One lighting board, sixty minutes, a room full of guests, and me, a sixteen-year-old pretending I knew exactly what I was doing. The night before, I had said yes to a job I technically was not qualified for. A technical director called and asked if I could run a Hog lighting board for a paid event. Six hundred dollars for one day felt unreal. I had never used a Hog board before, but I said yes anyway. I spent the night watching tutorials, trying to learn everything I could. By four in the morning, I felt almost confident. When I arrived at the venue, that confidence disappeared. The board was not a Hog. It was a RoadHog4, an entirely different system. There were no tutorials, no manual, and no one to ask. I had one hour before doors opened, and someone asked, “You know how to use this, right?” I said yes, even though I had no idea what I was doing. That feeling was not new. When I first started in technical theater, no one taught me lighting design. My teacher did not have a background in it, so I learned by staying after school, pressing buttons, making mistakes, and figuring out how everything worked. Standing in front of that board, I realized I had done this before. I worked through it step by step, testing cues, watching how the system responded, and adjusting as I went. At first it felt like guessing, but patterns began to emerge. The board started to make sense. By the time the doors opened, I was running the show with intention. The lighting was balanced, the tones were warm, and the room felt cohesive. The event coordinator looked at me and said, “Looks perfect.” That moment stayed with me, not because everything went right, but because I had figured it out without anyone showing me how. It changed how I think about problem-solving. When I returned to my school’s program, I recognized the same problem. Students were entering technical theater with no clear way to learn lighting design. I had experienced that myself, but now I understood the issue differently. It was not just a lack of knowledge. It was a lack of structure. I decided to build one. I documented how to use the boards, created simple systems for programming, and trained other students so they would not have to start from zero. Instead of only teaching what to do, I focused on how to think through problems when something did not work. Over time, the program became organized, and new students walked in with a foundation rather than confusion. The most important lesson I learned is that problem-solving is not just about reacting in the moment. It is about recognizing what is missing and building something that improves the experience for others. It also taught me that confidence comes from trusting yourself to figure things out. If I had the resources to expand this idea, I would focus on increasing access to hands-on training in technical and creative fields. Many students are interested in lighting design, set construction, or film production, but lack access to equipment or mentorship. I would create a program that connects schools and communities with production training, where students can learn foundational skills and apply them in projects alongside mentors. The goal would be to build both technical ability and confidence. Standing in front of that lighting board, I did not suddenly become an expert. I became someone who knew how to figure things out, and that is the skill I hope to pass on.

The first time someone told me, “I thought I was the only one,” I realized what impact actually looks like. It was after I had spoken to a group of students about endometriosis. I shared my experience, what it felt like to not be believed, and how long it took to get answers. Afterward, a student came up to me and quietly told me she had been feeling the same way but had never said it out loud. That moment stayed with me, because it showed me that impact is not always something big or visible. Sometimes it is simply making someone feel seen. That is the kind of impact I want to continue creating. My work is rooted in both advocacy and storytelling. As a Youth Ambassador for endometriosis awareness, I have spoken in schools, worked with city leadership, and helped bring recognition to an issue that is often overlooked. I had the opportunity to accept a proclamation recognizing March as Endometriosis Awareness Month in Burbank, but what matters most to me are the conversations that happen afterward. Those are the moments where connection happens and where change begins. My commitment to giving back also comes from my own experiences growing up. Living in a single-parent household shaped by domestic violence and addiction taught me how much people can carry without showing it. It made me more aware of what others might be going through, even when it is not obvious. Because of that, I approach both my leadership and my relationships with intention. I focus on creating environments where people feel supported, heard, and capable. Through over 400 hours of community service with Girl Scouts and my work on the Burbank Youth Council, I have learned that impact is built through consistency. It is not one moment. It is showing up again and again, even when no one is asking you to. Looking forward, I plan to expand that impact through my career in film and television. As a future director and production company owner, I want to create stories that reflect real experiences, especially those that are often overlooked or misunderstood. I believe storytelling has the power to shift how people see themselves and others. When someone feels understood through a story, it can change how they see their own life. I also want to create opportunities behind the scenes. In technical production, especially in areas like lighting design, there are still barriers for young women entering those spaces. I know what it feels like to start without guidance, so I want to build a company that provides mentorship and real opportunities for others to learn and grow. To me, making a positive impact is not about recognition. It is about creating something that lasts beyond you, whether that is a story, an opportunity, or a moment where someone feels less alone. That is the kind of impact I plan to continue building.

The first time I realized how much fitness mattered to me was not during a race or a workout. It was during a day when I almost didn’t move at all. Living with endometriosis meant there were periods of time where even getting out of bed felt like a challenge. The pain was unpredictable and constant, and for a while, it made me feel disconnected from my own body. I went from being active and driven to feeling like I was constantly trying to catch up with myself. That shift was frustrating, especially because I was used to pushing forward no matter what. When I started focusing on running and strength training more intentionally, it wasn’t about performance at first. It was about regaining control. Fitness gave me a way to rebuild trust with my body, slowly and consistently. Some days that meant running shorter distances than I wanted. Other days it meant adjusting workouts or focusing on strength instead of endurance. But every time I showed up, I was proving to myself that I could keep going, even if it looked different than before. Over time, fitness became more than just physical. It became mental. Running, especially, taught me how to sit with discomfort without immediately trying to escape it. There is a point in every run where it gets hard, where it would be easier to stop. Learning how to push through that moment, not by ignoring it but by working through it, changed how I approach challenges in other areas of my life. Strength training had a similar impact. It is structured, disciplined, and requires consistency. You do not see results overnight. You build them over time, through repetition and effort. That process reinforced something I had already started to learn through other parts of my life: progress is not always immediate, but it is always possible if you stay committed. Fitness also gave me a sense of stability during a time when other parts of my life felt uncertain. It became something I could rely on, something that was entirely mine. Whether I was running or training, it created space for me to reset, think clearly, and focus on what I could control. After my surgery, being able to return to movement without the same level of pain was something I did not take for granted. Fitness became a reminder of how far I had come, not just physically, but mentally. It showed me that even when progress feels slow, it is still happening. Fitness is a consistent part of my life, not because I have to do it, but because I want to. It represents discipline, resilience, and the ability to keep showing up for yourself, even when it is difficult. For me, fitness is not just about strength or endurance. It is about learning how to move forward, one step at a time.

