I once asked my mom about the steel doors guarding the front of many Chinese homes—solid, silver, cold to the touch, and etched with lotus blossoms and cranes. She explained that they kept out evil spirits, typical superstitions. Yet every weekday afternoon, those doors seemed to keep me out instead. I would linger outside the cold barrier, straining to catch my friends' voices as they continued past the corner. Only when their chatter dulled to a distant hum would my heart finally slow down enough for me to safely breathe. I would tuck the mail I’d been pretending to sort back into the mailbox—knowing my name would never be on any of them—then shuffle down the stone steps. That silver door belonged to my uncle; my own entrance was even lower. Down another flight of stairs, to what most would call the basement, my door awaited me. It was a ghoulish black, its bars rusted and spaced so widely that chicken wire served as the final defense against intruders. Even in middle school, I recognized my family’s story differed from my friends’. Many lived “upstairs” in warmly lit and spacious homes. They’d come back to their mother’s home-cooked meals while both my parents would work to afford rent for our basement apartment. I barely saw my father, and my mother tried her best to take care of my sister and me. She took on side jobs like bracelet making, threading thin strings through small hoops on the foam floor mat. The lights were dull, giving the rooms a sickly yellow color. Even though we had only one window in the entire house, this was still my home. I wouldn’t be in America today if it weren’t for my parents. I learned early on that they had crossed an entire ocean—leaving behind family, language, and familiarity—to chase opportunities in America. With no citizenship and a language barrier, my parents have often been confined to minimum wage work. Still, even with a measly salary, they saved up for a home in Philadelphia. A large part of my identity was shaped by their story, watching them work late nights and long weeks. Despite being only twenty years older than me, my mother continues to toil away as a waitress. Despite the debilitating joint pains, my father continues to stand behind the kitchen line as a chef. Their hard work instilled the value of perseverance in me as a first-generation, low-income Chinese American. When I applied to high schools in Philadelphia, I was rejected from all of them but one. I took the required coursework in my first year and enrolled in dual enrollment classes at a university during my second, craving a more advanced education. But even dual enrollment felt limiting. Though it was perhaps several years late, I applied to transfer high schools. When I was rejected, I emailed the program director—not to protest, but to understand why. To my surprise, he revisited my application and admitted me. Despite transferring too late to join the international baccalaureate (IB) or advance placement (AP) capstone programs, I pushed to enroll in AP classes. I still remember crying at lunch during senior year—technically just an extended period of AP Physics 1—after my teacher told me I solved problems too slowly. But I kept grinding through practice sets. I finished the year with a 5 on the AP exam and received a scholarship for my performance in physics. Physics captivated me. It required a unique approach to problem-solving, a certain way of thinking, and a collaboration of subjects I struggle with. It revealed both the vastness of galaxies and the minuteness of quarks. So, when it came time to choose a college major, I chose physics. I wanted to challenge myself with something difficult and learn the fundamental gears that make the world click. I also knew I wanted to do research. I thought about legacy—how I might contribute something meaningful to the world—and the answer always pointed towards science. As I entered college I carried a dual purpose with me: to study physics and to become a researcher. But physics was indeed challenging. During the first semester of a two-semester physics course, I ended up with a disappointing grade. Despite attending every lecture, office hour, and optional recitation, I couldn’t get the grade I wanted. Yet, I didn’t stop when the second semester came around and found myself with a better grade despite it being the harder half of the course. Beyond academics, I faced the gender disparity in physics. I remember attending a physics talk—there were four women total, two of whom were administrators. On the other side: twelve male students. But I refuse to let the overwhelming male majority in the subject to stop me from advocating for women in STEM. From my first year, I dedicated myself to my school’s Women in Physics club, starting off as a general member and becoming co-president this year. Through the club we build a community and network for female and other gender minorities in physics. And, as co-president, I hope to connect other women in STEM clubs together through collaborations so everyone can support one another. Research wasn’t a smooth sailing either because when I was placed on an independent research project and my mentor left early on, I would stay on weekends to finish up experiments. I felt the anxiety as a first-generation, low-income student navigating a lab space without prior research experience. But I utilized the experiences I had to mentor the younger generation of researchers through the First Exposure to Research in the Biological Sciences (FERBS) program. As a researcher, I believe one of my duties is to help younger scientists like my mentors and my support networks helped me. There are many things I know now that I wish I could’ve known earlier, and passing down these insights is fulfilling to me. All those anecdotal experiences of mine illustrate a degree of perseverance and reforming the worst experiences into something brighter. However, my trajectory hasn’t been linear; I’ve had so many more failures I haven’t been able to illustrate in this essay, and sometimes perseverance isn’t the magic pill. I’m still juggling my identity as a Chinese American, trying to find a sense of belonging, and figuring out what I want to do 10 years from now. However, the most unpredictable journeys often yield the most captivating tales. As I think about my future goals, I know I want to go to graduate school in either physics or biophysics. Blending my love of learning and my curious nature, I felt like doing research would bring about a tangible change—forwarding knowledge in the sciences. What I particularly enjoy about biophysics is the diversity of the research questions and how I can make an impact that can help people in a direct way. If I could dream big, I hope my work would be able to change someone’s life in the far future. Research had already changed mine when I was diagnosed with a rare heart tachycardia condition. Decades of studies on using ablations as a treatment zapped away my heart issues with one surgery. Like how the mRNA vaccine was able to play a role in COVID-19, I hope my research can someday make that kind of impact. Throughout my education, I’ve been reminded how fortunate I am. Fortunate to know scholarships exist. Fortunate to be surrounded by people who believe in me. Education shaped my problem-solving skills, but it has also reinvigorated my desire to pay it forward through acts of service. Having gone through the public school system my entire life, I knew how important early exposure to sciences is. I wouldn’t have found my love for physics if not for an initiative for FGLI with that goal in mind. Hence, in my sophomore year of college, I helped lead a food science outreach initiative at Philadelphia public schools. Because I struggled through poverty, I joined my scholarship program, Herb It Forward, volunteering to serve Sunday lunches to the homeless or do a school supply drive for low-income students. Because of my identity as a Chinese American, I know the stigmatization of mental health in my community, which encouraged me to join a mental health club at my school as a peer counselor. Every fragment of my identity motivates me to help others, and this won’t change no matter what part of my life journey I am in. I want to reach higher opportunities, to become the first in my family to get a PhD, to save up enough money for my parents to retire, to give back to my community, and, most importantly, to leave a lasting impact on the world. All of this wouldn’t be possible with financial barriers holding me back, like how graduate school funding has been more difficult to secure, making the process significantly more competitive. If I were able to start with some sort of funding, it’d make my journey of research more likely to succeed. I could use the money to invest in more skills that will make me a stronger candidate when I apply to graduate schools in a few months. Or use it to negotiate a decision if I get rejected. In the next 5 years I hope to be going through my PhD program, maybe even doing a thesis defense then. I hope to continue advocating for others, of all ethnicities, genders, and backgrounds through mentorship and volunteer work. In the real world there’s much more holding me back than a steel door, but I believe with the help of others and my perseverance, I can push past it.