I am a selfish person. This has always been my reality, and yet I have only recently come to terms with it. I realized my innate selfishness after my mother’s head injury. She refused to get treatment, forcing me to watch the jubilance dissipate from her eyes, leaving only a semblance of who she once was. I was left to look after my younger siblings, yet I found myself needing her more than any of them. The person who was only 17 at my birth and a single mother was my biggest example of selflessness. She would donate her last penny to anyone struggling, teaching me that altruism was a virtue. I was willing to risk it all to bring that piece of her back. In hopes of finding a cure, I plunged into the world of neuroscience and psychology for an answer to my question: “Can brain damage be reversed?” I sought to help her when I knew nothing of what I could help with - triggering a deep love of cognitive neuroscience. From then on, I realized that the study of chemistry and neuroanatomy deeply moved my soul for some obstinate reason. This is what I had always wanted for my life; however, this was not solely for the reason of wanting to help people, but because I found that my efforts brought me my own kind of joy. So ultimately, I can say that I pursued neuroscience for a purely acquisitive purpose. I found myself looking for answers in everything: how do electrical pulses in a brain organize into a coherent soul? I found that I did believe in souls, for I could see it in colors around people. I could look at a person and deduce what made them good or bad, what drove them, and what they aspired to be beyond anything. This only led to more questions. I hungered for every answer, yet I knew that upon gaining it, I would only thirst for more. I found myself benevolent to that which stalled me. For that, I am selfish. I had always been an eclectic person, collecting hobbies and skills like cards in a deck, pulling out whichever one made me the happiest at that moment. I found that I loved art, music, writing, science, and everything in between. I especially loved writing about subjects I was passionate about, such as my junior year essay about the dramatic costs of healthcare. Not because I wanted others to hear my words, but rather because I wanted to learn to wield them myself. Though I did enjoy showing my findings, I relish learning about them so much more. For that, I am selfish. Due to that same selfishness, I found that I found joy in lending to others, for I realized it would inevitably come back to me. I started standing on the side of the road waving a sign that read, “YOU MATTER!” I did this not wholly because I wanted passerby to believe that but because I wanted myself - and those beside me - to believe it as well. I found that if I gave part of myself away, I could get so much more back. I started obsessively applying to clubs, taking officer positions so that I could give that part of me to others - only so I could feed my ambitions. For that, I am selfish. I began to draft an organization that would help me with my purpose: to connect me to others. In looking for ways in which I could improve myself, an organization was created. My organization, Cultivating Compassion, was created in order to better link humans against a universal foe: stagnation. I hoped that we could find solace in each other through this group, and act against stagnation in order to best utilize our generativity for change. As change-makers, there is nothing worse than stagnation in a world where humans can do some good. In light of this, my organization hopes to cultivate compassionate learning for others in order to induce a world of cooperation. I did this not only for others but because I wished to become a change-maker myself. For that, I am selfish. My mother’s head injury was not the worst event. Not only did she recover, but throughout her journey I found myself learning from her flaws, building upon myself as though I was a tower reaching toward the heavens. Each brick I put down served as a marking: artist, musician, dreamer, coder, mathematician, teacher, student, and much more. I learned through this journey that my mother did not in fact exhibit the highest form of selflessness, but rather the most humble form of selfishness. Through this selfishness I learned the key to change: first, you must look to change yourself. My selfishness is now my favorite trait.

