Photography and I had a toxic relationship. I loved it so much that I hated it. I became obsessed with technical perfection. Every shot had to be flawless. Every composition had to follow the rules I'd memorized from countless photography blogs. The exposure had to be perfect, the focus razor-sharp, the colors precisely calibrated. If an image didn't meet these impossible standards, it wasn't worth taking. This obsession consumed me. I'd carry my camera everywhere but never use it. I'd see beautiful moments unfold in front of me and think, "The light isn't right," or "I don't have the right lens," or "This won't look good enough." The voice in my head became ruthless, criticizing every potential shot before I even raised the camera. Every day felt the same. Wake up, think about photography, feel guilty about not photographing, scroll through other people's work, feel inadequate, promise myself I'd shoot tomorrow, repeat. I was stuck in a cycle of wanting and not doing, of loving and hating, of dreaming and never acting. My flow had completely stopped. Then came the day that changed everything, though it started as just another disappointment. My friends Ryan and Taylor convinced me to join them for what was supposed to be a simple sunset shoot. I'd found a roadside spot where the sun would set perfectly between two hills. It seemed foolproof, safe, technically manageable. Maybe this would be the shot that got me back into the rhythm. We drove fifty minutes, excited and hopeful. I felt that familiar flutter of anticipation, the first time in months I'd felt genuinely excited about taking a photograph. As we approached the location, I was already planning the shot in my head, visualizing the golden light, the perfect silhouette of the hills. Then we arrived. Construction barriers blocked the entire area. Orange cones, machinery, dirt piles where our viewpoint should have been. The spot was completely inaccessible. I stared at the blocked road, feeling that familiar crushing weight of disappointment. "We drove all this way for nothing," I said, ready to give up, ready to retreat back into my shell of paralysis. But Ryan and Taylor weren't ready to quit. "Let's just walk around," Ryan suggested. "Maybe we'll find something else." I wanted to go home. I wanted to use this as another excuse to not photograph anything. But something in their persistence made me follow them along the train tracks that ran parallel to the blocked road. That's when we spotted it: a small gap under a ten-foot-tall fence. Curiosity got the better of us. We looked at each other, shrugged, and decided to crawl through . The gap was tighter than it looked. We had to army-crawl through dirt and gravel, our clothes getting filthy. On the other side, we faced a wall of thick bushes that seemed impenetrable. We could have turned back. Instead, we pushed through, branches catching our clothes, thorns scratching our arms. When we finally emerged on the other side, we stopped breathing. Before us stretched a massive hidden reservoir, its surface perfectly still, reflecting the sky. Families were scattered along the shoreline, children splashing in the shallow areas, adults fishing from makeshift chairs. Beyond the water rose a mountain that seemed to pierce the clouds themselves. "We have to climb that," Taylor said, pointing at the mountain. I'm not an outdoorsy person. I prefer the comfort of indoor spaces, the predictability of familiar environments. But something about this unexpected discovery made me feel brave. The climb took forty-five minutes of steep, rocky terrain. My legs burned, my lungs struggled, but I kept going. When we finally reached the summit, I felt like I was standing in the sky itself. The world spread out below us in every direction, the reservoir looking like a jewel nestled between rolling hills. That's when I realized my camera was still in my bag. For the first time in months, I pulled it out without thinking about whether the conditions were perfect. I didn't worry about the harsh midday light or the fact that I didn't have the right lens. I just started shooting. The flow returned instantly. The photos I took weren't technically perfect. The exposure was off in some of them. The composition was spontaneous rather than carefully planned. But they captured something I'd been missing in all my obsessing over perfection: the feeling of the moment. I photographed Ryan's face as he took in the view, his expression of pure wonder. I captured Taylor's laughter as it echoed across the lake below. I zoomed in to document the gentle interactions between families at the water's edge. One shot in particular stopped me cold when I reviewed it later. It was a simple image of our three shadows on the rocky summit, the vast landscape stretching endlessly behind us. It wasn't the most technically sophisticated photograph I'd ever taken, but it was the most honest. It captured the essence of friendship, adventure, and the joy of unexpected discovery. That photograph became my entry point back into photography. It taught me that the moments worth preserving aren't always the ones that look perfect in the viewfinder. Sometimes they're the ones that feel perfect in your heart. The toxic relationship I'd had with photography transformed into something healthier that day. That hidden reservoir taught me that the most beautiful discoveries often come from the most unexpected disappointments, and sometimes the shot you almost didn't take is the one that saves your relationship with the art you love. Sometimes you have to lose your flow completely to understand what it really means to find it again.

