Some adults who can split portions of their lives up to 2023 from the mid-20th century and even further in the "past" see deficiencies in the generation that I belong to. For one, why does my age group have to be known by a letter in the alphabet (Z)? Greatest Generation and Baby Boomer roll better on the tongue, to me, at least. Also, my dad likes mentioning how much easier I have my existence than he had his in the 1960s. This sandwiched between his anecdotes of his work world in the 1980s in both education and the airline industry and the sheer contest for survival and honor that he experienced as a boy, frequently accepting brawn challenges from his age mates. Indeed, I know he is correct in many ways about my "chronological privilege." That terminology I invented is how I understood growing up with personal computers to simplify tasks that my grandparents used to need to go out into their neighborhoods for. My not having to leave the house as much is owed to creativity and foresight from thinkers and innovators, some of whom are alive today. Whether an indoor lifestyle is a way someone should live is always debatable (and debated), which highlights the understanding and communication between generations that is vital to maintaining a community of evolvers, people who can grow with their own and others' mindsets when it makes sense to adopt the latter. Chronological privilege is being born in this part of all historical time's addendum. This specific part after the year 2000. I've seen a few articles assert that this century is the best era a person could hope to inhabit if anyone who ever lived had a choice in the timeline, to begin with. To miss the Great Depression, the 1918 flu pandemic, the Cold War's nuclear fear, the diverse collage of uncertain, unsteady post-World War II national economic recoveries, slow and fast alike, in the 1950s. To witness the 2008 recession without knowing there was one because, at three years old, I had yet to comprehend that something can exist even if you don't notice or feel it personally. Still, I haven't completely escaped from hardship. 2020 was hard: the novel coronavirus intimidated with its attached notes of troubled health and trauma that revealed themselves across the globe in interviews with survivors and videos of people serenading neighbors from whom they were separated while alone atop balconies, per social distancing. Some thoughtful serenaders were youths who tried to honor beauty, art, and humanity when disease threatened them all. Now, I regard the belief in one time period as more fortunate than others as misplaced and mythical. My first intimate awareness of a pandemic I got caught up in showed me how little emotional strength I could claim when compared to those who carried on against frequent pulses of tragedy over the last century. I find positive role models of persistence and will by reading about history. Hence, so-called old news is where my passion for life finds replenished fuel. Uplifting, sensitive, and thorough media representation prevents the bridge between my generation and our predecessors from caving to the consistent ride-over of the pressure of time's distance and our crises. The then-tween girl who created nanotechnology that won an award at 3M did not reach my TV screen on a major news network like CNN. Or a similar phenomenon of anonymity with the boy who recently created a soap that includes potent skin cancer-fighting elements when used like typical soap. The Internet brought those stories to my knowledge. However, I have noticed difference-maker adolescents, covered in local D.C., Maryland, and Virginia news stations, who launch small-scale but burgeoning environmental clean-up initiatives of littered streets and campaign against school bullying. Hope mustn't have an age limit or historiographic viewpoint imposed on it. Today, I am an optimistic young adult partially because I will not be forced into a smiling mold when I am not genuinely happy, something that was expected as recently as three decades ago. I know someone will respect that I know my headspace inside and out and not be dismissive if and when I face various rough days. Mental health support remained an infant topic during the World War I and II generations and seemed to gain recognition post-Baby Boom. Since this July, I have volunteered as an active listener for texters in crisis. It has been my educative peek into the vulnerability that unites many of us who have each passed through different numbers of birthdays. Every day, I build a niche path where my gifts can continue to extend out of myself, but I walk over it, conscious of my current abilities and the things I want to learn. Professionally, I have engaged with diverse audiences of readers and contributors to the blogging site Medium. Anytime they commented on my written takes about global warming and microplastics, two interconnected problems affecting millions of futures and presents, I knew I was learning from economists, political theorists, activists, educators, historians, and intelligent observers who freely added their insights on how to address the issues my articles examined. Their wise input came with experiencing much of life. They weren't merely conceding that civilization was doomed or that the nastiest situations are only destined to devolve. They saw options forward and shared them. My mission to help encourage the opposite of the rise in nihilist content about the state of the planet had worked. If humanity is to continue, the sense that there is still something to move ahead for, something preservable, is vital. What enhances my appreciation for being alive is the shifting public attitude toward ideas and possibilities. Mainstream thought about what technology could be invented, what art styles were worth exhibiting, who could be friends or equals with whom based on skin tone, and which jobs were gender-appropriate could often be rigidly set. Today, it is safer to dream big beyond one's at-the-moment life story, obstacles included.

