I’m not particularly charismatic. In social situations, I’m sweet and genuine but also terribly awkward. My lack of stereotypical “people skills” meant I spent a long time thinking I couldn’t be a leader because I wasn’t a shepherd with a flock of sheep eagerly following me wherever I set foot. I falsely equated leadership with influence. As I matured, however, I began to revise that definition of leadership. Leadership, to me, is using one’s strengths to catalyze change and better the world. It isn’t being loud and powerful; it’s doing what you can, where you can, to make an impact. One of the most effective ways for me to make that impact, I’ve discovered, is to serve in clubs. As the vice president of Key Club and an executive board member of three other clubs, I’ve been able to employ my organizational skills and attention to detail for the good of others. Twice, I spearheaded Key Club’s haunted house fundraiser: our largest annual project. It was stressful with a lot of moving parts I had to monitor, but both times it ended up a success, and we raised hundreds of dollars for the charity UNICEF. Besides the haunted house, I also instituted Key Club’s first minute-taking system, helped increase membership from 9 people to over 30 in two years, and, most importantly, remained an active participant in all our projects, with over 150 volunteer hours through Key Club alone. In my clubs, I’ve led by example in my deep engagement, and I’ve made an impact by using my administrative talents to execute numerous service projects. I’ve also become my school’s go-to person for math help, and I embrace the role, eager to offer aid when I notice someone struggling. It can be exhausting, sacrificing my much-needed study hall time or answering math texts before bed, but I’m glad to prioritize others’ needs above my own if it means math becomes a little less intimidating for them. Math is enthralling, and I don’t want my peers to fear it because it’s difficult to understand. Despite having the most students, the Algebra II class I tutor has averaged the highest on every test this year, and when a geometry teacher asked me to teach remedial concepts to six students, he noticed a marked difference once we finished together. I use my patience and mathematical skill to lead students to lightbulb moments, and it always warms me to see understanding flicker in their eyes. Outside of school, much of my service is dedicated to young children, from volunteering in my church’s Kids Ministry to weekly Zoom calls with my nine-year-old reading buddy. Authentic and hilarious, kids are among my favorite people, and their open-minded eagerness is something I aspire to. They’re the seeds of the future, so I try to water them and shine the light they need to grow into tall, majestic redwoods. My tender maternal manner lets me cultivate meaningful relationships with kids; I love sitting and asking how their day was or crossing the street with the palm of their hand tucked into mine. I lead them not with grand, dramatic gestures but by mentoring and caring for them as individuals. Because ultimately, it’s the individuals that matter. What is a community—what is the global population, even—if not a collection of individuals? Every day, humans lead by loving, supporting, and helping one another. Leadership is all about improving the world, and that can happen through massive, influential initiatives, but it also happens one smile, one hug, one person at a time.

