If I asked everyone in the world to read one book, it would be, “In an Instant” by Suzanne Redfearn. Though many other books carry the power of length or a masterful plot, “In an Instant” is relatively simple. If shelved alongside works by Tolkien, Shelley, or Hemingway, one might be forgiven for thinking it erroneous. However, my choice is defended by this book’s powerfully simple message: live each day with clear intention; seek out joy. Redfearn’s poignant YA novel tackles a difficult subject: death. The story follows a teenager named Finn who dies in a car accident. When her family’s car crashes in a winter storm, Finn is killed upon impact. However, Finn is still able to observe everything happening. Though much of the novel focuses on the immediate aftermath and rescue operation, the most impactful scenes occur after the family is rescued. Her family returns home and falls apart without Finn. Finn realizes how important she was to the people around her. She witnesses the effect her death has on her friends. Once rendered powerless—a mere spectator to life—Finn sees the opportunities she missed; the ways she let life pass her by. When I first read this novel, life was more than just passing me by: it was outrunning me. My long struggle with depression had taken its toll. When my life transformed from a constant battle to an apathetic stupor, I became a ghost. My family and therapist grew more concerned each day for my well-being. I longed for an end to the continuous fight. Though Finn and I are not quite the same, I was still deeply impacted by her story. I considered the tragedy of Finn’s life, ended too soon. For the first time, I felt the weight of my situation and woke from my stupor. With time, support, and love I was able to recover. It took years, but the joy I feel now was worth the fight. Life still challenges me, but I have gained the tools and the perspective to value myself fully. Amidst the turmoil of the most significant transition state in my life—high school to college; child to adult—the consuming worries and priorities threaten to overwhelm me. But, I come back to the lesson I learned from Finn’s story: live every day as if it might end in an instant.

During March of my sophomore year, I sustained a traumatic brain injury in a skiing accident. The short version? I fell off a cliff. I was skiing at my hometown resort when I came off a ridge down into a bowl. It was a dangerously windy day. I miscalculated the distance it would take me to traverse across the bowl before dropping into my line of choice. This put me directly above a band of chunky boulders and medium-sized cliffs. When skiing alone, most advise not to take big risks and to ski in well-trafficked areas: I adhered to neither of these principles. So, instead of turning around and walking up the hill in my boots, I walked down the chute in front of me with my skis slung over my shoulder. That’s when things took a slippery turn for the worse. I took a painful tumble, landing on my neck, and plummeted down the chute. I have suffered from chronic severe migraines since the sixth grade. Because of my battle with chronic pain, I disregarded the head pain I experienced after the fall. A week later, my nurse practitioner placed me on bed rest with absolutely no stimulation whatsoever: no caffeine, no music, no screens, no bright lights, no reading, and worst of all, no school or homework. All my exam preparation and final projects screeched to a perfect-GPA-wrecking halt. Having good grades is a constant struggle, especially for people who suffer from chronic pain. I was forced to relinquish control over my life. The weeks slogged by in a daze of constant sleeping and mental fatigue. I began to feel the full weight of the imposed standstill. My grades in math and chemistry plummeted, and my extracurricular research projects were put on hiatus. My extra online classes were impossible to work on. I was forced to sit alone with my thoughts with nowhere to put them. Anxiety and frustration followed me constantly. It took months to recover fully from the crash, and I was left with more severe migraine attacks than before—some lasting several days, making it impossible to sleep or focus. My moods were unpredictable and volatile. Returning to classes was a slow and painful process. What used to take me a few minutes to read, now took at least fifteen minutes and all my attention. Math was physically draining to do. I had planned to take the ACT but had to reschedule several times as my recovery dragged on. Test prep sessions felt like physical therapy: excruciating and taxing. I felt unintelligent, slow, and demoralized. When the summer came, I couldn’t ride on my school’s mountain bike team for fear that I might reinjure myself. Since I could not change the past, I pushed forward. It was far from easy, but with supportive parents, compassionate teachers, and a proactive school counselor, I finished the year and passed my exams. By adjusting my routines and prioritizing beneficial habits, I was able to find a holistic method for managing my migraines, but some days I cannot fight them off. Some days, pushing past my limits does not mean pushing through the pain. My silent protest of entropy is my most powerful tool. Sometimes, working harder for my goals means taking a weekend to spend in nature with my dogs. Sometimes, the best way to prepare for a busy week is to go rock climbing with my little brother. In my weeks of isolation and unbearable silence, I began to see that time spent being quiet and away from screens, from other minds; from stimulation, is necessary. To preserve my sense of direction, I must take time to recenter myself and preserve my peace. In the few, seemingly eternal, seconds it took me to fall from those rocks, I understood the true danger I was in. If I had not been wearing a helmet then, I likely would have sustained devastating brain damage, or worse. That fall nearly cost me everything. But it also taught me an essential lesson: we are responsible for the futures we create. Living intentionally is an easy ideal to keep locked away, but living each day with our goals in mind; living and working constructively, is how we create the change we wish to see in the world. Now when I go skiing, I take a buddy with me.