"Barbie, I want you to remember as you grow up that one thing no person can take away from you once you have it is what is stored in your brain," counseled my mother, lovingly inculcating in me the importance of keenness to learn. I was fresh out of 2nd grade when I started remembering her words. My mother used to help me during sessions of homework tutelage and tried to inspire me to think through challenging problem sets with this message: "Think of your mind as a computer. If you have the knowledge saved, you can pull it out, at will, and use it." My mother knew perfectly what she was saying. Despite my mom's sapient advice, I've not applied myself as best as I was capable. However, I began thinking about my chances for life mobility and how a high performance could help me. And having something to pore over, study for, and engage my brain with would give me purpose in my young life. Hence, my dormant drive to succeed in school had ignited by the fifth grade. Now education has expanded my awareness of my current path in the world. It has taught me to question mechanisms, processes, interactions, and behaviors; I attempt to recognize everything's nuance and take whatever I'm told with a healthy dose of skepticism. As a woman from a lower-income family, this is personally full circle from a historical context because women were not always encouraged to pursue advanced education or care for global participation so much as in home life. And the less financially privileged were encouraged to work hard for society's highest class tiers without talking back or confronting problems. In other words, as a low-income woman, I would not be expected to think but leave the thinking to others; settle for less according to the older, more prejudiced social mores. Today, I find a more welcoming environment for my ambitions and goals. No longer must I put my aspirations second to someone wealthier or afforded more privileges based on their identity. Fortunately, education is a tool that helps a person reaffirm their dignity when done well and used for the better. Receiving education also matters to me for how considerably pedagogy and learning have evolved. In today's information age, I have more opportunities to amass knowledge with a push of a key or tap of a screen, both of those avenues resulting from education too. Ironically, our globe is currently a more accessible pool of minute-by-minute discoveries yet an arena rife with misinformation/disinformation. From deep fakes to news sources purposefully made faulty, it grows harder to understand what facts or details are accurate validities. What can be trusted when voting in elections, looking for opportunities that are not elaborate scams, or maintaining relationships in the face of a hyper-divided social climate. Here is where I aspire to transition past cookie-cutter didacticism associated with the factory-based learning prototype developed during the 1800s. The rote memorization and conforming to textbooks/syllabuses). Here is where I intend to be more adventurous in seeking answers not asked on a standardized test or even on a collegiate discussion board. This means learning on my own for the joy of learning. Futuristic writer Alvin Toffler once asserted, "The illiterate of the 21st century will not be those who cannot read and write, but those who cannot learn, unlearn, and relearn."

Retreating to a quiet location where I can only experience my breathing, self-talk, whispers, physiological sensations (heartbeats, chills, sighs), and bodily motions is one of my proactive lifeboat methods for settling a racing mind. One brimming with ideas and constantly battered with new informational input from media and the rest of the outside world. Organizing myself into this atmosphere of silence encourages me to ask questions about myself. Why am I feeling this way? Why am I feeling the emotions I'm feeling? Are there any mistakes I need to correct? I've completed this chapter, so what is my path forward? When my mind is not clear, I sense thought disorientation, panic, eagerness to accomplish too much in one swoop, not knowing definitively where to start and how to finish, or being ill at ease with myself. The latter sign of mental muddle is the worst for me because I prioritize being a better friend to myself before I can be a friend to others. In my solitude solace space, I go further by researching inspiring historical figures who overcame myriad struggles with their minds, hearts, and hands. Who discovered themselves more deeply in character-testing moments and projected kindled or rekindled positivity onto others so palpably that nearly every person alive today can feel. I borrow lessons from not just my own but other individuals' past to guide my present, which will pilot my soon-to-be-present, also known as the future. I rely on certain outlets, too. Anytime I need to declutter my cognitive environment, I type, for instance, plot details and color scheme ideas for expressive tasks that expect me to draw from originality, such as website design and novels on Google Docs. Even for informative articles, I brainstorm potential subjects using that same application. More often than not, I'll go beyond creative brainstorming and employ Google Docs to type out a list of incremental financial, educational, career, and personal milestones I want to achieve. In this process, I also catch myself when I cannot find the words to express trapped feelings, forcing myself to put something out that I can return to as fresh encouragement. Similar to a loose map, in a broader sense. While I've not been consistent about availing myself of the following resource, I recommend it to anyone in need or at their lowest, whether or not they find they agree or disagree with the narrator's views expressed. It is a YouTube channel named The School of Life, which counsels viewers about how to address mundane but timeless areas of human existence such as mental and physical health, money, work, romance, friendship, character/personality development, aging, and education. And, to top it off, counseling with the help of engaging, visually stimulating aids and thought-provoking summaries and lines of advice. Watching the School of Life (SOL) has given me flashes of insight on familiar subjects I would never interpret in certain ways until SOL stretched my thinking, even comforting me while tackling somber topics like mortality and abuse. For clearing my head, I clean my external surroundings by sorting/clearing out objects consisting of but not confined to clothes and files, wiping my desk, and dusting the floors. Such actions urge me of everything's ephemeral status and symbolically push me to the subsequent chapter. The reduced clutter means less is keeping me down. I'm removing any attachment to material items I may have unwittingly acquired. Next, I stand in front of a mirror and practice smiling or laughing, whether there is obviously anything to feel gleeful about or not. Just being myself and able to stand are perfectly sufficient reasons.