I am a distinctly mediocre soccer player. I’ve played the sport since I was five years old, participating in club soccer through my elementary and middle school years; but when I got to high school, a rude awakening smacked me in the face. My athleticism and technical ability were far below girls I had expected to be on par with, and I found myself unceremoniously relegated to Junior Varsity. Coming to terms with it took some wrestling. I was accustomed to being good at most things I tried, and certainly the things I was passionate about. Yet here was soccer, my favorite sport and a core part of my life, and I was bad at it. I was embarrassed, I was discouraged, and I was failing. Being on JV my freshman year—followed by my sophomore and junior years—forced me to change my perspective. The longer I spent on JV, the more I grew to appreciate it. I shifted my concept of soccer as another extracurricular at which I was obligated to excel to something I did because I loved it. I loved the satisfaction of a ball crashing into the net. I loved the pressure-cover balance and constant communication with my fellow center-back. I loved the beauty of a clever string of passes up the field. I loved sharing laughs with my teammates and the bond we formed through the grueling emotional rollercoaster of wins and losses. I didn’t need to be an incredible player; I just needed to play. Play in the most fundamental sense of the term, where soccer is a game and is meant to be fun. Being bad at soccer has catalyzed far more of my personal growth than any of the things I’m good at. It’s one thing to be naturally gifted at something, but I’ve discovered that true satisfaction in any accomplishment is directly proportional to the amount of effort that went into it. Being bad at soccer taught me that effort and growth far outweigh the importance of skill. Being bad at soccer also taught me how to give myself grace. I spent much of my life struggling with severe perfectionism and holding myself to unreasonably high standards, but soccer made me more comfortable with laughing at my mistakes and getting up, dusting off my shoulders, and moving on. After swinging toward the end of my junior year, I’m now a full Varsity player for my school; but making Varsity is not my ultimate soccer success. My ultimate success is the growth I’ve shown—both as a player and a person, on and off the field. While I’m still not exceptionally talented, I’ve learned to love the game for the sake of the game, and I’ve learned to value my growth and effort above all else. When I look back on my high school soccer career, I won’t remember how many bad touches I made or how many passes went awry. I’ll remember the camaraderie of my team, I’ll remember the feeling of the ball beneath my feet and the sun upon my head, and I’ll remember that I love soccer. I love it not because I’m good at it, but because it’s fun and beautiful and one of life’s great joys.

My name is an obscure Lord of the Rings reference. It means “sun-star” in Sindarin and, similarly, “shining light” in real life. It’s only a word—letters assigned to make the sound associated with me—but it’s precisely what I see as my purpose: to improve lives with rays of warm sunshine. My ultimate goal is to be the sun-star my name implies by loving and healing those around me. One of the most impactful ways I see myself doing this is through my career. I dream of becoming either a biomedical engineer or physician, and—while I have yet to determine which path is where I belong—I know I will comfort the suffering wherever I find myself. Diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at fifteen, I’m well-acquainted with the agony of a malfunctioning body and well-acquainted with the difference an insulin pump or good endocrinologist can make. Whether I’m treating illnesses or devising ways to heal with technology, I want to make that difference for people. And I know I’m capable of it. I’ve proven my dependability and leadership on the executive board of four clubs, and I’ve proven my intelligence, diligence, and curiosity as class valedictorian, National Merit Semifinalist, and AP Scholar with Distinction. I will only continue to develop these qualities as I advance to college and the world beyond. I’ve already taken all the highest math classes at my school and exhausted nearly every available science course, and I will be equally fervent as I strive for my goal by pursuing STEM as a means of healing. As scientifically-minded as I am, my career isn’t the only way I will shine light. Alongside STEM, I burn with an equal passion for fiction and poetry. Writing, for me, is more than just the joy of creating worlds and stories and characters; it’s a means of imparting wisdom. As humans, our growth, revelations, and core philosophies are meant to be shared, and I intend to do exactly that. I’ve already written dozens of short stories and poems—three of which have been published nationally by the American Society of High School Poets—four novels, and a short dramatic script “Fly on the Tapestry” that won a Scholastic Art and Writing Awards Honorable Mention. I want to share my words with the world to help others, even if it’s just one person who needs to hear what I have to say. Because one person matters. Whether they’re sick, hungry, scared, or lonely—that person matters. The darkness enveloping them matters. And my goal will always be to brighten that darkness as much as I can. Even in the grandeur and wide impact of goals like medicine or authorship, it’s equally important to shine light in the little ways: the smiles and hugs and unexpected compliments. The lightbulb flashing in a student I tutor. The tiny hands I hold when I volunteer with kids. The joyful crinkled eyes when I visit my grandma. In every day, every action, and every word, my goal is to shine for others. The way I see it, every human is a candle, and it’s our responsibility to share our flames whenever the darkness may snuff another’s out.

