I was seven when I designed and constructed my first building by hand. It was an ambitious (and more than a little overconfident) task to take on by myself, but ultimately my work paid off. Constructed of no less than one umbrella, four blankets, one desk, two chairs, and four pillows, my masterpiece took up one whole corner of my room and was big enough to sit upright and stretch out in. Although I didn’t know it at the time, that 13-square-foot makeshift structure was the first sign that I’d want to become an architect. Those signs multiplied as I grew older. As a guest in my friends’ houses, I observed their ceiling height, hallway width, kitchen space, window types, etc. I played with Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, and Legos. As a child who grew up in a one-story house just under 1,500 square feet, I imagined designing mansions with towers and stonework, craftsman houses with dormers and tall chimneys, log cabins with lofts and massive fireplaces. It was about this same time that my family began exploring downtown Dallas. It was there I was first exposed to homelessness. It was a bizarre realization to me, that some people lived in tents, on sidewalks or under bridges, and it stuck with me. It seemed fundamentally wrong to me that not everyone had four walls and a roof to call their own. Suddenly, my imaginary designs shifted from mansions and brownstones to tiny homes, small but concise. I rearranged things in my head, considering how a living room could also be a second bedroom, or how much storage could fit in stairsteps without being too steep. Psalm 61:4 says, “Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into the house?”, I want to become an architect to design temporary homes for those in poverty that serve as a stepping-off point to better living conditions, especially prioritizing Dallas (and possibly bridging to national or international work). By majoring in architecture, such a background will allow me to take massive steps in bridging the gap between the homed and homeless, which in turn will cultivate a positive ripple effect in the scopes of public health, safety, and crime. Architecture has the capability to connect and improve our communities, and I want to be on that front, starting conversations that lead to solutions to homelessness and poverty in our society.

I grew up experienced at thieving. Colorful plastic BB gun pellets lifted from the cracks in sidewalks served as ‘food’ for my stuffed animals. Spare erasers from my mom’s pencil cup were building blocks for makeshift houses, and ties filched from my dad’s closet turned into pet snakes that I played with in my backyard. On the house at Paisley Drive, my imagination wasn’t limited solely to pet reptiles. In time-out, I peered up at the hallway’s popcorn ceiling and pictured it with exposed beams. My bare feet constantly pounded the vinyl flooring as I was chased by imaginary dinosaurs. When I couldn’t sleep, I envisioned the house’s floor plan. It was in the cramped Paisley kitchen that I studied for (and won) my first spelling bee, letters floating among my periphery of soapy dishes and stray papers. After ten years of vivid, exploratory childhood, it was packed away with the rest of my belongings when my family moved across town. The red-brick, wide-windowed house on Colby Drive was five hundred square feet bigger and had an enormous backyard where I learned to play badminton. For the first time, we had a dining room and an office, and my sister and I had two sinks in our bathroom. I mentally resurfaced the laminate kitchen countertops with granite and lengthened the fireplace so that it didn’t look off-center. As I won more spelling bees, started learning violin, and joined my school’s honor society, I began to Then in 2018, my parents divorced, and I moved again - two months before starting high school. My rooms at both Suntree Lane and Broadway Avenue were filled with cardboard box colonnades for months. In the first year of living at Suntree Lane, the plumbing broke. The apartment above ours on Broadway Avenue was home to a family with two preschoolers, and silence and sleep became rare commodities. Switching addresses each week left me feeling detached from both households; I was just swapping one set of inconveniences for another. In the moment, moving is hard. It’s taxing and messy and mournful, to leave the known and replace it with unfamiliar wallpaper and flooring. But every house that I’ve lived in has proved to me that home isn’t found in a fixed place. Paisley Drive and Colby Drive taught me that change can lead to better things. Suntree Lane and Broadway Avenue taught me that there is no such thing as a ‘perfect’ or ‘normal’ household. After living in four different homes, each one has left me with invaluable experiences. Though all four homes are their own unique jungle of steel and joists, they have accommodated me in my best and worst moments and judiciously served as hosts for my imagination, ever-watchful as their floor plans, exteriors, flooring, and wall colors have shaped my intrigue with the structure of buildings. I believe every person deserves a home that serves their unique needs and creates a safe environment just as mine have. By prioritizing humanitarian architecture in my future college education and career, I can utilize my passions for designing architecture and aiding communities. Whether it’s creating urban fixes for homelessness, designing for disaster relief, or gentrifying neglected areas of cities, humanitarian architecture provides solutions for wealth disparity, public safety and crime rates. By pursuing a career in humanitarian architecture, I will work toward developing structures that provide solutions for homelessness. Architecture can connect and improve our communities in a unique way that no other field can; through the AEC industry, I believe true growth can occur.