Limitless - the number of possibilities a healthy person enjoys to do, dream, and be. In my experience, I've seldom considered exciting projects or recreational plans when miserable with a cold or flu. Or when my left shoulder pained two years ago. Feeling broken or out of sorts is never fun. In my case, the sudden, recurring shoulder discomfort caused me persistent sadness. Sadness I did not need if I was to optimize the upcoming school year and remain motivated to expect milestones such as graduation. One day I was browsing the internet after my 15th birthday. Curious, I read articles and medical journals about adolescent health. And soon, I ached for guilt about years of mistreating my body with the food I ate. Every fast-food chain pizza, packaged cookie, can or bottle of carbonated beverage, or bag of chips I'd ingested (whether at home or school) would slowly poison me if I did not stop. From then on, I've resolved to consume more plant-based foods and less processed or meat meals. Regularly, though gradually, I'm learning to construct meal plan collages consisting of more boiled/baked potatoes, broccoli, kale, pomegranate, strawberries, blueberries, olive oil, and beans. As a child, I drank less water than fruit juice or soda. Now, water is my preferred drink, and recently, I've come to respect taking black tea without milk or sugar for the maximal antioxidant effect. To compensate for my Vitamin D deficits from about 7-to-9 months of sheltering in place from the coronavirus blizzard, mackerel, and salmon, especially, are my staple fish items as of late. Another part of health, this one very neglected, that I consider is my use of plastic surrounding cooking, storing, or heating food. Awareness of cancer risks posed by plastic articles like lids has compelled me to switch from a plastic drinking cup to a glass. From eating a great deal out of plastic containers to ceramic ones (though I still eat out of plastic, albeit more sparingly). For the most part, I've renounced microwaving food with a plastic lid as a cover. At night, I try but sometimes fail to sleep at least 7 hours, though a person my age requires 8-plus hours, according to experts. Each day or every few days, I practice 10 squats to improve blood circulation, then stop when I discern I'm reaching my limits. Multiple times per month, I leave my room to go for medium-length walks and stretch my legs. However, I strive to increase my walking routine to weekly, then daily, per health recommendations of 150 minutes of exercise each week. Sadly, I became complacent in physical activity after COVID-19 lockdowns started due to fear of contracting illness. While I am still recovering from my fear, I can abate sedentary behavior without leaving my room by standing at my desk every 20-30 minutes. Because I began to make more health-conscious decisions around the debut of the COVID global outbreak, other health practices that I once ignored have entered my arsenal. In tandem with frequent hand hygiene and high-quality mask-wearing, I've curbed some detrimental habits. No longer do I bite my fingernails out of nervousness or boredom. Not only was that making me susceptible to oral contact with pathogens, but it always imperiled my dental health. My body is not merely a machine but my friend. Although I have a long path ahead in fully expressing compassion toward it and still lapse into poor sleep, diet, or exercise, at times, I feel and wish to continue feeling healthier because "the greatest wealth is health," wise gold attributed to Virgil, the poet.