I am selfish. This has always been my reality, yet I have only recently accepted it. I realized my innate selfishness after my mother’s head injury. She refused to get treatment, forcing me to watch the jubilance dissipate from her eyes, leaving only a semblance of who she once was. I was left to look after my younger siblings, yet I found that I needed her more than even them. The person who was only 17 at my birth and a single mother was my biggest example of selflessness. She would donate her last penny to anyone struggling, teaching me that altruism was a virtue. I was willing to risk it all to bring that piece of her back. In hopes of finding a cure, I plunged into the world of neuroscience and psychology for an answer to my question: “Can brain damage be reversed?” I sought to help her when I knew nothing of what I could help with - triggering a deep love of cognitive neuroscience. From then on, I realized that chemistry and neuroanatomy deeply moved my soul for some obstinate reason. I had always wanted this for my life; however, this was not solely because I wanted to help humanity but because I found that my efforts brought me my own kind of joy. So ultimately, I can say that I pursued neuroscience for a purely acquisitive purpose. I had always been eclectic, collecting hobbies and skills like cards in a deck, pulling out whichever one made me happiest at that moment. I loved art, music, writing, science, and everything in between. I especially loved writing about subjects I was passionate about, such as my junior essay about egregious healthcare costs. Not because I wanted others to hear my words but because I wanted to learn to wield them myself. Though I enjoyed showing my findings, I relish learning through them much more. For that, I am selfish. Due to that same selfishness, I found that I relished lending to others, for I realized it would inevitably come back to me. I started standing on the side of the road waving a sign that read, “YOU MATTER!” I did this not wholly because I wanted passersby to believe that but because I wanted myself - and those beside me - to believe it as well. I found that if I gave part of myself away, I could get so much more back. For that, I am selfish. My mother’s head injury was not the worst event. Not only did she recover, but throughout her journey I found myself learning from her flaws, building upon myself as though I was a tower reaching upwards into the heavens. Each brick I put down was a marking: artist, musician, dreamer, coder, mathematician, teacher, student, and more. I learned through this voyage that my mother did not exhibit the highest form of selflessness but rather the most humble form of selfishness. Looking back, my selfishness is my favorite trait.

I am selfish. This has always been my reality, yet I have only recently accepted it. I realized my innate selfishness after my mother’s head injury. She refused to get treatment, forcing me to watch the jubilance dissipate from her eyes, leaving only a semblance of who she once was. I was left to look after my younger siblings, yet I found that I needed her more than even them. The person who was only 17 at my birth and a single mother was my biggest example of selflessness. She would donate her last penny to anyone struggling, teaching me that altruism was a virtue. I was willing to risk it all to bring that piece of her back. In hopes of finding a cure, I plunged into the world of neuroscience and psychology for an answer to my question: “Can brain damage be reversed?” I sought to help her when I knew nothing of what I could help with - triggering a deep love of cognitive neuroscience. From then on, I realized that chemistry and neuroanatomy deeply moved my soul for some obstinate reason. I had always wanted this for my life; however, this was not solely because I wanted to help humanity but because I found that my efforts brought me my own kind of joy. So ultimately, I can say that I pursued neuroscience for a purely acquisitive purpose. I had always been eclectic, collecting hobbies and skills like cards in a deck, pulling out whichever one made me happiest at that moment. I loved art, music, writing, science, and everything in between. I especially loved writing about subjects I was passionate about, such as my junior essay about egregious healthcare costs. Not because I wanted others to hear my words but because I wanted to learn to wield them myself. Though I enjoyed showing my findings, I relish learning through them much more. For that, I am selfish. Due to that same selfishness, I found that I relished lending to others, for I realized it would inevitably come back to me. I started standing on the side of the road waving a sign that read, “YOU MATTER!” I did this not wholly because I wanted passersby to believe that but because I wanted myself - and those beside me - to believe it as well. I found that if I gave part of myself away, I could get so much more back. For that, I am selfish. My mother’s head injury was not the worst event. Not only did she recover, but throughout her journey I found myself learning from her flaws, building upon myself as though I was a tower reaching upwards into the heavens. Each brick I put down was a marking: artist, musician, dreamer, coder, mathematician, teacher, student, and more. I learned through this voyage that my mother did not exhibit the highest form of selflessness but rather the most humble form of selfishness. Looking back, my selfishness is my favorite trait.