Selected Passage (Plato, Republic, Book VII – The Allegory of the Cave) “Then suppose that the prisoner's release and cure from these bonds and their folly is effected in this way: whenever one is freed and suddenly compelled to stand up and turn his neck around and walk and look up toward the light, all these actions would be painful and he would be unable to see the things whose shadows he had seen before. What do you suppose he would say if someone told him that what he had seen before was nonsense, but that now, being a little nearer to reality and turned toward things that are more real, he sees more correctly?” Essay Plato’s passage from the Allegory of the Cave is not simply about ignorance and knowledge. Its deeper meaning is that the process of understanding reality is inherently uncomfortable, and that people often resist truth not because they lack intelligence, but because truth requires them to let go of what once felt certain. The “pain” described in the passage is central to its meaning. Plato is not presenting enlightenment as a moment of clarity or relief, but as a difficult and disorienting transition. The underlying argument is that growth does not begin with confidence. It begins with discomfort. At the center of this passage is the idea of forced movement. The prisoner is not gradually introduced to the light. He is “suddenly compelled” to turn, stand, and look. Each of these verbs suggests resistance. He is not choosing to leave the cave. He is being pushed into a new way of seeing. This detail matters because it reframes how we think about change. Plato suggests that people rarely seek out the kind of truth that disrupts their worldview. Instead, they encounter it when circumstances force them to question what they once accepted. The physical pain the prisoner experiences is not incidental. It represents the emotional and psychological strain of confronting something unfamiliar. The light is not immediately illuminating. It is overwhelming. This challenges the assumption that truth is always immediately recognizable or desirable. Instead, Plato presents it as something that must be adjusted to over time. The prisoner cannot see clearly at first, not because the truth is unclear, but because he is not yet capable of processing it. This distinction is important. Plato is not suggesting that reality is hidden or inaccessible. He is suggesting that perception itself must change in order to recognize it. The prisoner’s difficulty is not with the light, but with his own ability to see it. This implies that understanding is not simply about being presented with new information. It is about developing the capacity to interpret it. The passage also raises a question about belief and trust. When the prisoner is told that what he once saw was “nonsense,” his initial reaction is likely disbelief. From his perspective, the shadows were consistent, familiar, and understandable. They formed the basis of his reality. Being told that they are not real is not just confusing. It is destabilizing. Plato is pointing to a fundamental aspect of human nature: people trust what they have experienced, even if that experience is incomplete. This idea extends beyond the allegory into how people interpret their own lives. There are moments when something challenges a long-held belief, and the initial response is often resistance. It is easier to return to what feels familiar than to accept a new understanding that requires adjustment. Plato is not criticizing this reaction. He is explaining it. The prisoner’s reluctance is not a failure. It is a natural response to change. The phrase “a little nearer to reality” is also significant. Plato does not suggest that the prisoner immediately understands everything once he leaves the cave. Instead, he emphasizes gradual progress. The prisoner is closer to truth, but not fully there. This reinforces the idea that understanding is not a single moment, but a process. It unfolds over time, through repeated exposure and adjustment. This process closely mirrors how storytelling functions, particularly in film and television. Stories often follow a similar structure to the allegory. Characters begin in a limited understanding of their world. They believe something that feels true based on their experience. As the story progresses, they are forced to confront information that challenges that belief. This moment is rarely comfortable. It creates conflict, both internally and externally. What makes this structure compelling is not the resolution, but the transformation. The audience watches as the character moves from one understanding to another, often resisting along the way. The most meaningful stories do not present truth as obvious or easy. They present it as something that must be discovered, often through difficulty. As someone who works in storytelling, I see this process not just in narratives, but in real life. There are moments when understanding something more clearly requires confronting what was previously accepted. In my own experience, this became very real through my diagnosis with endometriosis. For years, I was told that my symptoms were normal. That explanation became my version of the shadows on the wall. It was what I was given, and over time, it shaped how I understood my own experience. Even when things did not fully make sense, it was easier to accept that explanation than to question it. When I was finally diagnosed, it felt like being pulled out of the cave. I had clarity, but that clarity came with discomfort. It meant acknowledging that what I had been told was incomplete. It meant reinterpreting my past experiences in a new way. Like the prisoner in Plato’s passage, I was “nearer to reality,” but that did not immediately make things easier. It required adjustment. That experience changed how I think about both knowledge and storytelling. It showed me that understanding is not just about having answers. It is about being willing to confront what those answers mean. It also reinforced the idea that clarity can be difficult, especially when it challenges what you have been told to believe. This is part of why storytelling matters to me. Stories have the ability to guide people through that process in a way that feels accessible. They can present complex or uncomfortable truths in a form that allows people to engage with them gradually. Like the allegory, a story can take someone from a familiar perspective into something deeper, without forcing immediate acceptance. In film, this is often achieved through visual and emotional progression. Lighting, for example, plays a role similar to the light in Plato’s cave. It reveals, obscures, and directs attention. As a lighting designer, I have seen how shifts in light can change how a scene is perceived. A character can move from shadow into light, not just physically, but symbolically. That movement mirrors the transition from limited understanding to greater clarity. The technical aspects of storytelling are not separate from its meaning. They reinforce it. Every choice, from composition to sound, contributes to how a story is interpreted. This aligns with Plato’s idea that perception must change in order for truth to be recognized. A story does not simply present information. It shapes how that information is experienced. Plato’s passage ultimately suggests that truth is not something people passively receive. It is something they must actively engage with, even when it is uncomfortable. The prisoner’s journey is not just about leaving the cave. It is about learning how to see differently. This idea extends beyond philosophy and storytelling into how people grow. Change often requires letting go of something that once felt certain. It requires moving through discomfort rather than avoiding it. That process is not immediate, and it is not easy, but it is necessary for deeper understanding. For me, this is what makes the passage meaningful. It does not present growth as something abstract or idealized. It presents it as something real, something that involves confusion, resistance, and gradual progress. It reflects a process that people experience in different ways, whether through education, personal challenges, or creative work. Plato’s Allegory of the Cave remains relevant because it captures something fundamental about human experience. People do not simply move from ignorance to knowledge. They move through uncertainty, discomfort, and adjustment. The journey toward understanding is not defined by a single moment of clarity, but by the willingness to continue moving forward, even when the path is difficult. In that sense, the passage is not just about seeing the light. It is about learning how to stay in it.