Growing up in a low-income household has taught me that success isn't measured by where you start, but by how far you're willing to climb. When my father first arrived in the United States from India, he was one of four siblings who had stayed behind while he pursued the American dream. Those early years were marked by sacrifice and uncertainty. He lived in overcrowded conditions, sharing living space with six other roommates, scraping together enough money to survive while working tirelessly to establish himself. His stories of those difficult times weren't shared as complaints, but as lessons about resilience and the importance of never giving up on your goals. Our family's housing instability throughout most of my childhood meant we moved frequently, never quite settling into one place for long. Each move represented both a challenge and an opportunity – a chance for my father to find better work, a safer neighborhood, or more affordable rent. Through these transitions, I watched him maintain his optimism and work ethic, always believing that the next opportunity would be better than the last. This constant adaptation taught me flexibility and the importance of viewing change as growth rather than setback. What inspired me most about my father wasn't just his personal determination, but his commitment to helping others even when he was struggling himself. Despite our financial constraints, he would often extend help to newer immigrants in our community, sharing resources, offering advice, or simply lending a listening ear to those facing similar challenges. He understood what it meant to arrive in a new country with nothing but hope and determination, and he never forgot that feeling. This combination of entrepreneurial spirit and community service became the foundation for my own business aspirations. Inspired by my father's example, I started my own car photography business during high school. Rather than focusing solely on profit, I reflected on the values I learned at home. I began offering free car photography shoots to young car enthusiasts, local dealerships, and families wanting to document special vehicle purchases. These free sessions became some of my most meaningful work. Capturing a teenager's first car or documenting a family's pride in their first reliable vehicle reminded me why business should be about more than just financial success. These experiences reinforced my belief that entrepreneurship can be a powerful tool for positive community impact. My father's journey from sharing a bedroom with six roommates to providing stability for our family has shown me that business success and social responsibility aren't mutually exclusive. His example taught me that true entrepreneurship involves identifying needs in your community and finding innovative ways to address them, even when resources are limited. As I pursue my business degree, I plan to develop ventures that combine profitability with social impact, particularly focusing on services for underserved communities. Whether through affordable business consulting for small immigrant businesses or developing platforms that connect low-income families with essential services, I want to build enterprises that create both value and opportunity. Like Charles Bowlus, who took a gamble on his vision and built lasting connections for others, I'm committed to building businesses that create opportunities and make meaningful differences in people's lives.

Math and I weren’t on speaking terms. I gave it attitude, and it gave me back red ink. Not just the occasional wrong answer, full pages bleeding with corrections. Meanwhile, I was perfectly content living in soccer cleats, scoring goals that didn’t involve solving for x squared. x squared never helped me block a shot. It didn’t care how fast I could sprint or how cleanly I could curve a ball into the upper corner. On the field, I was quick, sharp, and in control. In math class, I was guessing my way through worksheets, hoping for a miracle and getting migraines instead. I didn’t hate school, I just saw it as the thing that happened before practice. Then came Mr. Lee. Technically, Coach Lee. He was my soccer coach for two years, but I met a different version of him when he became my teacher for Math 3 and later AP Precalculus. I expected drills. I expected formulas. What I didn’t expect was a poop story. Within the first 10 minutes of class itself, he described how he’d been in high school, rushing into a bathroom stall after a bad cafeteria burrito. And somehow, despite his best efforts, he missed. Just completely missed. His tone was dead serious as he described the cleanup, the shame, the silence. And not a single person in the room could stop laughing. No teacher had ever started class like that. That was Coach Lee’s magic. He made math human. Every day, there was a new story, like the time he broke his nose mid soccer game and had to be rushed into the ER. Or when he got caught cheating on a test and his mom spanked him at home, with such force that “the walls trembled.” He shared these not to shock us, but to connect. Through that, he taught me the importance of adapting to help others, even if it meant throwing yourself out there at times. And somehow, I started caring about math. Not because I suddenly loved equations, but because I loved the space he created. A space where I could laugh but learn at the same time. Where it was okay to be lost, so long as you were trying. For someone like me, who had always stuck to sports and kept his head down in class, that changed everything. I started raising my hand. Staying after to ask questions. Answering peers who were struggling. I didn’t just grow academically. I grew as a person. Mr. Lee gave me a new language for curiosity, one that didn’t require perfection, only participation. More than any lesson on limits or trigonometric identities, what I remember is how he made people feel. He reminded us that learning could be funny. That failure wasn’t fatal. That a teacher could be someone who messed up, cleaned up, and still showed up. Now, I explain concepts to my friends before tests. I approach challenges with less fear. I even crack my own dumb jokes while studying. Mr. Lee didn’t just make me better at math. He made me better at being myself. He made math bearable. Then interesting. Then mine. And that’s something no textbook could’ve taught me.