Forty-six years ago, a plane filled with Korean babies barrelled over the Pacific Ocean in search of homes. Stopping short four thousand miles from America, my mother was deposited in Hawaii, where a young military family awaited her. Her life growing up wasn’t easy. She used to sneak food into her pockets, afraid it would be taken away. She watched as white children pulled their eyes into slants and people at the grocery store tactlessly stared at her. In comparison, my life felt too easy growing up; I was never subjected to racism like my mother was. I inherited my white father’s freckles, round eyes, and light hair. In elementary school, classmates would blatantly tell me I wasn’t Asian. It felt like a gut punch because I believed they were right; If I didn’t eat the food, speak the language, or look the part, how could I accept my Asian half? Identity crises are never solved in a day; I have struggled with mine for years. But I understand that my mixed race, regardless of how it shows outwardly, is something I’ll always be proud of. In the same way that I embody a collision of cultures, I believe architecture does too. The Gothic and Buddhist, the Brutalist and Romanesque; all visually celebrate different styles and ideas. These structures are living monuments to our multicultural mosaic of a society. My biracial background has given me an appreciation for multiple perspectives. By using that outlook, I hope to study architecture in an undergraduate and graduate capacity at college to utilize architecture as a tool to bridge communities in a way that helps our society better understand and aid our fellow man, regardless of race, sexuality, or age. I seek representation in my college education. In 2020, only 6% of licensed US architects were Asian-American; that’s the same percentage of the US population that is Asian-American. The capacity to create change is something I aspire to use to my advantage in increasing the former statistic, in my own way. In architecture, I will have the ability to uniquely implement change in the way we address urban homelessness, sustainable construction, and gentrification. My biracial background has given me an appreciation for multiple cultures and perspectives, and by using that outlook I hope to present my visions and ideas to the world. In architecture lies the power to create advancements from the ground up.

In the house on Paisley Drive, my imagination wasn’t limited solely to pet reptiles. Though indeed, my bare feet constantly pounded the vinyl flooring as I was chased by imaginary dinosaurs, colorful plastic BB gun pellets lifted from the cracks in neighborhood sidewalks also served as ‘food’ for my stuffed animals. Spare erasers from my mom’s pencil cup were building blocks for makeshift houses, and ties filched from my dad’s closet turned into pet snakes that I played with in my backyard. It was in the cramped Paisley kitchen that I studied for (and won) my first spelling bee, letters floating among my periphery of soapy dishes and stray papers. But after ten years of vivid, exploratory childhood, it was packed away with the rest of my belongings when my family moved across town. I cried as our furniture and clothes were packed and sold away. I hadn’t considered that the home that I had grown up in was never a permanent stay. If I saw Paisley Drive as St. Peter’s Basilica, Colby Drive was a plebeian, Levittown house. But the red-brick, wide-windowed house was five hundred square feet bigger and had an enormous backyard where I learned to play badminton. For the first time, we had a dining room and an office, and my sister and I had two sinks in our bathroom. As I won more spelling bees, started learning violin, and joined my school’s honor society, I began to let go of the breath I’d been holding for three years since the move. Then my parents divorced, and I was hastily uprooted once again - two months before starting high school. My rooms at both Suntree Lane and Broadway Avenue were filled with cardboard box colonnades for months. In the first year of living at Suntree Lane, the plumbing broke. The apartment above ours on Broadway Avenue was home to a family with two preschoolers; silence and sleep became rare commodities. Switching addresses each week left me feeling detached from both households; I was just swapping one set of inconveniences for another. In the moment, moving is hard. It’s taxing and messy and mournful, to leave the known and replace it with unfamiliar wallpaper and flooring. But I’ve learned from four moves in six years that home isn’t found in a fixed place. Each move has left me a little stronger and more willing to face future challenges. All four homes have accommodated me in my best and worst moments and judiciously served as hosts for my imagination. In return, each house’s floor plan, exterior, flooring, and wall colors have shaped my intrigue with the structure of buildings. By majoring in architecture, I can further that intrigue that I’ve held since childhood. An architecture background will allow me to pursue architect licensure and eventually specialize in humanitarian architecture. I can take massive steps not only in bridging the gap between the homed and homeless, but in balancing class divides and societal stereotypes. Whether it’s through creating urban fixes for homelessness, designing for disaster relief, or gentrifying neglected areas of cities, humanitarian architecture provides solutions for wealth disparity, public safety and crime rates. In less than a year, I will once again break out the packing tape and cardboard boxes for college, just as I’ve done twice in the past six years. But this time, I will do so with excitement instead of resignation. I know that my future homes will not only continue to inspire and cultivate my passion for designing architecture but let me learn and grow in ways I could never imagine possible.