My name is Danielle Terry, and I am a large carnivore ecologist. Well…maybe I should back up a bit. That is how I hope to introduce myself a few years from now. This has been my dream since I was very young, and it has never changed. When I was five, I watched a documentary detailing the lives of two biologists who lived with a pack of wolves for six years. Their world was my greatest dream: living in the mountains, close to wolves and nature, quiet and submerged. Their work sparked a nationwide love of wolves and catalyzed the reintroduction of wolves to Yellowstone National Park. It also sparked my love of wolves and wildlife in general. Wildlife are not just commodities or resources, but fellow residents of this Earth, and an increased respect for them is essential for a healthy planet. Since eighth grade, I have conducted wildlife research at the University of Utah through a camera trap project called Wasatch Wildlife Watch. We study wildlife behavior throughout the Wasatch mountain range in Utah. I have seen so many amazing things, both in real life and while sorting through images. Real-life encounters like meeting a bull moose on the trail (which is always nerve-racking), finding huge cougar and black bear tracks, stopping to admire a massive Great Basin Rattlesnake from afar, or spotting Western Tanager and Mountain Bluebirds amongst fir branches. There are also many encounters through the pictures our camera traps capture. Spectacular action shots like coyotes chasing mule deer, or rare moments of downtime like a mother puma sleeping with her three cubs. Our cameras also captured the official return of the North American Beaver to a protected watershed, a joyous event. But I have also seen terrible things that will stay with me for the rest of my life. One summer day, while I was out on a field survey, I came across a littered poaching camp within a protected research area. Because of federal law, we had to leave it there. While walking through the wreckage, I found an elk’s sun-bleached skull in the grass. The signs of transgression were clear. His valuable ivory teeth had been pulled out, and the back portion of his skull which holds his antlers was sawed unceremoniously from his head. The poachers took none of his meat: a further insult to Mother Nature. This heartbreaking scene brought me to a halt. The hard truth about conservation is this: it is easier to destroy than restore. It takes passion, time, and no small amount of money to preserve natural places and wild creatures. That young elk made me reconsider my dream of becoming a wildlife researcher. It made me ask: when I’ve come to the end of my life, will I feel as though I made a difference? To answer my question, I traveled up my local canyon and sat near the river. I found a comfortable rock and sat down, listening to the steady heartbeat of the mountains around me. Then I spotted something in the silt beside me: elk tracks. One of Mother Nature’s children had also come to this place to rest. Satisfied with her answer, I went back home with renewed faith. Now, as I prepare to present my two-year-long research project at a nationally recognized research conference, I remember why I am here. I remember that I do not serve myself, rather, I serve as a steward of the wilderness. This is what lights my fire.

I slump down into the chair in front of the family computer and plop my schoolbag on the rug. The screen greets me with a background of trees blanketing a soft landscape and Minecraft’s timeless soundtrack begins. All at once, I am taken to a new world. I forget about the college essays and endless to-do lists. Homework and upcoming deadlines are shut out. Now, those things are a lifetime away. The screen reads, “The Enderman language is actually English in reverse” while my world loads. I’ve stepped through the doorway to a magical place where I am both creator and creature; integral. I pick up my trusty enchanted diamond pickaxe (his name is Tomatillo) and begin chipping away at the mountainside near my base. Right now, I am constructing a complex of Japanese-style towers and pagodas. The main castle rises to the sky through gaping holes in the ceiling of a massive cave. Naturally-occurring bridges surround towers of teal-colored copper and deepslate—a stone found at only the deepest levels of a cave. Lanterns light the stairway up the mountain and illuminate the forest of cherry trees I’ve planted here. A zen garden with a frozen waterfall overlooks the tundra below. I stare up at the main pagoda and map out where I want the rest of the buildings to go. As snow starts to fall, I enter into my own private kingdom. There are very few things I’ve found that can capture my wandering mind. When I play Minecraft, everything else fades into my periphery. This phenomenon of “spacing out” has a name, and because I love nitty-gritty science facts, I researched it. This particular state is called the Default Mode Network (or DMN). It is a neurological state in which the brain is disengaged from attention-demanding tasks. Areas of the brain like the hippocampus and the medial prefrontal cortex are no longer as suppressed as they are during many everyday tasks. This creates a state that neuroscientists theorize helps promote a healthier and more efficient brain. While this state can be achieved through meditation, puzzles, or exercise, I enter “the zone” when I play Minecraft. The game itself is played by over 140 million people but it still feels intimate and endless to me. Since I can remember, I’ve been immersed in the blocky game. Most of my free time when I was younger consisted of alternating between building things and watching Minecraft videos. Most of my friends also played Minecraft, which became a shared passion through which we forged lifelong bonds. I can track the course of my life through the game, and I can still draw a map of my first world from memory. Each step of building—planning, collecting materials, drafting, and constructing—invites me to come up with new ways of completing tasks and sparks my creativity. Much like in real life, our best-laid plans often go awry. Many times, my building projects do not go as planned. But, many of those projects have ended up being my favorites. Though the game means different things to many people, Minecraft is to me a place where I am only limited by my imagination. Often, the highlight of my day is coming home for a long session of creating and exploring. Even though I have grown into a different person, deep down, I still feel like that nine-year-old discovering Minecraft for the first time. As I enter a new stage of my life—college—I hope to maintain this wonder and excitement. All this talking about Minecraft has gotten me inspired, I can’t wait to get home and play!