There were entire stretches of time when I didn’t know if anything meant anything. And that wasn’t a cry for help or a performance. It was just the truth. It’s strange to describe yourself as someone who believes in God and still feels haunted by nothingness. I’m Christian. I pray. I believe in heaven. But some nights, I’d stare at my ceiling with that aching sense that none of it mattered. Not the grades I was pulling, not the conversations I was having, not even the love I knew I was surrounded by. It felt like I was drifting, waiting for something to make me feel anchored. My friends noticed. My girlfriend noticed. I brushed it off every time. I’d nod, smile, change the subject. I became skilled at saying “I’m just tired” in five different ways. I didn’t want to burden anyone. And more than that, I didn’t think anyone could understand the flavor of what I was feeling. It wasn’t textbook depression, or at least it didn’t feel like it. I wasn’t sad all the time. I still laughed. I still showed up. But I felt disconnected, like my soul was lagging a few feet behind me and couldn’t quite catch up. I read too much Camus. I watched too many videos about the heat death of the universe. I spiraled into questions with no answers. And the more people tried to pull me out of it, the more I recoiled. What saved me wasn’t therapy. It wasn’t medication. It wasn’t a singular intervention or lightbulb moment. What saved me, if you could call it that, was quiet. Quiet in the form of long hikes where the only thing that mattered was the soft crunch of my shoes against the dirt and the way the trees filtered the sunlight like the stained glass at Church. Quiet in the form of gazing into the night sky, lying on my back with the stars stretching out above me, reminding me that maybe being small didn’t mean being meaningless. Quiet in the form of photography, capturing details that no one else noticed, like drops of water on a windshield or a crack in the pavement shaped like a question mark. And then there were the drives. My friends and I would get in the car, pick a direction, and just go. Music up, windows down, destination irrelevant. There was something sacred about those drives. No one expected anyone to be okay. No one tried to fix anything. We’d talk about the dumbest things, or we’d sit in silence, and both felt like love. They were moments where I didn’t have to perform happiness or explain my absence. I could just exist. Over time, I began to realize something: maybe we weren’t meant to find answers. Maybe we were just meant to ask better questions. Instead of “What’s the point?”, I started asking “What can I make meaningful today?” Instead of “Why do I feel so alone?”, I asked “What moments make me feel less so?” Faith helped. Not in a sweeping, cinematic kind of way, but in the way a familiar song helps when you're driving home at night. I didn’t stop questioning. I still felt fear. But I also started to understand that faith wasn’t about never doubting. It was about holding onto something anyway. For me, it became about holding space for both: the questions and the hope, the uncertainty and the grace. My experience with mental health reshaped everything. It changed how I treat people. I no longer assume someone is okay just because they’re laughing. I check in. I ask again. I listen harder. It made me a better friend, a more present son, a more thoughtful partner. My understanding of the world has become more paradoxical, and I’m okay with that. I’ve learned that meaning isn’t always loud. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it sits with you in the passenger seat during a 2am drive and doesn’t say a word. Sometimes it’s found in a single picture, a testament to the happy times. I still have hard days. I still drift sometimes. But now I know where to go when the existentialism starts to creep in. I go outside. I look up. I call a friend. I take a picture. I pray, not always for answers, but for peace. And peace, more often than not, shows up in the quiet.