I have always been proud of my teeth. Even when I have had a crooked smile, with canines barely fitting above my other teeth, I find myself proud of this icon befitting a role in the lower class. Even when my teeth were required to be pulled due to overcrowding, I still adored my smile. I learned to admire my smile simply because it was mine - not one I had given away. Drugs were an intrinsic part of living in South Dakota. My uncle's teeth were reduced to chips, my aunt’s are completely gone, and my grandparent’s were replaced with dentures. I had learned early on that they had given them away - willingly sacrificing their gums to drugs. I also learned that drugs corrupted much more than teeth. This is why I hold so much pride in my teeth, for they were something I could claim pure as the driven snow. They may not look the part, but they symbolize where I came from, and where I could go. Being part of the lower class meant that dentistry was not often available. With barely enough money for rent, even toothpaste was a welcome commodity. When my teeth grew crooked and my mouth became overcrowded, there was simply nothing I could do but watch - and admire. They weren’t beautiful or brilliant, but they were mine - and mine alone. While most of my family had given their entire lives to drugs, I broke my legacy and dedicated myself to keeping my teeth healthy and my mind clear. Now, with new braces and a straight smile, I still find admiration. With a family legacy of broken, rotting, and disheveled smiles, I can only look at the legacy I’m leaving behind. Not only am I the first in the family with a brilliant smile - but also the first to graduate high school. This, and the first to seek higher education. With all the tools I need at my disposal - and a healthy smile - I am ready to take on the world. In college, I plan on doing much the same. While studying both neuroscience and business administration, I will continue to break traditions and foster new expectations. Whether it be on the basis of neuroscience, public policy, or social reform, I will continue to be a change-maker, and help others who are victims of warped smiles. In the future, I see great potential for change within the medical field, and with the help of the Olivia Vada Camacho Scholarship, this future is possible. No longer will my family be known for their broken teeth, but for their brilliant and influencing smiles. This much I can guarantee.

I have always been proud of my teeth. Even when I have had a crooked smile, with canines barely fitting above my other teeth, I find myself proud of this icon befitting a role in the lower class. Even when my teeth were required to be pulled due to overcrowding, I still adored my smile. I learned to admire my smile simply because it was mine - not one I had given away. Drugs were an intrinsic part of living in South Dakota. My uncle's teeth were reduced to chips, my aunt’s are completely gone, and my grandparent’s were replaced with dentures. I had learned early on that they had given them away - willingly sacrificing their gums to drugs. I also learned that drugs corrupted much more than teeth. This is why I hold so much pride in my teeth, for they were something I could claim pure as the driven snow. They may not look the part, but they symbolize where I came from, and where I could go. Being part of the lower class meant that dentistry was not often available. With barely enough money for rent, even toothpaste was a welcome commodity. When my teeth grew crooked and my mouth became overcrowded, there was simply nothing I could do but watch - and admire. They weren’t beautiful or brilliant, but they were mine - and mine alone. While most of my family had given their entire lives to drugs, I broke my legacy and dedicated myself to keeping my teeth healthy and my mind clear. Now, with new braces and a straight smile, I still find admiration. With a family legacy of broken, rotting, and disheveled smiles, I can only look at the legacy I’m leaving behind. Not only am I the first in the family with a brilliant smile - but also the first to graduate high school. This, and the first to seek higher education. With all the tools I need at my disposal - and a healthy smile - I am ready to take on the world. In college, I plan on doing much the same. I will continue to break traditions and foster new expectations. I will continue to be a change-maker, and help others who are victims of warped smiles. In the future, I see great potential for change within the medical field, and with the help of the Francis “Slip” Madigan Scholarship, this future is possible. No longer will my family be known for their broken teeth, but for their brilliant and influencing smiles.

