My musical journey began long before I started playing cello. Growing up, there was always music in my home– both my parents sing, my dad plays piano, and my two older brothers are string players. While none of them were professionals, I can’t remember a day where I didn’t hear music. Naturally, I fell in love with it, and after begging for over a year, I finally got my first cello, a “viola with an endpin.” I was quickly set on music, and for ten years I was certain I wanted to become a professional musician. However, when the pandemic hit and schools shut down, this certainty began to waiver. Every day on the news, I saw injustice after injustice happening in my own backyard. My best friend, someone like family to me, was doing a tremendous amount of social justice work, founding a district-wide school diversity initiative and organizing rallies. When the New York Times requested an interview, his parents refused, fearing he would be targeted or worse because of the color of his skin. Witnessing his work led me to a crisis of conscience. I thought if I pursued music, I would be failing to do my part, seriously questioning the one thing that had always been central to my identity. My entire junior year of high school, I wrestled with this, agonizing over the right thing to do. Ultimately, I decided that I still wanted to pursue music, but my perspective and motivation changed dramatically. I couldn’t see myself doing anything else, but I had realized that music could become my own vehicle for doing good in the world. I committed myself to that purpose. Since arriving at Oberlin Conservatory, numerous experiences have allowed me to use music in meaningful and impactful ways. In January, I had the opportunity to travel to Uruguay for a musical exchange between my sextet and local musicians from three different cities across the country. We played informal concerts at many different venues, while also taking workshops on traditional Uruguayan drumming and theater, receiving coaching on and performing traditional and popular Uruguayan music with multiple local musicians. Knowing little Spanish, I could still see how meaningful it was to people when we played the music that they knew, not just the standard classical music we had been trained in. I’ll never forget playing with a whole bar full of people singing and dancing, sharing the music as we played it with them, not just for them. I also play regularly at Oberlin’s senior living communities. Each time I come, at least one person shares how the performance made their day or starts a conversation about the music itself. Bringing music directly to people who would otherwise have a challenging time getting out to listen helps foster community, combats isolation, and nurtures intergenerational relationships– impacts that extend far beyond the performance. Similarly, in January 2025, as part of a conductorless orchestra project, I played at Grafton Correctional Institution’s volunteer-run string orchestra program for inmates. The conversations I had with the men in the program have stuck with me. Hearing them describe what it meant to have the privilege to play music, the peace and the expressive outlet it gave them, and how much they looked forward to the rehearsal each week, is something I will never forget. It’s a testament to the creative and healing powers of music. I have seen firsthand how music crosses cultural, experiential, and systemic boundaries, and I intend to continue this kind of work as I begin to launch my career and build a life as a musician.