Lightning-fast I chose this opportunity because I know prospective employer(s) will ask me the most important questions during a job interview: how many scholarships I applied for in different fields and how many I won. Instead of doing this to grow, a waste of time, I do it for someone else; because they want me to. Scholarships are not about demonstrating agency but proving a point and inflating one's resume. If I must select a career path, it'll be a mixture of couch-sitting half the day and sitting in a tree to stare at the sun the other part. And my academics must revolve around asking smart devices like Alexa for every answer to life's perplexing philosophical questions such as "What day is today?" or "Why do we sit on couches?" Thankfully, I mustn't apply my brain when technology exists. Just reminiscing about burning a pot of food in one measly minute, stubbing my toe, or spilling tubs of skin moisturizer on the ground makes me grimace. The moisturizer incident happened forever ago, but I coped by singing "It's a Good Day" and scooping the mess into a garbage can while accidentally smearing some on the floor. Since that day, I've learned to embrace my clumsiness--and clean my house better.

"All our unhappiness comes from our inability to sit alone in our room" - Blaise Pascal. Life is rich in distractions that tempt a person to leave duties in which they are engaged. I have been distracted from essential work and procrastinated. I interpret Pascal's suggestion in multiple ways, one being in terms of the "Fear of Missing Out". This fear hasn't been worrying about attending gatherings because I've long preferred solitude and time to myself, but I've wanted to be part of a "crowd" inadvertently. I've checked Pinterest and YouTube, the former for trying to find the latest pins flooding into my personalized feed. The latter for checking the latest videos on my favorite popular YouTube channels. Rather than completing personal goals, I'd be too enraptured in a loud media environment. After scrolling for passing excitements, the full magnitude of my distractedness weighed pounds of guilt on my shoulders. Countless times, I've tortured myself obsessing about big-headline news cycle events that haven't happened yet. I've left my room, allowing fear of the unknown to subjugate me. Inducing my own depression and heartache. In terms of Pascal, I've left my room of self-confidence to swim in insecurity, silently comparing myself to the next child, the next student. Everything from height to test scores. I wished to be someone else too many times to recall. Throughout my life, the impression that something is wrong with me relentlessly roared. I'd slowly built a definition of my identity in terms of other people who did not even know I was competing with them.

Nature restores the hidden layer of me that tries to fade in the age of machines, long work hours, blue light, and high-speed, hectic living. Nature preserves my inner child, the little girl who'll race the ants marching atop the sidewalk, gleefully point out how an adjacent tree's wood looks like a face, and compliment the vibrancy of bushes and soil beds dotted in lavenders or violets. Nature cautions me to remember that I can live without fear of judgment or having to uphold an image, two things that, on the surface, come with maturity and sensing others' expectations of us. Any time I need a break from trying study sessions or textbooks, I rush to be side-by-side all trees and foliage. Their rustles in the wind replenish me with fresh drive to reapply effort into not just my education but anything else life calls me to at any point. Though this only dawned on me recently, my appreciation of nature often comes in simple gestures. I aspire to give nature my time and effort since it gives its peace and kindness freely. I want to give back to nature in more substantive ways such as gardening and other ecologically thoughtful activities in the future. I find that, for now, penning even brief lines about nature's artistic and emotional attributes in my poetry and fiction stories aids my immersion in the details as though I were on a nature stroll. Acknowledgment of organic ecosystems and life also presents itself in the food I consume, which is mainly plant-based. I note the herbs in each Lipton teabag, the broccoli, kale, and collard greens I bake or boil, the tree each apple grew from, and the lake or outdoor water source that the water sitting in my glass came out of.

I spent one afternoon typing my essays, mathematics homework, and review notes for the day as my parents were eating dinner. Aloud, I wished in front of them for a house of my own when I was older, to check out of the hotel we long-resided and become financially self-sufficient. Then my dad, with his business major and his decades of wisdom plus the pain of our family's tormenting difficulties, offered me some of the best words I'd ever heard about money management. "Cut your coat according to your size." Known to many as not biting off more than one can chew, this advice will guide my economic planning, saving, spending, investment, and income sources as long as I remind myself of it. Considering I am no stranger to unwise misusage of my allowance/poor spending impulse control/saving habits, I wince, remembering my carelessness. Once, I squandered the $100 my parents generously gave me on vending machine comfort snacks. Like many aspects of my lifestyle, COVID-19's repercussions forced me to pivot (here, monetarily/fiscally), which I'm grateful for. Today, I try to store every dollar I receive for needs such as college tuition. Because my first introduction to the professional world has proven that earning income demands a steadfast work ethic, I recognize that my earnings must outpace my expenditures since a paycheck tends to arrive slower. I cannot afford, literally, to live above my means. Costly entertainment and goods won't enter my budget until I establish a sturdier financial profile. To meet my thrift goals, I'll learn skills like certain home repairs that prevent avoidable price obligations or payments for someone else's services. "Cut your coat according to your size" was liberating. I mustn't gratuitously burden myself. Freedom is not spending without restraint but less baggage down the already-unpredictable road.