I am selfish. This has always been my reality, yet I have only recently come to terms with it. I realized my innate selfishness after my mother’s head injury. She refused treatment, forcing me to watch the jubilance dissipate from her eyes, leaving only a semblance of who she once was. I was left to look after my younger siblings, yet I found myself needing her more than any of them. The person who was only 17 at my birth and a single mother was my biggest example of selflessness. She would donate her last penny to anyone struggling, teaching me that altruism was a virtue. I was willing to risk it all to bring that piece of her back. In hopes of finding a cure, I plunged into the world of neuroscience and psychology for an answer to my question: “Can brain damage be reversed?” I sought to help her when I knew nothing of what I could help with - triggering a deep love of cognitive neuroscience. From then on, I realized that the study of chemistry and neuroanatomy deeply moved my soul for some obstinate reason. This is what I had always wanted for my life; however, this was not solely for the reason of wanting to help people, but because I found that my efforts brought me my own kind of joy. So ultimately, I can say that I pursued neuroscience for a purely acquisitive purpose. I had always been an eclectic person, collecting hobbies and skills like cards in a deck, pulling out whichever one made me the happiest at that moment. I found that I loved art, music, writing, science, and everything in between. I especially loved writing about subjects I was passionate about, such as my junior essay about the costs of healthcare. Not because I wanted others to hear my words, but rather because I wanted to learn to wield them myself. Though I do enjoy showing my findings, I relish learning about them so much more. For that, I am selfish. I am a collector. I covet each opportunity to discover something - or someone - new. Growing up in an eclectic environment led me to value every person’s ideas, for a diverse variety of ideas is what fuels discovery. Discoveries in science fuel societal improvement. Incorporation of this into my work makes me selfish. Due to that same selfishness, I found that I experienced joy in lending to others, for it would inevitably come back to me. I started standing on the side of the road waving a sign that read, “YOU MATTER!” I did this not wholly because I wanted passersby to believe that but because I wanted myself - and those beside me - to believe it as well. I found that if I gave part of myself away, I could get so much more back. I started obsessively applying to clubs, taking officer positions to give that part of me to others - only so I could feed my pride and ambitions. For that, I am selfish. My mother’s head injury was not the worst event. Not only did she recover, but throughout her journey I found myself learning from her, building upon myself as though I was a tower reaching towards the heavens. Each brick I put down served as a marking: artist, musician, dreamer, coder, mathematician, teacher, student, and much more. I learned through this journey that my mother did not in fact exhibit the highest form of selflessness, but rather the most humble form of selfishness. Looking back, my selfishness is my favorite trait.

I am selfish. This has always been my reality, yet I have only recently come to terms with it. I realized my innate selfishness after my mother’s head injury. She refused treatment, forcing me to watch the jubilance dissipate from her eyes, leaving only a semblance of who she once was. I was left to look after my younger siblings, yet I found myself needing her more than any of them. The person who was only 17 at my birth and a single mother was my biggest example of selflessness. She would donate her last penny to anyone struggling, teaching me that altruism was a virtue. I was willing to risk it all to bring that piece of her back. In hopes of finding a cure, I plunged into the world of neuroscience and psychology for an answer to my question: “Can brain damage be reversed?” I sought to help her when I knew nothing of what I could help with - triggering a deep love of cognitive neuroscience. From then on, I realized that the study of chemistry and neuroanatomy deeply moved my soul for some obstinate reason. This is what I had always wanted for my life; however, this was not solely for the reason of wanting to help people, but because I found that my efforts brought me my own kind of joy. So ultimately, I can say that I pursued neuroscience for a purely acquisitive purpose. I had always been an eclectic person, collecting hobbies and skills like cards in a deck, pulling out whichever one made me the happiest at that moment. I found that I loved art, music, writing, science, and everything in between. I especially loved writing about subjects I was passionate about, such as my junior essay about the costs of healthcare. Not because I wanted others to hear my words, but rather because I wanted to learn to wield them myself. Though I do enjoy showing my findings, I relish learning about them so much more. For that, I am selfish. I am a collector. I covet each opportunity to discover something - or someone - new. Growing up in an eclectic environment led me to value every person’s ideas, for a diverse variety of ideas is what fuels discovery. Collecting each idea and incorporating it into my work makes me selfish. Due to that same selfishness, I found that I experienced joy in lending to others, for it would inevitably come back to me. I started standing on the side of the road waving a sign that read, “YOU MATTER!” I did this not wholly because I wanted passersby to believe that but because I wanted myself - and those beside me - to believe it as well. I found that if I gave part of myself away, I could get so much more back. I started obsessively applying to clubs, taking officer positions to give that part of me to others - only so I could feed my pride and ambitions. For that, I am selfish. My mother’s head injury was not the worst event. Not only did she recover, but throughout her journey I found myself learning from her, building upon myself as though I was a tower reaching towards the heavens. Each brick I put down served as a marking: artist, musician, dreamer, coder, mathematician, teacher, student, and much more. I learned through this journey that my selfishness has led to good for others. Looking back, my selfishness is my favorite trait.