The first time I realized that my work could mean something beyond just the final product was during a quiet moment on stage. I had just finished programming lighting for a scene, and as the actors stepped into it, the entire feeling of the space changed. The light shifted the mood, softened the edges, and created a sense of stillness that had not been there before. It was subtle, but it mattered. In that moment, I understood that what I was creating was not just visual. It was emotional. That is the foundation of my work. As a lighting designer and filmmaker, my art is rooted in shaping how people feel and what they experience. The pieces I have included reflect that intention. Whether I am designing lighting for a production or directing a film, I focus on using light, shadow, and framing to communicate something deeper than what is said out loud. My inspiration comes from both my personal experiences and my faith. Growing up in an environment that was not always stable, I often found myself searching for something steady, something that made sense when everything else felt uncertain. My faith became that foundation. It gave me a sense of peace and direction, even when I did not fully understand what was happening around me. That sense of quiet strength is something I try to reflect in my work. I am drawn to moments that are not loud or obvious, moments where someone feels seen, even if nothing is explicitly said. I believe that God’s presence is often felt in those same ways, not always in something dramatic, but in stillness, in light, and in the feeling of being understood. Through my art, I want to create that kind of space for others. I want people to watch something I create and feel a sense of connection, whether that is to themselves, to others, or to something greater than them. I want my work to reflect honesty, because I believe that truth is one of the strongest ways we connect with both people and faith. I am also intentional about the way I approach storytelling. As someone who plans to become a director and build a production company, I want to create work that is thoughtful and purposeful. I do not want to create content just for the sake of it. I want every element, especially lighting, to serve a deeper meaning. Light, to me, is symbolic. It represents clarity, presence, and hope. That is what I am trying to achieve with my work. I want to create art that reflects both the complexity of real life and the steadiness of faith. I want to create moments where people feel grounded, where they feel seen, and where they can experience something beyond themselves. For me, art is not just about expression. It is about connection.

The first time I stayed alone in the theater after everyone left, I was sitting in front of a lighting board I did not fully understand, trying to teach myself how to make it work. There was no clear instruction. My teacher did not have a background in lighting design, so I had to figure it out on my own. I made mistakes, reset everything, and tried again. Night after night, I stayed until I got a little closer. At the time, I thought I was just learning a technical skill. Looking back, I realize I was learning how to build something from nothing. That experience shaped how I think about my future and the legacy I want to create. I want to become a director and own a production company, but I also want to continue working in lighting design. For me, those things are connected. Lighting is not just technical. It is storytelling. It shapes emotion, tone, and how an audience experiences a scene. Understanding that from the ground up has changed how I see directing. I do not just want to lead a project. I want to understand every part of it. My goal is to build a production company that creates intentional, high-quality work while also developing people behind the scenes. When I first started, there was no clear path for me. I had to figure things out through trial and error, without mentorship or structure. Because of that, I know how important it is to have someone take the time to teach and guide you. Through my company, I want to create opportunities for young creatives, especially young women, to step into technical and leadership roles. I want to build an environment where mentorship is part of the process, where people are taught not just what to do, but how to think and problem-solve. I want the next group of students to walk into a space that already has a foundation. That is what legacy means to me. It is not just about what you build for yourself. It is about what continues after you are gone. It is about creating systems that give other people a starting point you did not have. I also want my work to have impact through storytelling. Growing up in an environment shaped by instability and navigating my own health challenges taught me how complex people and experiences can be. I want to direct projects that reflect that complexity honestly, without simplifying it. I want people watching my work to feel seen, especially those who have felt overlooked or misunderstood. I shine my light through both what I create and how I lead. Through over 400 hours of community service, I have worked to support others through Girl Scouts, the Burbank Youth Council, and as a Youth Ambassador for endometriosis awareness. I have spoken with city leaders, accepted a proclamation recognizing March as Endometriosis Awareness Month, and educated students in schools. In those moments, I am not just sharing information. I am creating space for people to feel heard. That same mindset carries into my work in production. I lead by making sure people feel supported, capable, and trusted to grow. In the future, I want to build a career that combines creativity, technical skill, and leadership. I do not just want to direct films. I want to build something that lasts, both in the work I create and the opportunities I create for others.