"I think Maguire is the best Spiderman", my mom states confidently. "No way!! I fire back. It's definitely Tom Holland. You've just always had a crush on Mr. Maguire", I reply. She furrows her brows, "Tom is kind of a doormat, don't you think?", "No! He has the jawline of a Michelangelo statue and a heart of gold", I retort. "Plus he's a gentleman". "They all are!", she says. We burst into laughter. “Though Tom Holland’s Spiderman is clearly superior, I can respect other’s opinions”, I say. Andrew Garfield gets the coveted third-place position. Watching movies, especially superhero movies, is how my mom and I spend quality time together. While some people’s love language is a fancy meal or an expensive present, my mom’s is watching “The Avengers” for the millionth time. At this point, we could probably recite the whole thing from memory. Though the "Best Spiderman" debate arises often, it never gets quite as heated as the "Civil War: Captain America vs Iron Man" argument (obviously, Iron Man was right). We quote superhero movie lines constantly, and usually, the rest of the family has no idea what we are talking about. I keep all the ticket stubs so I can remember our outings. Bonding over our favorite Spiderman scenes or fan theories is a shared joy. I’ll always remember when (spoiler!) Aunt May died and how hard we cried. Of course, we forgot to bring tissues that time. Or, the drive back after seeing “Spiderman: No Way Home” when we theorized about how Spiderman will cope with starting over, since (another spoiler) everyone forgot he exists. Even though his situation is fictional, it may soon become my reality. Going somewhere new, making new friends, and feeling like the odd one out, isn’t just something that happens to Spiderman. When I leave for college next fall, I’ll know what that feels like. Even though Tom Holland’s Spiderman has faced many challenges, he’s retained his joy. Maybe that’s why he’s my favorite Spiderman. I relate to him like no other superhero. Like me, he loves science and math: at his core, he’s really a giant nerd. He always tries to treat everyone with kindness, even if some call him too soft. And, he loves his Aunt May. Like my mom, Aunt May is a beautiful, strong woman who looks at the bright side of things. She’s smart, extremely intuitive, and resourceful. And, she always puts her family first. Senior year has been a constant battle of fending off Senioritis and applying for scholarships, but the looming reality of leaving home bothers me the most. Like Spiderman, my college application process was an adventure. After getting into my dream school, I was ecstatic. But, it’s a nine-hour drive away from where I live. Besides worrying about the cost of school, I also worry about my mom. Who will she watch superhero movies with? Who will she talk to on the way home from the theater? Even though life is at the start of a new, exciting chapter, I know I’ll always have my family to come back to. I’m closer to realizing my dreams than I’ve ever been. Despite my fears, I am very excited to go to college. But, I also know that the first thing I’ll do when I go back home over break will be to binge Spiderman movies with my mom. This scholarship would help me pay for college, and I want to thank you for considering my application. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some movie-watching to do.

One of the great strengths of Gen-Z is how we are passionate and resourceful, we know what we love and we find ways to share that passion with others. We are also optimistic, some might say a little too much, but we know that is the only way to have lasting effects. My generation believes we have the power to change the world we live in. Through our collective passions, I believe that we will create a better world. While the planet we are coming to inherit is broken in many ways, my generation possesses the kind of optimism and courage that can turn the age. Yes, Gen-Z folks who are entering higher education now face immense amounts of potential debt, but we are willing to find a way to get a good education so that we can pursue our dreams. I want to pursue an education in wildlife biology. Wildlife biology is not a very profitable field, but it is where I belong; it is what lights my fire. I want to be part of the solution for our broken relationship with the natural world. Mother Earth is beautifully ephemeral and resilient. She has much to teach us if we only slow down to listen. In the face of college tuition estimates and endless scholarship applications, I have not lost my deep passion for my dreams; something that, I believe, is a landmark of my generation.