When I was fifteen years old, my body turned against me. Now, for the rest of my life, I must suffer the consequences. I live with devices constantly attached to me; I can’t eat a meal without analyzing its carbohydrate content; and I can’t leave the house without toting along a bag of juice boxes, alcohol swabs, and other assorted medical trinkets. The months following my Type 1 Diabetes diagnosis were soul-crushing as I grappled with the reality that I would never again live without this illness. It suffocated me under a watery depth of depression and snuffed out life’s spark. I took frequent naps to hide from the world; or I would check my blood sugar in the morning, find it had been hovering around 250 mg/dL all night, then crumple to the carpet and weep. I was following the instructions to the letter and still couldn’t keep my blood sugar controlled, so what was the point in trying? What was the point in living if this was the rest of my life? I was drowning, sputtering as wave after wave crashed over me. But as my hands flailed in the dark, salty cold of the ocean, they found a rope—a rope of hope and determination, braided with strands of my family, friends, and faith. Strands of my endocrinology team and my dog, of school, humor, books, and life’s small joys. Strands of silly socks and pink-orange clouds glowing in the sunset. I grabbed that rope and clung to it for dear life. I refused to let my illness win. I refused to let it define me, to tell me “You can’t…”, “You don’t…”, “You aren’t…”. I was still me—albeit without a functioning pancreas—and while Type 1 Diabetes would always be a part of my life, I refused to let it dictate that life. Defying all expectations, I’ve even found myself grateful for my diabetes. When I start my undergraduate studies in the fall, I will be attending Colorado School of Mines as a Quantitative Biosciences and Engineering major. I’m thrilled, and I have my diabetes to thank for that. It nudged away life’s branches to reveal my career path of biomedical engineering. As I grappled with my diagnosis, receiving an insulin pump helped me immensely. Based on data received from my continuous glucose monitor, my pump adjusted the amount of insulin it injected and kept my blood glucose stable with minimal effort on my part, giving me the freedom to enjoy the moment. To live without constant anxiety about my levels. Acquiring this technology revolutionized my life, turning my Type 1 Diabetes from a swampy muck into a mild inconvenience. I want to harness my passion for STEM into biomedical engineering so I can design medical technology that will help people struggling with illness as I did. As a biomedical engineer, I’ll be able to throw the rope I so desperately needed after my own diagnosis. Adversity is painful, but it’s also humanity’s greatest teacher. It teaches us empathy, tenacity, and gratitude. It shapes us into better people than we were the day before. Whether one believes in God, star-aligned destiny, or simply the grand system that is our universe, nothing is without purpose; and I can see now how purposeful my diagnosis really was. To quote Brandon Sanderson’s Oathbringer—a favorite book of mine—“Life breaks us [...]. Then we fill the cracks with something stronger.” I’ve bound my cracks with braided patterns of unyielding rope, and as I sail above the tides, I declare to the world that overcoming Type 1 Diabetes has transformed me for the better.

Every year since seventh grade, I’ve worn a tree costume on Arbor Day. To me, this obscure Nebraskan holiday is a joy to be savored. It represents the friendships I’ve forged and the simple delights I’ve smiled at, and it acknowledges the grandeur of one of nature’s greatest miracles: the tree. Trees have limitless potential for beauty, from ice-bejeweled branches to towering green canopies, from pink and white spring blossoms to the fiery fall aspens that burn across Western Colorado. They are peaceful and powerful, elegant and strong, all at once. I display my love for trees and their respective holiday with unabashed enthusiasm. Every fourth Friday of April, I walk my school hallways with a silly grin as I push the branches of that year’s homemade costume out of my face. It earns me a few wrinkled noses, but the joy is worth the occasional disdain. How much more wonderful is it for Arbor Day to be my favorite day of the year than just another Friday? I have fun celebrating and it’s infectious, inspiring most people around me to enjoy themselves as well. Appreciating the little things gives life a spark of hope that reveals even the most-mundane seeming days for the precious jewels they are. Be it academics, volunteering, soccer, theater, or writing, I pursue every aspect of my life with this same enthusiasm. Life, I’ve found, is most worthwhile when lived in earnest passion. I prefer to applaud the beauty of math than sit in the back of the classroom with my head down. I prefer to initiate change on the executive board of clubs than passively attend meetings. I prefer to wear a tree costume on Arbor Day than a T-shirt and jeans. Behind every novel I’ve written, show I’ve performed, or academic accolade I’ve received is the same, core trunk: I’m enthusiastic. I care. And it runs deeper than faux leaves on Arbor Day. My enthusiasm is the common factor behind all of my successes, and the unwavering strength of its wood will continue to spawn that success. It’s a trunk that allows me to flourish, growing leafy branches of curiosity, ambition, diligence, dependability, and