From where I stand today, if I had to rewind to my pre-teenage age years, then wind forward to the present, I'd tell anyone watching with me that a constant cyclic journey to rebirth has propelled me all along. Negativity and pathogen particles saturated the air in 2020 and rushing panic filled my airways. My family and I existed on a lower-than-normal income since I could remember. Tensing up at reminders of our situation, pledges to excel in high school and college occupied my thoughts. Moreover, I sought to contribute income by working, something my parents understandably discouraged. With the virus infecting countless people and reports of its damage to human health long-term and the brutal deaths in overwhelmed hospitals, my coronaphobia, repetitive cleaning rituals, and bitterness turned me into a less-than-stellar person. I began resenting my parents and thinking negatively all the time. Soon these thoughts developed into an obsessiveness, though not diagnosed. I knew it was a problem because it was causing me guilt after I started my junior year of high school. I kept going back mentally to ensure I'd not said something offensive or done something immoral. I felt dizzy, too dizzy to focus on the class material. Too ashamed to speak of it. Then, I shared with my mother what I'd been dealing with and she listened empathetically. I began to be freer from self-doubt and shame. Now, dashed pieces of me are slowly forming into one again. My mind is clearer and my outlook is gradually evolving. Renewal is growth. Renewal is healing. Renewal is forgiveness. Renewal is acceptance. Renewal is perseverance. Renewal is family. Renewal is a constant, never done until silent, deep-held battles are won.

I may not be adventurous in physically going everywhere, location-to-location, but I'm adventurous in searching for new self-development opportunities, knowledge, and purpose. One of my objectives is to buy a house in Maryland by the time I graduate from college. Odd to many, because this seems self-evident, purchasing my own home is one of my desires because I spent my childhood in unconventional lodging. My parents, doing their best for my siblings and me, could only afford a small hotel room for us. Since age 6, I've lived in one. Paying off mortgages will be take-charge closure, which is due compensation for all of the instances our family did not know if we'd be kicked out onto the street or be able to pay for food and transport. Some strides I've made in that angle include earning, for now, modest payments as a freelance writer for the platform site Medium. I refuse to stop there, of course. I will maximize my current circumstances and use my computer experience to practice coding languages such as Java and HTML until proficient, going beyond what I've thus far learned about computer science in school. Afterward, I'll harness these skills to design a website off of which I can simultaneously feed my literary, artistic, and current events interests and help potential users engage theirs. As a bonus, developing an ability to code will expand my horizons into the STEM field and be a new source of brain exercise. I've already begun drawing plans for the layout and aesthetic of my website called Storysounding and begun coding with a web development app. Not one of these items comprises a bucket list in my eyes. A bucket holds items that one can throw away. I seek milestones that will stay with me long-term, hopefully forever.

As far as recovery from daily pressures is concerned, there aren't specific activities that pass or fail a generic stress test, this stress test being how much stress they'd alleviate. Every person personalizes their coping methodology, their way of avoiding mental breakdown or prying away ever so slightly from the grip of a mental health obstacle. An indispensable component of my healing from negative thoughts or trying events is productivity. Sorting luggage for items to discard, rinsing plates, and cleaning dusty floors psychologically lighten my heavy loads. Yet, days often arrive when I dread completing any tasks even though part of me tries to defeat this sluggish penchant, the procrastination affliction. Especially when various options for self-occupation float about in creative projects and coursework, leaving me indecisive about where to begin. When I cannot find the frame of mind to finish a responsibility, I feel bothered. Counterintuitively, exertion is a form of relaxation in my case because knowing my tasks are taken care of reassures me for that same day. Best of all, less work provides me a wider window for exciting self-rewards. One fact about my relationship with recreational stress mitigation is I always turn to what's in my pot or pan. Forms of meal preparation such as baking are an integral part of my self-care routine; mixing a few complementary ingredients into one dish mimics bouquets of calming fragrance pouches. Except the cinnamon, pepper, thyme, and garlic spices are far from mimicry when cooked. Once more, doing something eases my mind by giving me control over what's controllable and peace about what's beyond me, as life is. This relieves me because I know it places me closer to confident independence. Self-reliance indicates that I can tackle the true hardships of adulthood, the less sweet and savory parts.

