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.