cheerfulness. My enthusiasm and the qualities it sprouts prompt me to do everything passionately and to the best of my ability. I want to accomplish more, discover more, and motivate others to do the same; and approaching life that way is how I will truly make an impact. Approaching my biomedical engineering career with enthusiasm will allow me to design technology to heal and care for people. Approaching my writing with enthusiasm will allow me to impart my wisdom, self-revelations, and core philosophies to the world. Approaching the people around me with enthusiasm will allow me to love them deeply and cultivate meaningful relationships. Even in the everyday moments, I remain enthusiastic, brimming with effervescence at the simplest joys, like silly socks, a crisp high five, or Arbor Day. Whether radiant day, moonless night, or the cloud-scattered in-between, my trunk will always stand firm. Because it’s who I am. My roots are strong, wrapped in impermeable enthusiasm; and from those roots I spread my branches ever upward to the sky.

To three-year-old me, wearing a hot pink tutu over my sparkly Cinderella dress was a splendid idea. In my tremendously fashionable outfit, I performed “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes” for my entire family, and even now the moment remains something of a family legend. I cling to that song like I would a treasured childhood teddy bear. It’s comforting and nostalgic—a reminder of a simpler time—but it’s also a song of hope. At first glance, however, “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes” seems more like a song of childish fancy, easily dismissed by practicality. “If you keep on believing,” it claims, “the dream that you wish will come true,” but something doesn’t happen just by wanting it hard enough. Someone could work and strive and bleed for something and still not get it. Because life isn’t fair. Dreams are constantly exploding in people’s faces. The song has a line, though, that’s always been my favorite: “Have faith in your dreams and someday your rainbow will come smiling through.” That rainbow is the song’s true message. Rainbows don’t mean we’ll get everything we want, but they do mean there is hope. No matter how gray and stormy the sky becomes, there remains light and beauty to be found, something better peeking up over the horizon. Storms and suffering are inevitable, but the rainbow is a promise that we can survive it. As rain and hail pelts me in the storm of life, my signature song from fourteen years ago reminds me there’s hope. There will always be hope.

Nearly everyone hates proofs. Why would one learn dozens of postulates and theorems for the sole purpose of walking step by step through something someone else has already discovered? I, however, secretly delight in them. They fascinate me, yielding such satisfaction in navigating my way from “given” to “prove.” Why? Well, “why” is why. With a highly system-oriented brain, I’ve always excelled at math, but I didn’t truly fall in love with it until sixth grade, in Algebra I. My teacher made it a point never to teach our class a formula without first deriving it. From the Pythagorean Theorem to compound interest to imaginary numbers, she always explained not just that it worked, but how it worked. Why it worked. She sparked a curiosity within me, a need to understand. She taught me to ask “why?”, and each new layer peeled away made math that much more exciting. In a sort of positive feedback loop, my search for the “why”s of math revealed math’s beauty, and in turn, I sought to learn more because it was so beautiful. Math was the language of the universe, and I wanted to listen. As I grew older, my desire for “why” only strengthened. I chased the mind-blowing highs of new patterns and connections in any way I could, be it deriving the quadratic formula for fun or flinging myself into trigonometric identities, where each problem was its own little quest for “why.” In fact, I loved trig identities so much that I—the only freshman in my pre-calculus class—was selected to teach a critical lesson about them while my teacher was out of town. I was nauseatingly nervous, but the experience exemplified my passion. I wasn’t selected simply because I scored highly on tests; I was selected because my unbridled joy in math was evident. My mathematical search for “why” blossomed into a search encompassing all aspects of myself. Now, I’m not only asking “why” regarding formulas and equations but regarding humans, places, stories, events, everything. I want to discover, I want to learn, I want to hear what the universe has to say. My mathematical curiosity makes me a better mathematician, yes, but also a better student, scientist, author, actress, musician, athlete, and friend. People spend so much time simply skating along the surface of things, but the truth is, there’s a rich, intricate universe waiting just beneath. I never plan to stop asking “why?”; my love of learning has grown too fundamental to my identity. I will continue learning through undergraduate education, medical school, and the work world, but more importantly, I’ll keep discovering the “why” of everyday situations. If I notice something interesting, I’ll question it. If I see a loose thread, I’ll pull it. If I hear the universe’s soft, enticing whisper, I’ll drop everything to follow where it leads. In all its infinite, unfathomable complexity, the universe is speaking to us, and to listen? To listen we start by asking, “Why?”