One of the most defining challenges in my life has been growing up in a home affected by domestic violence. When my dad struggled with addiction, it did not just affect him. It changed everything around us. There were moments where things escalated, where I saw my mom put in situations no one should have to endure. As a child, I did not fully understand what was happening, but I felt it. I felt the tension, the unpredictability, and the constant awareness that something could shift at any moment. What stayed with me most was not just those moments, but what came after. I watched my mom make the decision to leave and rebuild our lives. It was not immediate, and it was not easy. There were long hours, sacrifices, and a level of responsibility she carried on her own. But she kept going. She created stability where there had been none before. Watching her shaped how I understand strength. It is not always loud or visible. Sometimes it is quiet and consistent, built through choices made over and over again. That experience changed me in ways I am still learning to fully understand. For a long time, I became very aware of my surroundings. I learned how to read a room, to notice changes in tone, and to stay steady even when things around me were not. That awareness made me more independent, but it also made me more intentional in how I connect with others. I value honesty, consistency, and trust because I know what it feels like when those things are uncertain or missing. It also shaped how I approach challenges in my own life. There have been moments where it would have been easier to step back or lower my expectations for myself. Instead, I chose to move forward. I stayed committed to my education, took on leadership roles, and built a path for myself in technical production and storytelling. When there was no clear guidance, I learned how to create it. When something felt unfamiliar, I worked through it instead of stepping away. Pursuing education is the next step in that process. For me, education represents independence and the ability to build a future that is stable and intentional. I plan to study film and television production, with the goal of becoming a director. I want to create stories that reflect real experiences, especially those that are often overlooked or misunderstood. Growing up in an environment shaped by domestic violence caused by addiction has given me a perspective I will carry into my work. I understand how complex people and situations can be. I want to tell stories that reflect that complexity honestly and allow others to feel seen. More than anything, my past has taught me that where you start does not determine where you go. Higher education will give me the tools to continue building a future defined by stability, purpose, and growth. What I have been through is part of my story, but it is not the end of it. It is the foundation I am building from.

For a long time, I did not think of what I was experiencing as mental health. I just thought it was something I needed to handle. Growing up with a parent struggling with addiction created an environment where emotions were complicated and often unspoken. There were moments of unpredictability, broken trust, and a constant feeling that things could shift at any time. What affected me most was not always what was happening, but what was not being said. I learned how to stay steady on the outside, to focus on school, responsibilities, and expectations, even when internally I was trying to make sense of everything. Over time, that turned into something I did not fully recognize at first. It felt like a quiet form of anxiety, always being aware, always anticipating, always trying to stay one step ahead of whatever might happen next. I became very independent, but that independence came from necessity, not choice. At the same time, I was dealing with ongoing physical pain from endometriosis, a condition that took years to be diagnosed. Before I had answers, I was told repeatedly that my symptoms were normal. After hearing that enough times, I started to question myself. I wondered if I was overreacting or if what I was feeling even mattered. That experience affected my mental health in a different way. It created a sense of self-doubt that was difficult to explain. When you are not believed about something as real as pain, it changes how you see your own voice. It made me quieter at first, more hesitant to speak up, because I was not sure if I would be taken seriously. What changed for me was not a single moment, but a gradual shift in understanding. I started to recognize that what I was feeling was valid, even if it had not been acknowledged right away. Getting diagnosed with endometriosis gave me clarity, but it also gave me something I had not had before: confirmation that I could trust my own experience. That realization extended beyond my health. It changed how I approached everything. Instead of staying silent, I began to speak about what I had gone through. That led me to become a Youth Ambassador for endometriosis awareness, where I now speak to students and create educational content. What I did not expect was how many people would relate. After presentations, students often come up to me and share their own experiences, sometimes for the first time. Those conversations made me realize how common it is for people to feel unheard, and how powerful it can be when that changes. My experience with mental health has also shaped my relationships. Because I grew up in an environment where not everything was said directly, I learned to pay attention to what people are not expressing. I listen more closely. I try to understand what someone might be feeling, even if they are not able to put it into words yet. That has made me more intentional in how I show up for others. I value consistency, honesty, and presence, because I know how important those things are when everything else feels uncertain. It has also influenced how I lead. In my work as Student Technical Director, I work with students who are often stepping into unfamiliar roles. I know what it feels like to navigate something without clear guidance, so I make it a priority to create an environment where people feel supported while they learn. I try to build trust first, because I have learned that people do their best work when they feel secure enough to take risks. Looking forward, my experiences have shaped my goals in a way that feels clear and personal. I plan to study film and television production, with the goal of becoming a director. I want to create stories that reflect real experiences, especially those connected to mental health, identity, and resilience. There are so many stories that are either simplified or overlooked entirely, and I want to approach them with honesty. I want people watching my work to feel seen, especially those who have felt misunderstood. My journey with mental health has changed how I understand the world. It has shown me that people are often carrying more than they show, and that understanding someone requires patience and attention. It has also shown me that being heard can make a difference, even if it does not solve everything immediately. Most importantly, it has taught me that your experiences, even the difficult ones, can become something meaningful when you choose to use them that way. That is what I plan to continue doing.