I am selfish. This has always been my reality, yet I have only recently come to terms with it. I realized my innate selfishness after my mother’s head injury. She refused treatment, forcing me to watch the jubilance dissipate from her eyes, leaving only a semblance of who she once was. I was left to look after my younger siblings, yet I found myself needing her more than any of them. The person who was only 17 at my birth and a single mother was my biggest example of selflessness. She would donate her last penny to anyone struggling, teaching me that altruism was a virtue. I was willing to risk it all to bring that piece of her back. In hopes of finding a cure, I plunged into the world of neuroscience and psychology for an answer to my question: “Can brain damage be reversed?” I sought to help her when I knew nothing of what I could help with - triggering a deep love of cognitive neuroscience. From then on, I realized that the study of chemistry and neuroanatomy deeply moved my soul for some obstinate reason. This is what I had always wanted for my life; however, this was not solely for the reason of wanting to help people, but because I found that my efforts brought me my own kind of joy. So ultimately, I can say that I pursued a neuroscience degree for a purely acquisitive purpose. I had always been an eclectic person, collecting hobbies and skills like cards in a deck, pulling out whichever one made me the happiest at that moment. I found that I loved art, music, writing, science, and everything in between. I especially loved writing about subjects I was passionate about, such as my junior essay about the costs of healthcare. Not because I wanted others to hear my words, but rather because I wanted to learn to wield them myself. Though I do enjoy showing my findings, I relish learning about them so much more. For that, I am selfish. I am a collector. I covet each opportunity to discover something - or someone - new. Growing up in an eclectic environment led me to value every person’s ideas, for a diverse variety of ideas is what fuels discovery. Collecting each idea and incorporating it into my work makes me selfish. Due to that same selfishness, I found that I experienced joy in lending to others, for it would inevitably come back to me. I started standing on the side of the road waving a sign that read, “YOU MATTER!” I did this not wholly because I wanted passersby to believe that but because I wanted myself - and those beside me - to believe it as well. I found that if I gave part of myself away, I could get so much more back. I started obsessively applying to clubs, taking officer positions to give that part of me to others - only so I could feed my pride and ambitions. For that, I am selfish. My mother’s head injury was not the worst event. Not only did she recover, but throughout her journey I found myself learning from her, building upon myself as though I was a tower reaching towards the heavens. Each brick I put down served as a marking: artist, musician, dreamer, coder, mathematician, teacher, student, and much more. I learned through this journey that my mother did not in fact exhibit the highest form of selflessness, but rather the most humble form of selfishness. Ultimately, my selfishness led me to pursue a degree.