How many heroes dye their hair with the blood of the villains who wound them? And how many heroes brush their teeth with the spit in the faces of problems? The world doesn’t need another hero. Another vigilante whose eyes we can’t see through a mask of defiance. Another supposed alliance where actions speak louder than the glacé words gliding off tongues that land in the silence of broken promises. Another gallant facade, another painted promenade drenched in self-righteous red. Another improvised stage, proclamation of sanctimonious rage. No, the world doesn’t need more hate, no matter if it feels well-placed. How many heroes thrive on hatred, take lives for a living in the glorified name of justice? And how many heroes fight fire with fire then watch the forest burn? Spend lives like dollar bills with numbers as values stamped on faces. Rescue 100 and raise to the clouds but tear 1 to tatters and toss to the ground. Deal justice for flaws by those who are flawed; just pass the fireball till it burns too hot. How many heroes say “I’m sorry?” and rarer, how many heroes hear “I’m sorry,” and dare, “I forgive you?” Because, of course, grace is weakness, and mercy taboo. The world doesn’t need another hero. Doesn’t need more condemnation, more violence, more bloodshed, more screaming, more so-called justice. The world doesn’t need more hate. The world needs more than its shattered state. How many heroes will deepen ravines but how many healers fill them in? How many heroes kill off the criminals but how many healers put life above all? The world doesn’t need another hero. Doesn’t need to watch planes whoosh by, adorned by confetti and streamers and grandiose gleams. Doesn’t need to see heroes raised high, adored by the masses who fall for their schemes. Heroes glitter, they shimmer, they puff up with pomp but down in the streets there’s a silhouette cloaked in a brown burlap cape. The thirsty hold cups, the down stumble up, and the healer is humble in the hero’s wake. How many healers dye their hair with dirt cleaned from the soles of the poorest? And how many healers brush their teeth with the dew of a flourishing forest? The world needs another healer. A healer to see the way we should be with burdens eased and chains released. Another hand to the needy, a meal to the hungry. the world needs another healer of wounds. Another sealer of cracks, another bridger of gaps. Yes, the world needs another healer. How much of the world distorts in dystopia? See fragments of utopia, see them shattered and scattered through space. See the dents and the holes, broken hearts, broken souls. Weep for the world; it is broken. This broken world doesn’t need another broken hero with a broken sense of human justice. This broken world can’t take another break. This broken world needs a healer.