Option 1: Relationships & Impact The relationship that has shaped me the most is the one I have with my mom. Growing up, she was not just a parent. She was the constant. When my dad struggled with addiction, there were times when everything else felt uncertain, but she never did. She worked constantly to provide stability, even when it meant carrying more than one person should have to. I did not fully understand the weight of that when I was younger, but I saw it. I saw the long hours, the quiet sacrifices, and the way she kept showing up no matter what. Watching her shaped how I understand strength. It is not always loud or visible. Sometimes it is choosing to keep going when no one is asking you to. Sometimes it is holding things together so that others do not have to feel everything at once. That kind of strength influenced how I approach my own life. I learned to take responsibility for myself early, to stay focused, and to keep moving forward even when things felt uncertain. But more than that, it shaped how I build relationships with other people. Because of my upbringing, I became very aware of what people do not say. I learned how to read a room, to notice when someone is struggling even if they are trying to hide it. That awareness has made me more intentional in how I connect with others. I do not take relationships at face value. I listen more closely, I try to understand before I respond, and I value consistency over anything else. This has carried into my leadership and my work. As Student Technical Director, I lead crews where people are often stepping into roles they are unsure about. I know what it feels like to be in an environment where you are expected to figure things out without clear guidance. Because of that, I make it a priority to create a space where people feel supported while still being challenged. I take the time to teach, to explain, and to make sure everyone understands not just what to do, but why it matters. I approach advocacy the same way. As a Youth Ambassador for endometriosis awareness, I speak to students about a condition that is often dismissed or misunderstood. Before I was diagnosed, I remember feeling like my pain was not being taken seriously. That experience made me realize how important it is to feel heard. When I speak to others now, I focus on creating that sense of validation. I want people to feel like their experiences matter, even if they have been overlooked before. The most meaningful moments are not the presentations themselves. They are the conversations afterward, when someone comes up to me and says they thought they were the only one. Those moments remind me that connection is not about saying the right thing. It is about making someone feel seen. My relationship with my mom taught me that connection is built through consistency, effort, and presence. It is not something that happens automatically. It is something you choose to invest in. That understanding has shaped both who I am and who I want to become. As I pursue a career in film and television, I want to create stories that reflect real relationships, the kind that are complicated, imperfect, and honest. I also want to build environments where people feel supported and valued, both on and off set. Because at the end of the day, what I have learned is this: The strongest connections are not always the easiest ones. They are the ones you choose to build, protect, and show up for, even when it is hard.

The film that has had the greatest impact on me is The Penguin. The first thing I noticed was not the plot. It was the lighting. There is a scene where Oswald Cobblepot stands alone in a dim hallway, and the light barely reaches him. Most of his face is in shadow, and before he says anything, you already understand what he is feeling. As someone who has worked as a lighting designer since I was fifteen, that moment stood out to me immediately. The lighting was not decorative. It was storytelling. That scene stayed with me because it reflected something I had been learning in my own life. Growing up, I learned early that people are not just one thing. Having a parent struggle with addiction created an environment where emotions were complicated and often hard to define. I saw how strength and vulnerability can exist at the same time, how someone can care deeply and still make choices that affect others. The Penguin does not simplify its characters, and that honesty felt real to me. It made me more thoughtful about how I understand people and how I choose to tell their stories. The series also changed how I think about directing. There are moments where silence carries more weight than dialogue. A lingering shot or a shadowed frame communicates more than exposition ever could. That restraint is something I connected to immediately. It reminded me that storytelling is not about explaining everything. It is about trusting the audience to observe and feel. That idea has shaped how I approach my own work. When I directed my documentary on endometriosis, I focused on making it emotionally honest, not just informational. I know what it feels like to not be believed, and I wanted the audience to feel that, not just hear about it. Watching The Penguin reinforced that visual storytelling can create that kind of connection in a way words alone cannot. It also changed how I see my future. As someone who works behind the scenes in lighting and production, I understand how much precision goes into creating tone. Every detail matters. Every choice supports the story. That level of intention is what I want to bring into my career as a director. I do not want to simply tell stories. I want to build experiences that feel real, even when they are uncomfortable or complex. On a personal level, the show also made me think about resilience. Its characters operate in environments that are harsh and unforgiving, yet they continue to adapt and move forward. That idea resonated with me as I have navigated my own challenges, including family instability and health issues that required persistence and self-advocacy. It reminded me that growth is not always easy, but it is necessary. The Penguin impacted me because it showed me that storytelling does not have to be simple to be powerful. It just has to be honest. That is the kind of work I want to create.

The first time I welded something, I remember how focused I felt. There is no room for distraction when you are working with heat, precision, and materials that do not forgive mistakes. You have to be present. You have to understand how everything connects. That is what drew me in. Welding, for me, is not separate from the work I already do. It is part of how I think. As President of SkillsUSA for construction and carpentry, I have spent hours working with tools, learning safety protocols, and teaching other students how to operate equipment correctly. I have led safety trainings, helped manage projects, and worked in environments where precision matters. Welding naturally fits into that space. It is a skill that combines technical knowledge with hands-on execution, and it requires the same discipline I have developed through construction and production work. My experience as a Student Technical Director and lighting designer has also shaped how I approach welding. In theater and film production, I work on building and supporting physical environments. Whether it is rigging lighting, constructing set pieces, or ensuring structures are safe and functional, I have learned how important strong foundations are. Welding adds another layer to that. It allows me to physically create and reinforce what I design, instead of relying on others to execute it. What I enjoy most about welding is that it is both creative and exact. You are building something tangible, something that has to hold weight and last. At the same time, there is an artistry to it. The way materials come together, the precision of each weld, and the final structure all reflect the skill and intention behind it. That balance is something I connect to, especially as someone who plans to work in film and production. I see welding as a skill that will continue to be part of my future, particularly in set design and production. Film sets are built environments, and the ability to construct, reinforce, and problem-solve in real time is critical. I want to be someone who understands every part of that process, from design to execution. Welding allows me to take ownership of that work and expand what I am capable of creating. More importantly, welding represents something deeper to me. It reflects the way I have learned to approach challenges. When I first started in technical fields, there was not always clear instruction. I had to figure things out, ask questions, and learn through experience. Welding follows that same pattern. It requires patience, persistence, and a willingness to improve through practice. I am drawn to welding because it is real. It is skill-based, it is demanding, and it produces something lasting. It is not just about what you know. It is about what you can build. That is the kind of work I want to continue doing.