I was seven when I designed and constructed my first building by hand. It was an ambitious and overconfident task to take on by myself, but ultimately my hard work paid off. Constructed of pillows, chairs, blankets, and one umbrella, my masterpiece took up one whole corner of my room and was large enough to sit upright in. Although I didn’t know it at the time, that 13-square-foot fort was the first sign that I’d want to become an architect. Eventually, those signs multiplied. As a child who grew up in a house under 1,500 square feet, I envisioned designing mansions with towers and stonework, craftsman houses with dormers and tall chimneys, log cabins with lofts, and massive fireplaces. As a native Texan, my family frequently explored Dallas in my childhood. What stuck with me the most wasn’t the new exhibits at the Crow Museum or the Foucault pendulum in the Hunt Oil Building, but the people holding cardboard signs on the street corners we turned to get there. It was bizarre to me that 4,000 people in Dallas were and are homeless on any given night. Suddenly, I rearranged estates and brownstones to homes 25 x 25, small but concise. I considered how a living room could also be a second bedroom, and how much storage could fit in stairsteps without being too steep. Humanitarian architecture can provide homes for those in need. Studying architecture in college in an undergraduate and graduate capacity and eventually pursuing architect licensure will allow me to take massive steps in bridging the gap between the homed and homeless, which in turn has the power to cultivate positive ripple effects in the spheres of public health and safety.

I built my first fort when I was seven with the same reverence of Michelangelo designing St. Peter’s Basilica. When I was a guest in someone’s house, I observed their ceiling height, hallway width, kitchen space, window types, etc. I built houses out of Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, and Legos. As a child who grew up in a 1,400 square foot home, I imagined designing mansions with towers and stonework, craftsman houses with dormers and tall chimneys, log cabins with lofts and massive fireplaces. And as I grew older, the signs that I wanted to go into architecture only grew. So when I discovered in high school that my school district offered an architecture course at its career center, I jumped at the opportunity. In the architecture course I took junior year, five of the fifteen students were female. The engineering course across the hall had only one girl in the class. Even before graduating college, or entering the workplace, gender inequality was unspoken but present to me. And Texas, unfortunately, has consistently rooted itself in the top ten list of cities with the greatest gender inequality wage gaps, among other worrisome statistics. When I dream of becoming an architect, I no longer imagine designing sprawling estates or towering skyscrapers. Instead, I remember going on various excursions in Dallas as a child. What stuck with me wasn’t the new exhibit at the Perot museum or the elephants at the Dallas Zoo; it was the men and women holding cups on street corners, and the many tent cities we drove past to get there. It was a strange realization to me that some people considered a tent or sidewalk or beneath a bridge to be their home rather than a suburban, four-walled brick house. Among the streets of Dallas I remember the women’s shelters, and asking my parents what women needed shelter from. The foremost reason for female homelessness is escape from domestic abuse. Following that is the too-large gap between a woman’s income and her rent rate, as well as unplanned pregnancies and lack of access to proper healthcare. I want to design compact temporary homes for the homeless that serve as a stepping off point to better living conditions. I believe that bridging the gaps between both the gender inequality between women and men and the homed versus homeless in Texas are deeply connected social issues, and while they are certainly daunting challenges, they are not irreparable. And as any Texan knows, we go forth daring the world to tread on us.