My pancreas doesn’t work. At fifteen, my body attacked its beta cells, rendering me incapable of producing insulin. Because of this, I live with devices constantly attached to me, can’t eat a meal without analyzing its carbohydrate content, and can’t leave the house without toting along a bag of juice boxes, alcohol swabs, and other assorted medical trinkets. Managing my Type 1 Diabetes has never been easy—it’s often felt soul-crushing—but after battling for two years, I am immensely grateful for scientific discoveries that make it more manageable. For any Type 1 Diabetic, monitoring blood glucose levels and injecting insulin accordingly is delicate, tedious, and never-ending. However, science and technology have advanced to the point where people like me can use what’s known as a “bionic pancreas.” It consists of an insulin pump and a continuous glucose monitor (CGM) communicating with each other to help Type 1 Diabetics maintain homeostasis. Based on data received from the CGM, the pump can adjust the amount of insulin it injects. It keeps my blood glucose stable with minimal effort on my part, giving me the freedom to enjoy the moment. To live without constant anxiety about my levels. Acquiring this technology revolutionized my life, turning my Type 1 Diabetes from a swampy muck into a mild inconvenience. That is what science should be. Humans have vast scientific capability, which has enormous potential to be translated into good. Science is about discovery, and what better way to apply those discoveries than by helping others? I adore science and want to spend my life pursuing it, not just because it’s fascinating or because it helped me, but because it can help everyone. And ultimately, that’s our responsibility as humans: to help each other.

The universe is full of systems, from calculus to cellular respiration to Joseph Campbell’s monomyth, and as I’ve forged my way through this system-oriented universe, I’ve realized how system-oriented my brain is. Systems and processes are how I learn, how I communicate, and how I perceive my surroundings. I’m thrilled by discovering how things work and, even more so, why they work. Naturally, then, I fell in love with STEM. Science and math are as systematic as subjects can be. The abstractness of life easily becomes exhausting, but—in the midst of that—I can always rely on STEM to be complex, yes, but logical and consistent in its complexity. In STEM, I can always ask “why?” and find a definitive answer. Everything works, has a reason for working, and fits neatly into the harmony of the universe’s grand, intricate machine. Patterns and connections constantly blow my mind as I venture deeper into the lush, vivid jungle of STEM. Science is the law of the universe, math its language, and I desperately want to understand. That need to understand, along with my core purpose of loving and serving others, has inspired me to pursue the field of pediatric medicine. I’m delighted by the idea of spending my life healing children while continuing a lifelong pursuit of STEM and its incredible secrets. Displaying that delight, however, doesn’t always feel like an option. I’m inherently enthusiastic with an earnest love for learning and life in general, but as I’ve grown, society has done its best to smother that. A young woman whose eyes light up because she had a mathematical revelation? Strange. Not commendable or inspiring, but weird and nerdy. I’ve spent much of my education, especially high school, surrounded by apathy and burn-out, so my enthusiasm earns me funny looks from my peers and even friends. As a chronic people-pleaser, I don’t want them to see me as a lofty know-it-all simply because STEM excites me, so, to present more relatably, I face a mounting pressure to dumb myself down. To be confident about a test, but when someone asks how I felt, respond with a shrug and self-deprecating “eh.” To know the answer to a question, but stay silent because I fear I’ve already answered too many. To get excited when I discover something fascinating, but keep my head down and scribble notes because “what kind of loser thinks trig identities are cool?” That pressure to suppress myself isn’t going to disappear with time, either. The medical field and my college of choice are both male-dominant, so being an enthusiastic woman will never be easy. I know I’ll have to endure prejudice and condescension from men who think they know better, and I know I’ll have to correct people when they call me “Ms.” instead of “Dr.”, but I also know I’ll face those challenges the same way I face every challenge: with serenity, tenacity, and confidence. Why let apathy and misogyny dictate my passion? I love what I love, I know who I am, and I don’t need external approval, whether it’s from my high school peers or some balding white man in his sixties. Everyone could use more enthusiasm in their lives—it brightens the washed-out colors of a pessimistic world—so I like to think that, if I continue to be my unabashedly earnest self, I can help society begin to normalize that kind of excitement. Help people realize that, hey, maybe it’s okay for a woman to lose her mind over trig identities. In fact, maybe it’s kind of cool.