Building Direction When There Was None The first place I ever felt in control of my life was backstage. I remember sitting alone in my high school theater, staring at a lighting board I did not understand, long after everyone else had gone home. There was no one there to teach me. My technical teacher did not have a background in lighting design, and there was no real structure to follow. It would have been easier to walk away and choose something that already had a path. Instead, I stayed. I pressed buttons, made mistakes, reset everything, and tried again. Night after night, I taught myself how to make something work without being shown how. At the time, I thought I was just learning lighting design. Looking back, I realize I was learning something much bigger. I was learning how to build direction for myself when it did not already exist. That mindset did not start in the theater. It started earlier. Growing up, my life was shaped by instability in ways I did not always understand at the time. Having a parent who struggled with addiction meant that consistency was not something I could rely on. There were moments where things felt unpredictable, where I had to learn how to stay focused and keep moving forward without always having the support or clarity I needed. My mom became the constant, working to hold everything together, and watching her taught me what persistence looks like in real life. Because of that environment, I learned early that if I wanted something, I had to take ownership of it. Education became the one place where I could create structure for myself. It gave me something to work toward, something steady, and something that could not be taken away. At the same time, I was dealing with something else that made that sense of control even more important. I was living with endometriosis, a condition that caused constant and often debilitating pain. For years, I was told that what I was experiencing was normal. I started to question myself. I wondered if I was overreacting or if my pain even mattered. That experience did more than affect me physically. It affected how I saw myself. It made me feel dismissed, like my voice carried less weight. Trying to balance that pain while staying committed to school, leadership roles, and work required a level of discipline I did not fully recognize at the time. I learned how to work ahead when I could, push through when I had to, and keep going even when it felt overwhelming. Everything changed when I was finally diagnosed. For the first time, I had an answer. More importantly, I had validation. That moment shifted how I saw both my experiences and my education. I stopped viewing school as something I was just trying to get through, and started seeing it as something I could use. That shift gave me direction. I began to apply what I had learned not just to my own growth, but to creating opportunities for others. In technical theater, I stepped into leadership roles, eventually becoming Student Technical Director. But what mattered most to me was not the title. It was making sure no one else had to start the way I did. I trained other students, broke down complex systems into something understandable, and built a structure where there had been none. I carried that same mindset into my advocacy work. As a Youth Ambassador for endometriosis awareness, I began speaking to students about a condition that is often misunderstood and dismissed. I worked with city leadership and had the opportunity to accept a proclamation recognizing March as Endometriosis Awareness Month in Burbank. I also speak in schools, helping young women understand their symptoms and feel confident advocating for their health. The most meaningful moments are not the recognition. They are the conversations afterward, when someone tells me they finally feel understood. Those experiences shaped my goals in a way that feels clear and intentional. I plan to study film and television production at either Chapman University or the University of Southern California, with the goal of becoming a director. For me, storytelling is not just creative. It is purposeful. It is a way to reflect real experiences, especially those that are often overlooked or misunderstood. I want to create work that makes people feel seen, the way I did not always feel growing up. Whether that is through stories about mental health, identity, or resilience, I want my work to have impact beyond entertainment. I also want to continue building opportunities for others. Through my production company, I aim to create pathways for young women to step into technical and leadership roles behind the camera, spaces where they are still underrepresented. I know what it feels like to enter a space without guidance, and I want to change that for someone else. Education has given me more than knowledge. It has given me direction when I did not have one, and the tools to build something meaningful from my experiences. I have learned that challenges do not define your future. What matters is what you choose to build from them. That is what I plan to keep doing.

One issue I have taken initiative to address in my community is the lack of awareness and support around women’s health, specifically endometriosis. Before I was diagnosed, I spent a long time being told that my pain was normal. That experience made me realize how many young women are dismissed or left without answers, which can impact both their physical and mental health. I knew I did not want others to go through that same confusion and isolation. That realization led me to take action at both the community and city level. As a Youth Ambassador for endometriosis awareness and a member of the Burbank Youth Council, I worked directly with city leadership to bring attention to this issue. I had the opportunity to speak with the Mayor of Burbank about the need for greater awareness, and I formally accepted a city proclamation recognizing March as Endometriosis Awareness Month in Burbank. That moment was meaningful because it showed that something I had experienced personally could lead to change at a broader level. Beyond that, I have spoken at Burbank schools to educate students, particularly young women, about endometriosis. I focus on helping them recognize symptoms, understand that their pain should be taken seriously, and feel confident advocating for their health. After these presentations, students often come forward to share their own experiences, many of them saying they had never heard of the condition before. Those conversations reinforce how necessary this work is. In addition to this advocacy, I have completed over 400 hours of community service through Girl Scouts and continue to serve on the Burbank Youth Council, where I work to represent youth voices and support initiatives that strengthen the community. Moving forward, I want to expand this work through storytelling, using film and media to reach a wider audience and make information more accessible. I also plan to continue working with schools and local leadership to create more consistent education around women’s health. This experience has shown me that real change can start with one conversation, but it grows when you are willing to keep speaking up.