I was seven when I designed and constructed my first building by hand. It was an ambitious (and more than a little overconfident) task to take on by myself, but ultimately my work paid off. Constructed of no less than one umbrella, four blankets, one desk, two chairs, and four pillows, my masterpiece took up one whole corner of my room and was big enough to sit upright and stretch out in. In the mornings, I read books and watched the morning light streaming in through the umbrella roof. In the afternoons, I took naps with my feet just barely peeking out the blanket door, and in between all this time I made various structural integrity checks and repairs. Although I didn’t know it at the time, that 13-square-foot makeshift structure was the first sign that I’d want to become an architect. As I grew older, those signs multiplied. If I was a guest in someone’s house, I observed their ceiling height, hallway width, kitchen space, window types, etc. I played with Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, and Legos. As a child who had always lived in a one-story house just under 2,000 square feet, I imagined designing mansions with towers and stonework, craftsman houses with dormers and tall chimneys, log cabins with lofts and massive fireplaces. It was about this same time that my parents began taking my sister and I to museums and various excursions in Dallas. It was there I was first exposed to homelessness. It was a strange realization to me, that not everyone lived in a house but in tents and on sidewalks and under bridges; they didn't get to come home and sleep in a bed or eat three meals a day like me. Suddenly, my imagination changed from mansions and brownstones to tiny homes, small but concise. I rearranged things in my head, how a living room could also be a second bedroom, how much storage could fit in stairsteps without being too steep. My parents, though certainly not rich, have been fortunate enough to have always provided a stable home for my sister and I. While they certainly weren’t homeless growing up, they had to be okay with one or two pairs of shoes per year and shopping at second-hand stores. Since then, they have always provided a stable home for my sister and I and given us more than they had at their age. Knowing that my parents sacrificed and gave so much for our family has made me realize that I owe it to them and myself to constantly work toward my goals and never limit myself from accessing my full potential. I still have that hope that I can combine the two things I care about. I want to major in Architecture and minor in Environmental Sustainability, because I do believe we need to heal the earth. But first and foremost, I aim to become an architect and design small, temporary homes for the homeless that serve as a stepping off point to better living conditions. Every person is entitled to “life, liberty, and property” according to John Locke, and I want to take steps - starting with an undergrad education - to make that a reality by bridging the gap between the homed and homeless.

I was seven when I designed and constructed my first building by hand. It was an ambitious (and more than a little overconfident) task to take on by myself, but ultimately my work paid off. Constructed of no less than one umbrella, four blankets, one desk, two chairs, and four pillows, my masterpiece took up one whole corner of my room and was big enough to sit upright and stretch out in. In the mornings, I read books and watched the morning light streaming in through the umbrella roof. In the afternoons, I took naps with my feet just barely peeking out the blanket door, and in between all this time I made various structural integrity checks and repairs. Although I didn’t know it at the time, that 13-square-foot makeshift structure was the first sign that I’d want to become an architect. As I grew older, those signs multiplied. If I was a guest in someone’s house, I observed their ceiling height, hallway width, kitchen space, window types, etc. I played with Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, and Legos. As a child who had only lived in a one-story house just under 2,000 square feet, I imagined designing mansions with towers and stonework, craftsman houses with dormers and tall chimneys, log cabins with lofts and massive fireplaces. It was about this same time that my parents began taking my sister and I to museums and various excursions in Dallas. It was there I was first exposed to homelessness. It was a strange realization to me, that not everyone lived in a house but in tents and on sidewalks and under bridges; they didn't get to come home and sleep in a bed or eat three meals a day like me. Suddenly, my imagination changed from mansions and brownstones to tiny homes, small but concise. I rearranged things in my head, how a living room could also be a second bedroom, how much storage could fit in stairsteps without being too steep. My parents, though certainly not rich, have been fortunate enough to have always provided a stable home for my sister and I. While they certainly weren’t homeless growing up, they had to be okay with one or two pairs of shoes per year and shopping at second-hand stores. Since then, they have always provided a stable home for my sister and I and given us more than they had at their age. Knowing that my parents sacrificed and gave so much for our family has made me realize that I owe it to them and myself to constantly work toward my goals and never limit myself from accessing my full potential. I still have that hope that I can combine the two things I care about. I want to major in Architecture and minor in Environmental Sustainability, because I do believe we need to heal the earth. But first and foremost, I aim to become an architect and design small, temporary homes for the homeless that serve as a stepping off point to better living conditions. Every person is entitled to “life, liberty, and property” according to John Locke, and I want to take steps to make that a reality by bridging the gap between the homed and homeless.