From sculpture to dance to gardening, artistic expression is both inherently human and inherently beautiful, and its versatility is something that deeply appeals to me. I’m amazed by how many unique avenues art presents, and while I may not provide much input about a painting, I’ll joyfully discuss books, poetry, or theatre for hours. With this in mind, my favorite piece of art is the book Anne of Green Gables. I first read it in third grade and instantly wanted to be Anne’s bosom friend. She was eccentric, vain, and error-prone, but she was smart with a loving heart and wild imagination. Through the book’s worn, yellowing pages and across the divide of reality itself, I sensed we were kindred spirits. Labeled as gifted at a young age, I knew I was never quite “normal,” but reading Anne of Green Gables, neither, I found, was Anne. I ended up enveloping aspects of Anne’s personality into my own and, to this day, they’ve remained there. She taught me to stay optimistic, laugh at my mistakes, appreciate life’s small joys, and not to fear being a little unusual. It’s a simple book lacking heavy tension or fast-paced action, but that’s not what art is. Art is humanity encased in a vessel, and that's what makes it beautiful. In a story, that humanity is represented by characters: flawed, three-dimensional characters with hopes and fears and loves. Anne Shirley is one such character, so relatable it aches and so real you can almost hear her voice as she chatters. That’s why Anne of Green Gables is my favorite: because humanity is the core of art, character the core of story, and that little red-headed orphan is the best character I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.

I am a distinctly mediocre soccer player. That mediocrity, however, turned out to be quite fortuitous. While I didn’t have the skill or athleticism to make varsity, I did become JV team captain, and I wouldn’t trade that year of leading and encouraging my team for a D1 soccer scholarship. Every one of those girls nestled into my heart, and now our team picture features prominently in my bedroom. One of those girls is particularly impossible for me to forget. We were in soccer and Key Club together and, while we started the school year barely acquaintances, our bond deepened as we continued spending time with each other. We were similar, both highly responsible and motivated, and found each other to be kindred spirits. I was kind and supportive to her through soccer practices and service projects alike, and then, as I was giving her a ride from our last game of the season, she opened up and explained how much my mentorship meant to her. She had recently secured positions on both our chapter and district Key Club boards and said that without me, she would never have striven for such opportunities. Her words struck a chord within me, and I drove home with a warm heart and teary eyes. That’s the kind of impact I want to have when I mentor people. I want to be a mother bird teaching her babies to fly; I want to guide people into their potential as I did for that girl. My role as a mentor isn’t to force an identity onto people but to help them discover their own. To lend encouragement and support so they can take flight. Mentoring is giving someone that first little nudge into the sky, then smiling as you watch them soar.

I used to utterly reject the concept of evolution. I was naive: a stubborn little white girl who clung to her literal interpretation of the Bible. God molded life, therefore life couldn’t be commonly derived from single-celled organisms. God set humans specifically apart, therefore humans couldn’t have evolved from half-intelligent primates. They were foolish assumptions built on a flimsy foundation of ignorance, but I believed them nonetheless. I can’t quite pinpoint the day my perspective shifted. Some of it, to be sure, resulted from the inevitable questioning of my beliefs as I transitioned into adolescence. More so, however, did this shift develop as I truly educated myself. In biology classes, I encountered concepts like endosymbiotic theory and morphological homologies and found myself less and less able to plausibly reject evolution. With the mountains of evidence favoring it, I realized there was only one reasonable conclusion: I was wrong. Evolution was real, science wasn’t lying to me, and Genesis’s story of creation wasn’t meant to be taken literally. This realization was a turning point for what is now a key aspect of my identity, but my stubbornness nearly prevented that. For the good of both ourselves and each other, it’s crucial for humanity to actively learn and seek out the truth. We must maintain open minds, let ourselves be wrong, and truly consider evidence when it’s presented. Today, my confidence is rooted firmly in both science and my faith because, contrary to popular belief, they aren’t mutually exclusive. In fact, they build off each other. The harmony in which science and religion overlap is one of the most incredible things I’ve ever witnessed and, to the horror of my younger self, I will spend the rest of my days advocating for it. My days as both a Christian and a scientist.