I grew up in a household where I learned early what it meant to be independent. As the daughter of a single mom, I saw firsthand what it looks like to carry responsibility without being able to set it down. My mom worked constantly to provide stability for us, even during times when things felt uncertain. Watching that shaped how I approached my own life. It showed me that you do not wait for things to get easier. You keep going anyway. There were moments where that reality became very clear to me. I remember being younger and realizing that there were things I needed to handle on my own, whether it was managing my schoolwork without being reminded, keeping track of my schedule, or staying focused when things at home felt unpredictable. It was not something anyone formally taught me. It was something I learned by watching and adapting. That mindset carried into everything I did. In school, I held myself to a high standard because I understood that my education was something I needed to take ownership of. When I began working in technical theatre, that same sense of responsibility showed up again. There was no clear structure for lighting design at my school. My teacher did not have a background in it, so there was no one to guide me step by step. I remember staying after rehearsals, sometimes alone in the theatre, trying to figure out how the lighting board worked. I would program cues, make mistakes, and start over. There were times when I felt frustrated and behind, especially when other areas had more support and structure. But I did not step away. I kept coming back, because I knew that if I did not push through that uncertainty, no one else was going to do it for me. Eventually, that work paid off. I became confident in my skills and stepped into leadership roles, including Student Technical Director. But one of the most important moments for me was realizing that I did not want anyone else to feel the same lack of guidance I had. I started training other students, breaking things down in a way that made sense, and making sure they felt supported as they learned. Being raised by a single mom also shaped how I handle challenges outside of school. When I was dealing with ongoing health issues from endometriosis, I had to advocate for myself, even when I was not being taken seriously at first. That experience required persistence and confidence, both of which I had developed over time by learning how to rely on myself and push forward. What I have learned from all of this is that resilience is not one big moment. It is built in smaller, everyday decisions. It is choosing to stay committed when things are unclear, taking responsibility for your own growth, and continuing to move forward even when you do not have all the answers. Being the daughter of a single mom did not just make me more independent. It made me more aware, more determined, and more willing to do the work it takes to build something for myself.

What stands out most to me about Jack Terry’s story is not just what he survived, but what he chose to do afterward. He experienced unimaginable loss at such a young age, yet he did not let that define the limits of his life. Instead, he built something meaningful, pursued education, and eventually gave back by sharing his story to help others. That ability to move forward with purpose, even after profound hardship, is what I find most inspiring. While my experiences are very different, I connect to the idea of learning how to move forward when life feels uncertain. Growing up with a parent struggling with addiction created an environment where stability was not always guaranteed. There were moments where I felt a sense of abandonment and had to learn how to rely on myself emotionally while still meeting expectations in school and daily life. I became very aware of how much people can carry without showing it, and that shaped how I see both myself and others. At the same time, I was dealing with ongoing physical pain from endometriosis, a condition that took time to be taken seriously. Before I was diagnosed, I was often told that what I was experiencing was normal. Being dismissed in that way made me question myself and added another layer to the challenges I was already navigating. It was not just physical. It affected my mental health and how I understood my own voice. What I have learned from these experiences is that perseverance is not always loud or obvious. Sometimes it is choosing to keep going when things feel unclear. It is learning how to advocate for yourself when no one else does, and finding ways to turn difficult experiences into something that can help others. That perspective is what led me to become a Youth Ambassador for endometriosis awareness. I now speak to students and create educational content so others can recognize symptoms earlier and feel validated in their experiences. I know how isolating it can feel to not be believed, and I want to change that for someone else. I plan to study film and television production in college, with the goal of becoming a director. Through storytelling, I want to create work that reflects real experiences, particularly those connected to mental health, identity, and resilience. I believe stories have the ability to help people feel seen and understood, and that can be a powerful form of giving back. Jack Terry’s life is a reminder that adversity does not have to limit what you become. It can shape your perspective, your purpose, and how you choose to impact others. That is something I carry with me as I continue building my own path forward.

I first knew Sabrina Carpenter as Maya from Girl Meets World, but I don’t think I realized how much she would stick with me until later. At the time, I just liked how confident and quick she was. She said what she thought, didn’t really apologize for it, and had this way of holding her ground even when things around her were complicated. As I got older, that started to mean something different. There were parts of my life that felt uncertain, especially growing up with a parent struggling with addiction. I learned how to adapt and keep things together on the outside, but internally, I was trying to figure out who I was and how to handle everything I was carrying. Watching someone like Sabrina grow beyond the role that made her known and build her own identity made me think differently about what that process could look like. Her music came into my life at a time when I was also dealing with my own health challenges. Before I was diagnosed with endometriosis, I spent a long time feeling like what I was experiencing wasn’t being taken seriously. That kind of experience can make you question yourself. What I connected to in her music was not just the confidence, but the honesty. There is a mix of strength and self-awareness in her work that feels real, not performative. What has stayed with me the most is how she continues to evolve. She did not stay where people expected her to. She kept building, even when that meant stepping into something new and unfamiliar. That has influenced how I approach my own goals. I want to create work that grows with me, not something that keeps me in one place. Being a fan of Sabrina Carpenter, for me, is not just about her career. It is about what her growth represents. It is a reminder that you can start in one place and still become something entirely your own.