I am selfish. This has always been my reality, yet I have only recently come to terms with it. I realized my innate selfishness after my mother’s head injury. She refused treatment, forcing me to watch the jubilance dissipate from her eyes, leaving only a semblance of who she once was. I was left to look after my younger siblings, yet I found myself needing her more than any of them. The person who was only 17 at my birth and a single mother was my biggest example of selflessness. She would donate her last penny to anyone struggling, teaching me that altruism was a virtue. I was willing to risk it all to bring that piece of her back. In hopes of finding a cure, I plunged into the world of neuroscience and psychology for an answer to my question: “Can brain damage be reversed?” I sought to help her when I knew nothing of what I could help with - triggering a deep love of cognitive neuroscience. From then on, I realized that the study of chemistry and neuroanatomy deeply moved my soul for some obstinate reason. This is what I had always wanted for my life; however, this was not solely for the reason of wanting to help people, but because I found that my efforts brought me my own kind of joy. So ultimately, I can say that I pursued neuroscience for a purely acquisitive purpose. I had always been an eclectic person, collecting hobbies and skills like cards in a deck, pulling out whichever one made me the happiest at that moment. I found that I loved art, music, writing, science, and everything in between. I especially loved writing about subjects I was passionate about, such as my junior essay about the costs of healthcare. Not because I wanted others to hear my words, but rather because I wanted to learn to wield them myself. Though I do enjoy showing my findings, I relish learning about them so much more. For that, I am selfish. I am a collector. I covet each opportunity to discover something - or someone - new. Growing up in an eclectic environment led me to value every person’s ideas, for a diverse variety of ideas is what fuels discovery. Discoveries in science fuel societal improvement. Incorporation of this into my work makes me selfish. Due to that same selfishness, I found that I experienced joy in lending to others, for it would inevitably come back to me. I started standing on the side of the road waving a sign that read, “YOU MATTER!” I did this not wholly because I wanted passersby to believe that but because I wanted myself - and those beside me - to believe it as well. I found that if I gave part of myself away, I could get so much more back. I started obsessively applying to clubs, taking officer positions to give that part of me to others - only so I could feed my pride and ambitions. For that, I am selfish. My mother’s head injury was not the worst event. Not only did she recover, but throughout her journey I found myself learning from her, building upon myself as though I was a tower reaching towards the heavens. Each brick I put down served as a marking: artist, musician, dreamer, coder, mathematician, teacher, student, and much more. I learned through this journey that my mother did not in fact exhibit the highest form of selflessness, but rather the most humble form of selfishness. Looking back, my selfishness is my favorite trait.

I am selfish. This has always been my reality, yet I have only recently accepted it. I realized my innate selfishness after my mother’s head injury. She refused to get treatment, forcing me to watch the jubilance dissipate from her eyes, leaving only a semblance of who she once was. I was left to look after my younger siblings, yet I found that I needed her more than even them. The person who was only 17 at my birth and a single mother was my biggest example of selflessness. She would donate her last penny to anyone struggling, teaching me that altruism was a virtue. I was willing to risk it all to bring that piece of her back. In hopes of finding a cure, I plunged into the world of neuroscience and psychology for an answer to my question: “Can brain damage be reversed?” I sought to help her when I knew nothing of what I could help with - triggering a deep love of cognitive neuroscience. From then on, I realized that chemistry and neuroanatomy deeply moved my soul for some obstinate reason. I had always wanted this for my life; however, this was not solely because I wanted to help humanity but because I found that my efforts brought me my own kind of joy. So ultimately, I can say that I pursued neuroscience for a purely acquisitive purpose. I had always been eclectic, collecting hobbies and skills like cards in a deck, pulling out whichever one made me happiest at that moment. I loved art, music, writing, science, and everything in between. I especially loved writing about subjects I was passionate about, such as my junior essay about egregious healthcare costs. Not because I wanted others to hear my words but because I wanted to learn to wield them myself. Though I enjoyed showing my findings, I relish learning through them much more. For that, I am selfish. Due to that same selfishness, I found that I relished lending to others, for it would inevitably come back to me. I started standing on the side of the road waving a sign that read, “YOU MATTER!” I did this not wholly because I wanted passersby to believe that but because I wanted myself - and those beside me - to believe it as well. I found that if I gave part of myself away, I could get so much more back. For that, I am selfish. My mother’s head injury was not the worst event. Not only did she recover, but throughout her journey I found myself learning from her flaws, building upon myself as though I was a tower reaching upwards into the heavens. Each brick I put down was a marking: artist, musician, dreamer, coder, mathematician, teacher, student, and more. I learned through this voyage that my mother did not exhibit the highest form of selflessness but rather the most humble form of selfishness. Looking back, my selfishness is my favorite trait.