Hobbies have been the equivalent of my friends since I can remember. Of my traveling companions. My hobbies are friends and confidantes that pull out my best character traits during difficult, figurative "growing pains." They must not be expensive, but they must provide satisfaction and refuge from life's pressures. They must create goodness and destroy cruelty. They must heal, not injure. Each succession of clacking keys soothes my racing mind like the melodic lyrics of my favorite songs. I sit typing a fantastic tale my head could come up with: a story. Depending on how much inspiration courses through me at the time, the draft will be a short story or full-length novel! Pent-up stress and frustration ooze out through my restless fingertips and become creative, adventurous, passionate, or thoughtful words given a Google Doc home in which to dwell. Bearing in mind the saying, "Think before you act," I realize writing compels me to do precisely that. Think about what to say on paper and mentally run a scan of the substance, the mood, the tone. Although many drafts will never be published, they shall exist as collage pieces in an unseen scrapbook journal, a journal of my journey to inner stability through fictional characters who, in the end, don't feel as fictional. I've come to see writing as my primary hobby because it costs very little. As long as I've instruments: a computer, pen, pencil, and paper, thoughts that are willing to go beyond my comfort zone, a clear heart, and the lessons of previous books I'd read about being a writer and being a human, then nearly every opportunity I can dream of is unlocked.

To me, confidence denotes someone's anchored belief that they've valuable abilities/attributes; carrying oneself without self-doubt, only self-love. Confidence is contagious: if one person demonstrates it, another, in effect, more boldly accepts themselves. Confident people, so self-assured they uplift others instead of disparaging them, inspire the next person, who inspires the next person and onwards. Regardless, self-assured people seldom care that other people watch or emulate them. Validation from crowds isn't their style. The confident steer their course, leading their best lives possible. Admittedly, I, myself, am hardly a confidence profile. I internally criticized my appearance, wondering if I had any value. Moreover, I was a shy girl, hardly speaking to anyone besides my parents. I retained this quality up to high school, fearing peers silently judging me. My kindergarten educator communicated to my parents my limited participation in class discussions. My lack of English fluency muted me, even before I was old enough to process assimilation-related cultural tensions. I've also loathed my curly hair, resenting it as a pain to dress up. Growing up, I daydreamed of being princess-like. I wanted to be beautiful. I porously absorbed pop-cultural gender stereotypes. I made pink my favorite color, adored feminine dresses, and obsessed over my looks. What good was a "princess" in modern society? As my parents taught me, I must focus on intellect. By fifth grade, I utilized grades to lessen insecurities; I improved academically. Not for learning, but self-satisfaction, which I now profoundly regret. Nowadays, I study multiple subjects' fascinating complexities for learning's sake. Picturing the internet quote, "Why be a princess when you can (insert profession)?", I still love my feminine side. However, I won't let my self-perceptions prevent my self-sufficiency. I'm an imperfect, bashful wallflower who envies. Nonetheless, I realize I'm both a princess and anything I achieve.

Before pondering job, family, or travel prospects, it's imperative to recognize the ultimate meaning of life is to appreciate every breathing moment. Existence is meaningful when you savor experiences; acknowledge the significance of being alive first. Furthermore, definitions of life meaning should be flexible in light of rising crises across our planet and society. Doubtlessly, life is meaningless if we aren't mentally as well as physically present for each chapter. Large-looming is burnout among the productive workforce's younger members and among students entering the workforce. Often, cultural values prioritize strenuously checking off to-do lists over time-saving methods. Some higher-ed pupils study for hours without breaks. Workers encounter difficulty congruous balancing career and personal well-being. Some employers fail to understand their employees' needs for rest and teachers their students'. The doer, learner, and employee discover that promotions, accolades, and profit aren't worth stress (or poor health). I know because I became fatigued in my 9th-grade freshman year with one AP class/many honors courses just before Sars-Co-V-2 hit. COVID-19, global lockdowns, and workplace/school closures gave me solitude. Rethinking workaholism, I saw beyond academics. I saw vulnerability in thousands of people sickened long-term or dead months later. The virus disregarded their professional accomplishments and college education. Their frightening struggles awakened my spirituality. Witnessing a mortally-threatening disease unmatched since 1918 taught me to respect life's transiency. Also, extroverted situations like animated debates or crowded parties steal the energy I need for constructive activities, including classwork and reading. Hence, one respite from hustle culture is strolling alongside scenic greenery. Nature reminds me to carry one day before the next, especially since I constantly worry about the future, partly because of loud news media echoes. Though I'm practicing consuming less television, I've stopped doomscrolling nightmare, nihilistic internet reports---without ceasing to care about the issues discussed.

