I could see myself belonging, and that matters to me when I think about where I want to invest my energy long term. Development work interests me because it is the connective tissue of a nonprofit. It is how an organization sustains its ability to do everything else. I want to understand that infrastructure from the inside, to learn how mission translates into relationships and resources, because I intend to spend my career building that kind of capacity for causes I believe in. The line from that clinic in Mumias to The Arc is not accidental. It is the same pull, toward the same kind of work, in a different corner of the same problem.

The phrase 'Once upon a time in Hollywood' carries me back to a time when movies were more than just entertainment—they were the vivid tapestry that colored my childhood, shaping my aspirations and perspectives. Growing up, Hollywood wasn't just a place; it was a world where dreams took flight and illusions overshadowed reality. As a child, the silver screen was my escape, a portal to fantastical realms far removed from my reality. Each film was a captivating narrative, casting a spell that blurred the lines between fiction and truth. The glitz and glamour of Hollywood's portrayal painted a picture of grandeur, enticing me into a realm where anything seemed possible. However, beneath the surface, my own journey echoed the dichotomy of Hollywood's allure. The small, affectionately termed "Korea dots" on my arm, from being vaccinated as an infant born in Seoul, acted as reminders of my heritage, a heritage sometimes muted amid the contrasting landscapes of Seattle and Lubbock. These markings hinted at a story of identity often overshadowed by societal norms and the mirage of Hollywood's dazzling tales. Adolescence proved to be a labyrinth of discovery and disillusionment. Lost in the whirlwind of teenage aspirations, I found myself chasing shadows, trying to embody the romanticized narratives that Hollywood spun. High school emerged as a stage where societal expectations clashed with personal aspirations, where the pursuit of the Hollywood dream sometimes clouded the reality within reach. Amidst the illusions, friendships became guiding lights in the maze of expectations. Some friends inadvertently mirrored the glamour of Hollywood's facade, while others were beacons of authenticity, grounding me in the truths often obscured by the silver screen's allure. The phrase 'Once upon a time in Hollywood' now carries a weight of personal revelation. It symbolizes not just an era of dreams but a journey of introspection. It speaks of shattered illusions and moments of self-realization—the realization that the Hollywood dream isn't a destination but a mirage. Starting college at Colorado College, my pursuit of a business degree, and aspirations in environmental law, echo a narrative influenced by the shards of broken illusions. The dreams I chase are no longer painted solely by Hollywood's brush but colored by the hues of personal experiences and revelations. In essence, 'Once upon a time in Hollywood' signifies more than a whimsical tale. It embodies a journey of growth, where reality meets fantasy, and the truths behind the glittering veneer are unveiled. It's an invitation to rewrite the script, infusing life's narrative with authenticity, empathy, and a deeper understanding of the interplay between dreams and realities. It's a chance to look down at my arm and accept all parts of myself, Korea dots and all.