The thing about math is that there is a bottomless pit at the heart of it. This cavity is full of questions that will never be answered, and hypotheses that can never be proven true. The deeper you explore this pit, the more profound it becomes. Math serves as the basis for all fields of knowledge, though due to the chasm can never be considered fact. Sure, there are axioms, those statements considered accurate without actually being correct, but these axioms only expand the crevasse, limiting the number of suppositions we can make. Assumptions are at the heart of mathematics, yet looked down upon in a rational world. But how can this be? The existence of the pit is genuine, yet the very nature of it is terrifying to some. For me, this pit is an opportunity. The deeper you plunge, the greater the folds of discovery open for you. Personally, this did not mean as much until I found that the basis of human life - of all life - depended on the very real, yet unproven, world of mathematics. Every biological function depends on the continuity of stable mathematical structures, but even these cannot be measured. As bizarre as this is, the very essence of mathematics is to forgo reality. Real numbers exist, sure, but it is within those imagined numbers where innovation takes place. While most view mathematics as static, the reality is that math is indisputably dynamic. The future of life depends on it, yet everything in mathematics is subject to change. The pit can become deeper, or even swallow us whole. This is where my fascination lies, in the ever-changing world of numbers - letters even! Something that was once static could become entirely unrealistic, yet we will never know this until it happens. Mathematics cannot be predicted or even confirmed because the pit - the heart - of math is forever-changing. The crater will enlarge, and the border of the unknown will forever change, but my love for this side of mathematics will remain static.

I am selfish. This has always been my reality, yet I have only recently come to terms with it. I realized my innate selfishness after my mother’s head injury. She refused treatment, forcing me to watch the jubilance dissipate from her eyes, leaving only a semblance of who she once was. I was left to look after my younger siblings, yet I found myself needing her more than any of them. The person who was only 17 at my birth and a single mother was my biggest example of selflessness. She would donate her last penny to anyone struggling, teaching me that altruism was a virtue. I was willing to risk it all to bring that piece of her back. In hopes of finding a cure, I plunged into the world of neuroscience and psychology for an answer to my question: “Can brain damage be reversed?” I sought to help her when I knew nothing of what I could help with - triggering a deep love of cognitive neuroscience. From then on, I realized that the study of chemistry and neuroanatomy deeply moved my soul for some obstinate reason. This is what I had always wanted for my life; however, this was not solely for the reason of wanting to help people, but because I found that my efforts brought me my own kind of joy. So ultimately, I can say that I pursued neuroscience for a purely acquisitive purpose. I had always been an eclectic person, collecting hobbies and skills like cards in a deck, pulling out whichever one made me the happiest at that moment. I found that I loved art, music, writing, science, and everything in between. I especially loved writing about subjects I was passionate about, such as my junior essay about the costs of healthcare. Not because I wanted others to hear my words, but rather because I wanted to learn to wield them myself. Though I do enjoy showing my findings, I relish learning about them so much more. For that, I am selfish. I am a collector. I covet each opportunity to discover something - or someone - new. Growing up in an eclectic environment led me to value every person’s ideas, for a diverse variety of ideas is what fuels discovery. Collecting each idea and incorporating it into my work makes me selfish. Due to that same selfishness, I found that I experienced joy in lending to others, for it would inevitably come back to me. I started standing on the side of the road waving a sign that read, “YOU MATTER!” I did this not wholly because I wanted passersby to believe that but because I wanted myself - and those beside me - to believe it as well. I found that if I gave part of myself away, I could get so much more back. I started obsessively applying to clubs, taking officer positions so that I could give that part of me to others - only so I could feed my pride and ambitions. For that, I am selfish. My mother’s head injury was not the worst event. Not only did she recover, but throughout her journey I found myself learning from her, building upon myself as though I was a tower reaching towards the heavens. Each brick I put down served as a marking: artist, musician, dreamer, coder, mathematician, teacher, student, and much more. I learned through this journey that my mother did not in fact exhibit the highest form of selflessness, but rather the most humble form of selfishness. Looking back, my selfishness is my favorite trait.