"Wow, you're a good drawer," remarked some of my classmates through elementary school. Once my mother lightheartedly sketched a dress, then showed the younger me artmaking enamored me. The glamour of it was that there were no formulas to abide by, just free, changeable, gelatinously flexible creativity. I could err, erase, and enhance with pencils, hand pressure, and paper. Great loves of mine were dresses from historical eras I'd read about, human faces and physiques, and cloaking each sketch with color. Years later, I scrutinize those sketches, feeling amateur at proportions, criticisms I seldom entertained as a child. That 2012 winter, another origin point of bliss struck: writing. An evening when my mother and I laughed over topics I recall less vividly caused my spontaneous composition notebook letter-writing about enjoying humor, a letter to my mom over a rudimentary thing. Then, I wrote a short story tweak of one childhood fairy tale--in messy, colorful crayons. As a sophomore, I began seriously writing proto-novels and poems, entering non-fiction articles on contemporary topics (occasionally articulating bottled thoughts) sharing them virtually. A break from my timid reticence, which my school peers knew me for besides my illustration. Notions of amalgamating artwork and writing while linking them to fields like ecology or computer science (say, planning web designs); experimenting with pathways to professional achievement encourage me. I'm learning photo editing techniques after exposure to intriguing concepts in my elective class this year and becoming interested in photography. I lack a material camera, but an inward camera bears my memories, ideas, fears, and eternal guidebook. Talent mustn't be an extraordinary skill. Rather, talent is often any ordinary skill that begs the extraordinary: boldly ignore what others think and leap full-heartedly into it, lending that gift to a world needing it, no matter the mastery.

Painfully, I've learned that a study strategy disintegrates if one fails to plan because that is planning to fail, a paraphrase of a quote attributed to the polymath rebel-scientist Benjamin Franklin. When not self-learning, I employ interactive resources for nearly all subjects and Ricochet Science, the latter covering chemistry and biology. When facing upcoming mathematics unit tests, I, at times, jot in a notebook individual topics comprising massive, high-point value assessments before repeatedly analyzing class notes, then practicing with Khan Academy or paper-pencil mock quizzes. To complete multiple tasks, I "study" by reading/skimming online encyclopedia articles or research journals about history and science (even if topics aren't within class curriculums) and watching Ted-Ed videos during study breaks. My revision also involves drafting opinion articles and short stories in my free time. Organizing my thoughts, brainstorming claims, counterclaims, or plots, and researching outside information for added insight while writing stimulates my mind for literary composition-heavy assessments, gradually boosting creative thinking per this methodology's rigors. Without studying myself, I'd miss specific steps in comprehending course material. I've spent middle and high school examining how best I learn, which precedes opening books or booting a computer. Else my productivity declines for lack of rhythm. In so doing, I've realized visual cues such as colors and reading/writing tools like flashcards, mnemonic/mental association aids, and Venn diagrams help me retain concepts. Plus, I try to recognize my flaws, such as procrastination, anxiety-proneness, and inconsistency, considering how they hinder my objectives. Upon preparing my workspace, I imagine the pursuit of knowledge as transcending a formal, highbrow habit. Instead, it becomes a humbling admission that one knows very little. But, the craving to learn fills a person halfway. It fuels someone for careers and informedly experiencing the outside world yet never withers their curiosity to understand more.