In eighth grade, someone pantsed me in front of what seemed to be my entire school during lunch. The moment was fast, maybe three or four seconds, but the laughter stuck around much longer. That day didn’t just embarrass me. It made me realize how quickly cruelty can be brushed off as a joke. I laughed too, because I thought I was supposed to. But inside, I felt powerless. Now, I always wear a belt. More importantly, I’ve tried to become the kind of person I needed back then. Through Link Crew, I mentor incoming freshmen and help make our campus feel less intimidating. As a Super Link Crew member, I go beyond orientation to stay connected with underclassmen throughout the year. I look out for students who hang back, avoid eye contact, or eat lunch alone. I know what it’s like to feel small, and I want others to feel seen. Online, I stay vocal. Whether it's speaking up when someone posts a hate comment or sharing resources on mental health, I try to contribute to make the internet a kinder and more positive space, safer and more thoughtful. Even liking or commenting something positive on someone’s post can make a real difference. I’ve learned that silence often makes bullying worse, so I refuse to stay quiet. Outside of school, I volunteer through Church and financial literacy programs, helping younger students, especially those from underrepresented communities. I’ve led conversations about digital safety, financial literacy, healthy communication, and what to do when someone crosses a boundary. My goal is to show kids that strength comes from kindness, not control. College isn’t just a dream in my family. It’s a goal we’ve worked toward piece by piece, conversation by conversation. My parents have always done everything they can to support me, but the truth is, the cost of higher education is a lot. A scholarship like this wouldn’t just ease the financial burden. It would represent the belief that what I’m doing matters, and that where I’m going is worth investing in. I’m not trying to be anyone’s savior. I just remember what it felt like to be thirteen, holding my shorts up with one hand and my pride with the other. If I can help even one person avoid that moment, or recover from something like it, that’s enough for me. And yes, to this day, my belt collection is thriving. Velcro, leather, canvas. You name it, I own it. Some people collect sneakers. I collect closure.

I didn’t know a movie could make me feel quieter inside. I watched Blade Runner 2049 alone. Not because I meant to, but because no one else was interested. That felt fitting in a way. From the first few minutes, the movie felt like it wasn’t trying to be seen. It moved slowly. It gave space to silence. I didn’t understand the plot right away, but that didn’t bother me. Something else was happening. Something softer. I didn’t need to analyze it. I just needed to be there with it. There’s a moment when officer K finds the horse. It’s small and rough and made of wood, and it looks like it shouldn’t matter. But to him, it does. It’s proof that maybe something in his life is real. Something that belongs to him. He holds onto it like it’s sacred. And I understood that. Not because I’ve ever found a wooden horse, but because I’ve looked for meaning in small, strange things. I’ve done it quietly. I don’t always talk about it. But I’ve saved scraps of paper I don’t need. I’ve rewound songs just to feel the exact same second again. I’ve wondered why certain moments stick to my memory when nothing important happened in them. Sometimes I stare at the ceiling and try to remember who I was five years ago, just to prove I existed. K thinks he might be special. That his memories are real. That maybe he’s not like the others. And for a while, he lets himself believe it. But then he finds out he’s not. And everything goes still. That moment didn’t break me. It made me still too. Because I think I’ve been waiting to feel like I matter in some undeniable way. Waiting for something or someone to tell me that I’m different. That I’m more than what I seem. That I have a place, a meaning, a role I was born for. But what K does after that moment changed me. He makes a choice. He helps someone else. He doesn’t need to be remembered. He doesn’t need to be the miracle. He just decides that meaning is something you give, not something you’re given. That stayed with me. It still does. Blade Runner 2049 didn’t inspire me. It didn’t fix anything. But it gave me something rare. It gave me quiet. It gave me the idea that maybe I don’t need to be extraordinary to make my life matter. That maybe there is no “one.” I just need to be here. To pay attention. To care. To choose. To love without needing to be noticed. That’s enough.