I was seven when I designed and constructed my first building by hand. It was an ambitious (and more than a little overconfident) task to take on by myself, but ultimately my work paid off. Constructed of no less than one umbrella, four blankets, one desk, two chairs, and four pillows, my masterpiece took up one whole corner of my room and was big enough to sit upright and stretch out in. In the mornings, I read books and watched the morning light streaming in through the umbrella roof. In the afternoons, I took naps with my feet just barely peeking out the blanket door, and in between all this time I made various structural integrity checks and repairs. Although I didn’t know it at the time, that 13-square-foot makeshift structure was the first sign that I’d want to become an architect. As I grew older, those signs multiplied. If I was a guest in someone’s house, I observed their ceiling height, hallway width, kitchen space, window types, etc. I played with Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, and Legos. As a child who had always lived in a one-story house just under 2,000 square feet, I imagined designing mansions with towers and stonework, craftsman houses with dormers and tall chimneys, log cabins with lofts and massive fireplaces. It was about this same time that my parents began taking my sister and I to museums and various excursions in Dallas. It was there I was first exposed to homelessness. It was a strange realization to me, that not everyone lived in a house but in tents and on sidewalks and under bridges; they didn't get to come home and sleep in a bed or eat three meals a day like me. Suddenly, my imagination changed from mansions and brownstones to tiny homes, small but concise. I rearranged things in my head, how a living room could also be a second bedroom, how much storage could fit in stairsteps without being too steep. My parents, though certainly not rich, have been fortunate enough to have always provided a stable home for my sister and I. While they certainly weren’t homeless growing up, they had to be okay with one or two pairs of shoes per year and shopping at second-hand stores. Since then, they have always provided a stable home for my sister and I and given us more than they had at their age. Knowing that my parents sacrificed and gave so much for our family has made me realize that I owe it to them and myself to constantly work toward my goals and never limit myself from accessing my full potential. I still have that hope that I can combine the two things I care about. I want to major in Architecture and minor in Environmental Sustainability, because I do believe we need to heal the earth. But first and foremost, I aim to become an architect and design small, temporary homes for the homeless that serve as a stepping off point to better living conditions. Every person is entitled to “life, liberty, and property” according to John Locke, and I want to take steps to make that a reality by bridging the gap between the homed and homeless. I know the transition to college will be hard. I’ll miss the things that are familiar to me: my family, my home, my friends. But knowing that what I’ll study and work toward in college will one day reduce the homeless percentage, and possibly even that of the unemployed and poor? That will always, always be worth it.

I want many things for my future: to be an architect, to advocate for Asian-Americans and mental health, to give back to God, to accept and understand my mixed-race identity. But today, I want to watch ‘Lost’ with my dad and sister and practice driving with my mom, I want to spend all the time in the world with them before I leave for college and tell them that I will be okay; that they are the ones who have built me up and enabled me to dream of one day achieving all these things and more.

‘Full Fathom Five’. Currently housed in the Museum of Modern Art in New York City and one of Jackson Pollock’s first drip paintings, the piece looks chaotic, and is one of my favorite pieces for its definite lack of order. The painting’s title comes from ‘The Tempest’, a Shakespearean play: “Full fathom five my father lies”. The word “fathom” is used as a term of measurement - the body lies five fathoms, or thirty feet, below water, similar to how Pollock’s piece resembles the murky undertow of the ocean visually and tangibly. Pollock pioneered the ‘drip’ technique by pouring paint directly from the can onto the canvas with the aid of a stick. He coated so many layers of paint onto his pieces that they gained texture; they have bumps and valleys, hard and smooth edges. In this piece alone, Pollock embedded cigarette butts, nails, buttons, coins, and a key among the layers, similar to detritus found on the ocean floor. A quote that has long stuck with me about Van Gogh’s art (from Doctor Who, season 5) is “he transformed the pain of his tormented life into ecstatic beauty”. Pollock too embodied the starving artist, struggling from alcoholism and receiving criticism for his art. But in my opinion, Pollock chose not to turn his life’s pain into something beautiful but to portray it for what it was: chaotic and unstructured. What better way to express such turmoil than through the ocean? Although Pollock’s art is still criticized today, he was the first to develop such a wild and structured technique. His art is not decorative, it is not akin to what a toddler could do; it has purpose. To me, ‘Full Fathom Five’ visually portrays abstract notions; pain, grief, confusion, and yet also does so beautifully.