Self-reflection has been a healing skill for me. Being human means I continually err, often slightly, other times in ways nobody should excuse or take lightly. As much as the advice is "stop judging yourself," I find doing so helps me emerge with different perspectives. In solitude, my mind recalls missed opportunities and detrimental words and deeds I never controlled before they happened. One event I frequently rethink is the 2020 pandemic, when I suddenly became more anxious, allowing fears to hinder virtual schooling. When I began obsessive routines: handwashing, surface cleaning, avoiding touching household objects--even avoiding family members out of irrational phobia of infection. Now I shudder, critiquing my disturbing response to a rare maelstrom, pondering my actions if another disaster broke out, motivating me to evolve. Analyzing past errors also shapes my academics as I reconcile my work, the effort applied, the outcomes such as grades and teacher feedback, and my reactions to them. Reflection is an intrapersonal moment to face my mirrors. Not narcissistically but holistically. Seeing myself (both strengths and shortcomings) then self-developing, envisioning my better, unawakened side, who I aspire to be. Sometimes, tears are my mirrors upon onsets of hopeless regret, landing on a table to be stared back at. Best of all, shedding them isn't weakness but cathartic personal care, building an almost-immune resistance to quickly demonstrating my worst qualities. Self-reflection is self-parenting, a check-in with ourselves before having such check-ins with our loved ones. However, introspection won't always prevent my difficult stumbles. For example, there're still junctures I don't achieve the scores/grades I'm capable of due to a back-and-forth wheel of motivation and disinclination. Of confidence and underconfidence. In those circumstances, I step back to recharge, then to charge back at challenges. This action carries me further than deflection ever would.

Honestly, climate change touches every corner of the world. 99% of Earth's humans inhale polluted air daily-- almost everyone, irrespective of socioeconomic position. Alarmingly, a world study of youths from India, Nigeria, Finland, the UK, France, the US, Portugal, Brazil, the Philippines, and Australia reveals that 75% dread the future, their future! Some individuals manage heart-sinking fears with angry sobs. Others agonize at night over whether global warming will somehow destroy them soon. Others try ignoring it, continuing "ordinary" life. Desperation moves others to shocking deeds: a Colorado climate activist immolated himself outside the US Supreme Court on Earth Day 2022. Unjustly, least-polluting African, Latin American, Caribbean, and Asian nations endure the worst scorching temperatures, floods, and droughts, which hurt their economies and survival bases, such as agriculture. Why can't we ensure the well-being of all on Earth? The well-being of people who lend their strength to raising awareness of the problems with our environment? In that aforementioned global analysis, one young person's words reverberate: "I don't want to die, but I don't want to live in a world that doesn't care for children and animals." Politicians always vow reforms during many conferences. But they rarely happen. Solutions are plenty, as unbelievable as that seems in a world of lack. Lack of security. Lack of clean air. Lack of clean oceans. Lack of sustained water. Lack of animals (anthropogenic extinction). One answer? Globally-interdependent attacks on CO2 emissions via treaties like the 1987 Montreal Protocol that scientists claimed helped Earth's ozone layer convalesce. Banned were halogenated hydrocarbon-releasing aerosol sprays, refrigerants, and air conditioning. Individually, we've numerous options. Ride high-pollution vehicles less, walk and bicycle more. Reuse household items such as clothes rather than discard them. Will our planet warm up, or are we willing to warm up to climate proaction?

Clarissa Harlowe Barton. I first learned about her in a 3rd-grade research assignment when my brain inquired: who was this person whose photos looked so old-timey? I learned of her Civil War-era medical contributions, her founding the American Red Cross (ARC) and later presidency of it--in her 60s moreover. In adolescence, I researched Barton's lionhearted nursing amidst cannon blasts and bullets. Her peacetime agony when there wasn't "much to do"; her purpose-craving. Who was this person who thrived in what others fled and suffered in what others preferred? She was Clara Barton, a person whose noted shyness made me relate to her. Still, her bravery far exceeded most people's: she defied 1800s societal norms, joining the class of America's first-ever female government employees, enduring male colleagues' harassment. She knew she was capable when the small-minded were less capable of knowing (or caring) that women were capable. Barton was selfless but never sacrificed self-worth. If her talents weren't properly valued, she seldom hesitated to quit, such as when the free New Jersey public school she helped create snubbed her for the school principal position, ludicrously assuming her gender equaled incompetence. How wrong Barton smartingly proved her naysayers throughout her 90 years. Like many, Barton was a paradox. During childhood, she was an athletic tree-climber yet a studious, reserved girl who dreaded social situations. Had Barton not decided on teaching to lessen her fear, might she have front-center led the American Red Cross, the Missing Soldiers Office for lost POWS? Publicly supported abolition? Vocally promoted women's suffrage? Then-lived history and our living history are bittersweetly possibility-rich. Since Barton, there've been 13,000,000 ARC humanitarian volunteers across 187 nationalities, 4,000,000 blood donors yearly, and 100,000,000 people the ARC impact positively on an annual basis. Hence, interest in her life never evaporated from my consciousness.