For a long time, I did not have the language to describe what I was feeling. I just knew that something felt off, like I was carrying more than I could explain and trying to keep it from showing. Growing up with a parent struggling with addiction created a kind of instability that is hard to put into words. It was not always loud or obvious. Sometimes it was quiet, subtle, and constant. Plans would change, trust would break, and there was always an underlying feeling that things could shift at any moment. Over time, that uncertainty turned into something deeper. It felt like abandonment, even when I could not fully explain why. I learned how to keep going, how to show up to school, stay involved, and meet expectations, but internally, I was trying to manage emotions I did not fully understand. At the same time, I was dealing with something else that made everything heavier. I was in consistent, often intense physical pain from what I later learned was endometriosis. Before I was diagnosed, I was told repeatedly that my symptoms were normal, something I just had to deal with. After hearing that enough times, I started to question myself. I wondered if I was overreacting or if what I was feeling even mattered. That experience did not just affect me physically. It affected my mental health in a way I did not recognize at first. It made me feel dismissed, like my voice carried less weight, and over time, that feeling started to build. Those two experiences together created a period where I felt disconnected from myself. On the outside, I was functioning. I was involved in school, taking on leadership roles, and continuing to move forward. But internally, I was struggling to process what I was feeling. I did not want to fall behind, so I kept pushing through, even when it was difficult. What changed for me was not one defining moment, but a series of small decisions. I started to realize that ignoring what I was feeling was not sustainable. I needed to understand it, not avoid it. Getting diagnosed with endometriosis was a turning point. It gave me something I had not had before: validation. It confirmed that what I had been experiencing was real. That mattered more than I expected, because it allowed me to stop questioning myself and start focusing on how to move forward. From there, I began to shift how I approached both my mental health and my experiences. Instead of internalizing everything, I started to process it. Instead of staying silent, I began to speak about it. That is what led me to become a Youth Ambassador for endometriosis awareness. I started speaking to students, sharing information, and creating educational content so others would not feel the same confusion and isolation I did. Some of the most meaningful moments have come after those conversations, when someone comes up to me and says they finally feel understood. Those moments remind me that even small acts of openness can have a real impact. My recovery, both mentally and emotionally, is something I actively work on. It is not something that happens once and is finished. It is ongoing. For me, that means maintaining structure, setting goals, and continuing to build a support system I can rely on. It also means recognizing when I need to step back and take care of myself instead of pushing through everything. I have learned that strength is not just about endurance. It is about awareness, and knowing when to slow down so you can keep going in a healthier way. Academically, I have continued to challenge myself and stay focused on my future. I plan to attend either Chapman University or the University of Southern California to study film and television production. My goal is to become a director and create work that reflects real experiences, especially those connected to mental health, identity, and resilience. I want to tell stories that make people feel seen, especially those who may feel overlooked or misunderstood. Ella’s story resonates with me because it reflects a kind of strength that is not always visible. The decision to keep going, to keep trying, even when things are difficult, is something I understand. It is not always loud or obvious. Sometimes it is quiet, consistent, and internal. I am still growing, still learning, and still building my path. But I know that the challenges I have faced have shaped me in a way that has made me more self-aware, more resilient, and more intentional about the life I want to create.

The first time I realized the impact of giving back was not when I was volunteering. It was when someone came up to me afterward and said, “I thought I was the only one.” I had just finished speaking to a group of students about endometriosis, a condition that is often misunderstood and dismissed, especially for young women. Before I was diagnosed, I remember being told that my symptoms were normal. I questioned myself, wondering if I was overreacting. That experience stayed with me, and when I had the opportunity to become a Youth Ambassador, I knew I wanted to use my voice to help others feel seen in a way I had not at first. Giving back through advocacy has shaped how I understand both community and responsibility. It is not just about providing information. It is about creating space for people to feel heard and validated. After each presentation, students come forward to share their experiences, often for the first time. In those moments, I have learned that impact does not always come from solving a problem immediately. Sometimes it comes from simply making someone feel less alone. My involvement in the community extends beyond advocacy. Through leadership roles in technical production and student organizations, I have worked to support and mentor other students, especially those stepping into roles that feel unfamiliar or intimidating. When I first started in lighting design, there was no clear structure or guidance. I had to learn through trial and error. Because of that, I make it a priority to teach others, break down complex concepts, and create an environment where people feel supported while they grow. Giving back, in this context, means making sure others do not have to start from the same place of uncertainty. These experiences have shaped not only what I do, but how I think. I have learned to lead with empathy, to listen before responding, and to recognize that everyone is navigating something you may not see. Giving back has made me more aware, more patient, and more intentional in how I show up for others. As I look toward my future, I plan to attend either Chapman University or the University of Southern California to study film and television production. My goal is to become a director and create work that reflects real experiences, particularly those related to mental health, identity, and resilience. I want to continue using storytelling as a way to educate, connect, and give voice to perspectives that are often overlooked. Giving back has shown me that impact is not about recognition. It is about consistency. It is about choosing to use your experiences in a way that supports others. That mindset will continue to guide both my education and the work I pursue moving forward.

The first time I realized what compassion really meant was not during a big moment. It was during a quiet one, sitting in a room where everything felt uncertain, trying to make sense of what was happening around me. Growing up with a parent who struggled with addiction meant there were times when stability was not guaranteed. I learned early that people do not always ask for help, even when they need it most. That experience taught me to pay attention, to notice what is not being said, and to show up anyway. At the same time, my faith shaped how I understood what to do with that awareness. Being part of a Christian community showed me that compassion is not just a feeling. It is action. It is choosing to give your time, your energy, and your attention to others, even when it is not convenient. I saw that modeled through service, and I began to understand that small, consistent actions can have a lasting impact. I have tried to carry that into my own life, especially through my work as a Youth Ambassador for endometriosis awareness. Before I was diagnosed, I was told my symptoms were normal. I remember questioning myself and wondering if I was overreacting. That experience stayed with me. When I began speaking to students, I made it a priority to create a space where people felt heard and believed. I share information, but more importantly, I listen. After presentations, students often come up to me and say they thought they were the only one. Being able to tell someone that their experience is real and that they deserve support is one of the most meaningful ways I have put compassion into action. I also try to practice compassion through leadership. In technical production, I have worked with students who are new and often unsure of themselves. I know what it feels like to step into a space without clear guidance, so I make it a point to teach, support, and encourage them while still holding them to a high standard. Compassion, in that environment, means helping people grow without making them feel like they are falling behind. Looking forward, I plan to continue living out compassion through my work in film and television. I want to tell stories that reflect real experiences, especially those that are often overlooked. When people see themselves represented honestly, it can change how they understand their own lives and challenges. That kind of impact starts with empathy and intention. Compassion is not something I think about occasionally. It is something I practice. It is shaped by my experiences, strengthened by my faith, and carried forward through the way I choose to show up for others.