I had been listening to Owl City since elementary school and even heard ‘This Isn’t the End’ dozens of times before, but it was in eighth grade that I really identified with the song’s theme. It was then that my parents separated and filed divorce papers, and I began to suffer from anxiety. I began to constantly feel fearful and helpless. ‘This Isn’t the End’ by Owl City (aka Adam Young) dictates a young girl’s struggle to cope with the loss of her father committing suicide, and she feels like her entire world has been inverted. I related so much to the narrative; my world was breaking apart and I thought there was nothing I could do to fix it. I, too, felt as though I had lost both my parents. In the final verse, Adam sings about how “Love is confusing and life is hard”, but “You fight to survive ‘cause you made it this far”. These lines made me realize that even at my lowest point, I owed it to myself to keep going simply because I had already survived so much. It told me that it was okay to not understand, to grieve for what I couldn’t get back, but also that I was strong enough to withstand anything else. To say nothing of Adam Young’s incredible usage of symbolism and poetic lyrics in this piece or the amazing combination of electric synth and strings, the words and message alone continually inspire me. When I begin to feel overwhelmed and anxious, the song moves me to keep walking when I’d rather stay frozen, and continually reminds me that although what comes next may be hard, I am capable enough to face it.

“Death is what gives life meaning. To know your days are numbered, your time is short.” - The Ancient One, Doctor Strange (2016) The meaning of life has an infinite amount of varied definitions. Google will tell you it is ‘42’, Nietzsche would argue it is the emergence of the Übermensch, and nihilists would tell you there is none. Of the billions of opinions out there, I prefer Madeleine L’Engle’s, which is less of a definite answer and more of a happy medium: “just because we don't understand doesn't mean that the explanation doesn't exist.” I was eight the first time I saw a man standing on a street corner, cup outstretched, on my family’s drive home from Dallas. It took a bit of head-scratching for me to connect the dots that he was homeless, or in the best case, living in serious poverty. I cried the entire drive home, and my younger sister didn’t understand why. I remember my mom telling her, “Sometimes it’s okay to cry without a reason”. I believe my purpose in life is to reflect God through humanitarian work in an architecture career. I am equally motivated to express my love for designing buildings that efficiently better their surrounding community and contribute to the uphill climb for social equality, be it poverty or discrimination based on race, gender, sexual orientation, etc. I hope that I can use such a career to leave a legacy that both uplifts God and improves our world. I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand God in His full breadth. Maybe every version of the meaning of life is true; maybe none of them are. And I’m okay with that. I’m okay with not knowing the answer because He does. Just because I don’t understand doesn’t mean the explanation doesn’t exist.

I am a 16-year-old junior in high school. To most, such a statement would prompt thoughts like ‘They’re just a teenager’, or ‘How much do they really know about real life?’ That’s a valid point. I’m only a quarter through my life. I haven’t gotten a corporate 9 to 5 job, graduated from college, or figured out how to pay taxes. So in some aspects, I haven’t gained a ton of real-world knowledge. However, I’d like to think that my age and novice perspective is more of an advantage than a hindrance, and further proves how invested I am in my goals. This scholarship will be the 140th I have applied to. I intend to graduate from college debt-free. I fully understand the gravity of student loans - they inevitably loom over every student’s head. But if I break the cycle of college debt, I know I will be much better off for it and miles more prepared for post-college life. Career-wise, I hope to become an architect. If given the chance, I would like to combine my love for designing buildings with aiding in humanitarian and societal crises (such as global warming, homelessness, and immorality in the prison system) by designing homes running on clean energy, free housing for the homeless or drug-addicted, or prisons that can more ethically accommodate their residents. I am grateful for the chance to even apply for this scholarship. Winning it would not only push me toward a debt-free future but also prove that I am committed to using every opportunity I get to advance my education and career goals.

“Don’t tread on me”. A famous Texan motto, right? Us Lone Star State citizens are stubbornly proud of our grocery store-sized convenience stores (Buc-ee’s, anyone?), our unique cuisine, and our state fair (all hail Big Tex). I’ve spent my childhood celebrating Christmas in 70-degree weather, eating Texas-shaped waffles at hotels, and trying to decipher my great-grandparents’ twangy accents. Being a Texan means celebrating these unique aspects of our state and taking pride in our culture. But more importantly, being Texan means implementing change. The recent world events have highlighted just how claustrophobic Texan politics can be. Take the 2020 election - for the past decade, Texas has remained overwhelmingly red. Or the recent rise in LGTBQ+ advocacy, which Texan society obstinately opposes. It’s not that I agree or disagree with these opinions, but more so that they penetrate the very heart of Texan culture. The expectancy that my generation has to carry on this stifling worldview is the exact reason why being a Texan means evolving beyond our prejudices. Being Texan means being proud of who we are. But it also means emphasizing growth. Our society is entering a new age of politics and ideas, and it is up to my generation to start changing the way we think. If we want to be truly proud of Texas, it means creating parity. If we want to compose a society of equality and opportunity, it starts with our state. Being a Texan means being the change.

“Okay guys, we will now be announcing the finalists and winners for Best Artist,” the teacher declared. It was the day of the eighth-grade dance, and our school had set up a poll for eighth-graders to nominate their peers. Best Dressed, Best Artist, Best Actor. If it was an adjective, ‘Best’ was slapped in front of it and marketed as an award. I was giddy. Yes, the dress I ordered for the dance was disappointingly inaccurate from the advertised picture. Yes, my parents had taken me on errands earlier in the day, leaving no time for me to get ready (not that I was allowed to use makeup anyway, and the hair curler always mutinied against me). Yes, all of my friends looked gorgeous and spent the night in a haze being chased around by boys. But I knew - I knew - that I at least had a chance of getting Best Artist. The teacher announced the finalists. She rattled off a few people I didn’t recognize, then called my best friend’s name. My friend group started squealing so loudly that my name, which was called right after, went unheard. It’s fitting, I thought. That the one thing I had a chance at was overshadowed. In the end, a popular girl got the award, no doubt acquired by her shiny-smiled influence and coven of friends. And unsurprisingly, the rest of the night passed miserably for me. I was used to it. Being the quiet girl, the side character who is only written in for filler text. The kind of person you are friendly to but don’t invite to birthday parties. That girl who is nice, but isn’t picked for group projects. The one who is sweet but is a little behind in fashion sense and pop culture. In a place where the more mature you were made you more likable, I got the short end of the stick. The cold realization of this hit me in eighth grade. It was maybe halfway through the school year when I noticed that the orchestra kids didn’t include me in their conversations, that they looked at me a little strangely when I told a joke. Like I was just there to humor them, like they were above me. And so I spiraled. Because I internalized all of my insecurity, anxiety, and loneliness, each of these emotions increased tenfold and fed my cycle of self-sabotage. I suffered from depression, but anxiety more so. In my head, I believed everyone was staring at me, silently judging. My ability to go an hour without criticizing something I said or did was impossible. I isolated myself, told myself terrible things. My poor mental health limited me from seeing a future past my current suffering. I don’t completely know how I pulled myself out of that clouded fugue state. To me, I equate that with a miracle. It wasn’t easy, and it certainly was not a one-day transition. I started seeing a counselor and realized how badly I was treating myself. I have made leaps and bounds in terms of my mental health. But even now, as a rising junior, I still struggle with social anxiety. Knowing what to say to people, or how to act in public does not come firsthand to me, and I cannot do well in large crowds. But I don’t see these as hindrances anymore. At least, not undefeatable ones. I know in time that it will get easier and easier. And until then, I will continue to improve myself and take care of myself. My aspiration to become an architect is one of my biggest dreams. I want to create something lasting, a testament to the here and now but also something that will be talked about for years to come. In my journey of unstable mental health, I want to design something that will stand firmly. It is a goal of mine to design free housing for homeless people and those suffering from drug addiction and/or various mental health conditions. Because I did not at first get the chance to find a safe place, I want to create that for people who need it. I hope to create places for children and adults alike where they will not be judged or ignored for who they are, where they will be able to seek out resources and professional help to aid in their recovery. I especially want to embed safe places in the education system. At such a pivotal point in a child’s life, when they are just starting to make and lose friends and deal with heavy workloads, I hope to provide children with a sense of security and stability. In a world where so much is already broken, I want to ensure that people will not be in the same way I was.

“What is my life’s purpose?” “Why do humans exist?” “Is there a God out there?” These questions used to plague me every summer since I was eleven. And every summer, I just lived in a daze, watching the days go by but not understanding their value. I never really found the answer to those questions, but the closer that school loomed, the more I pushed them out of my mind. There they sat, waiting for another 10 months until I’d dust off their tops and stare at them all summer, in an endless loop. All of that came to a screeching halt last year, because I was truly saved by God. I was born to Christian parents who were also born and raised by Christian parents. I attended a Christian academy for some time, went to church each Sunday, was read Christian parables, watched Christian movies. For some reason, I think the whole idea of Christianity was worn thin for me. I sat in church, there but not really. I prayed my prayers, but to a deity I pictured more as a caricature than a being. Quite simply, Christianity felt more like a burden than a blessing to me. I never felt any connection to this ‘God’ everyone else seemed so close to. And that made me feel more lonely. I wanted so badly to have a connection with God but didn’t know how, like a child who wants to solve a puzzle but can’t put all the pieces together. My middle school years were a struggle for me. Insecurity, trying to achieve good grades, frustration with my friends. My parents were on the verge of divorce, and my mom was going through some health struggles. I managed to pull myself out of the negativity by the time ninth grade began, but it simply left me wondering even more; if there really was a god, why would they let me go through all those struggles? Were they - whoever it was - laughing pompously down at me while perched on their celestial throne? I don’t know what it was exactly that saved me, but one day in January of 2020, I left school feeling lighter, like an otherworldly aura was surrounding me. For some reason, I knew that I had been saved - really, truly saved - and that thought amazed me. I got home and prayed and prayed, and I could feel a difference. This wasn’t just me flinging my aspirations to whoever might be listening. I pictured a small ghostly image of myself lifting my hands to God. I felt reassured knowing that I truly put my faith in God, not having to create a mirage of me bowing my head and closing my eyes. And that, I think, made all the difference in my life. The worldly things I clung to just didn’t matter anymore. I understood that God didn’t just “let me” go through my struggles, but was the one who pulled me through them. He wasn’t mocking my human struggles but holding my hand all the while. I realized that the closeness I wanted with God was staring me in the face the whole time, and I had finally achieved it. I realized that my purpose is to serve God by serving others. I used to believe that all people are just floating on the earth, with no real ambition. But God is the Healer, Father, Teacher and Creator, and He didn’t make humans to simply laze around on Earth. He made us in His image, to serve those who cannot serve themselves and to aid the forgotten or left behind. And now, every summer, questions that used to plague me each summer still appear. I still don’t know the answers to all of them. But He does.

“What is my life’s purpose?” “Why do humans exist?” “Is there a God out there?” These questions used to plague me each summer since I was eleven. And each summer, I would just live in a daze, watching the days go by but not understanding their value. I never really found the answer to those questions, but the closer that school loomed, the more I pushed them out of my mind. There they sat, waiting for another 10 months until I’d dust off their tops and stare at them all summer, in an endless loop. But last year, my perspective swiveled 180 degrees because I was truly saved by God. I was born to Christian parents who were also born and raised by Christian parents. I attended a Christian academy for some time, went to church each Sunday, was read Christian parables, watched Christian movies. For some reason, I think the whole idea of Christianity was worn thin for me. I sat in church, there but not really. I prayed my prayers, but to a deity I pictured more as a caricature than a being. Quite simply, Christianity felt more like a burden than a blessing to me. I never felt any connection to this ‘God’ everyone else seemed so close to. And that made me feel more lonely. I wanted so badly to have a connection with God but didn’t know how, like a child who wants to solve a puzzle but can’t put all the pieces together. My middle school years were a struggle for me. Insecurity, trying to achieve good grades, frustration with my friends. My parents were on the verge of divorce, and my mom was going through some health struggles. I managed to pull myself out of the negativity by the time ninth grade began, but it simply left me wondering even more; if there really was a god, why would they let me go through all those struggles? Were they - whoever it was - laughing pompously down at me while perched on their celestial throne? I don’t know what it was exactly that saved me, but one day in January of 2020, I left school feeling lighter, like an otherworldly aura was surrounding me. For some reason, I knew that I had been saved - really, truly saved - and that thought amazed me. I got home and prayed and prayed, and I could feel a difference. This wasn’t just me flinging my aspirations to whoever might be listening. I pictured a small ghostly image of myself lifting my hands to God. I felt reassured knowing that I truly put my faith in God, not having to create a mirage of me bowing my head and closing my eyes. And that, I think, made all the difference in my life. The worldly things I clung to just didn’t matter anymore. I understood that God didn’t just “let me” go through my struggles, but was the one who pulled me through them. He wasn’t mocking my human struggles but holding my hand all the while. I realized that the closeness I wanted with God was staring me in the face the whole time, and I had finally achieved it. I learned that my purpose is to serve God by serving others. My previous perspective was that all people are just floating on the earth, with no real ambition. I realize that my purpose was quite the opposite of reality. Instead, I see that my purpose lies with God, and to include Him in all the work I do. Those questions that used to plague me each summer still appear, but I know the answers to them. In the future, this perception will aid me in assisting others, whatever form that might take.