In the soft glow of a dimly lit room, a young boy quietly tinkers with small, colorful bricks. He assembles, adjusts, stacks, and scatters them with a hushed concentration. Slowly, the features of a city took shape beneath his fingers. The boy gazes at his creation admiringly, carefully adding and removing elements. Then, in just a split second, he tears it down—but only to begin again. As the day turns into night, the boy continues this cycle until he hears the click-clack of the front door opening. It was in second grade when I was first left alone at home. What began as an isolated event became a regular occurrence. By fourth grade, I walked to school on my own. By fifth, I frequently ran errands. By sixth, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. Early on, I relished being left alone; the freedom to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, the independence contoured me like water eroding rock. I had few friends, and those I made would slip away as easily as I grasped them. The slow drip of solitude transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. The words would clog in my throat when I tried asking for my teacher’s help, fearing I would be a bother. I avoided asking store employees to locate an item. At dinner, I often sat in silence, unable to maintain conversations with my parents. High school only intensified the symptoms. Interacting with others became a strenuous effort. I became more conscious about the way others would perceive me, stifling my ability to initiate conversations. I knew I couldn’t continue like this. Luckily, there were always opportunities for me to take that first step. The summer after 10th grade, I left home to live in a college dorm for a week-long experience. Immersed in unfamiliar surroundings, I was forced to talk to strangers, to interact in ways I was never used to. Despite the deep-rooted cracks in my confidence, I managed to become close with those living in Texas, Tennessee, and Chicago. As I set down my luggage back home, I paused—had a self-evaluation. If I am able to connect with people across the country, why not those around me? It felt as if the cracks within me were being filled. I became more involved in my club, engaged in more meaningful conversations, and reached out to others in ways I never thought I possibly could. It’s ironic—the independence that once isolated me became the very reason for overcoming that isolation. My long days of being alone led me to invent new ways to occupy myself. I would let my imagination run wild on those few pieces of LEGO bricks, crafting hundreds of different scenes—the sole architect in an imaginary universe. Yet, I started to wonder. What use was building with LEGOs in the real world? What else can I turn to as an outlet for my creativity and passion? With my newfound confidence and desire to change, all the pieces fell into place. With this degree, I am able to accomplish much more. One of the many goals is to secure a job that I will both enjoy and that will sustain me and my family for the rest of our lives. Another is to give back to my community through the wonders of engineering. All the accomplishments I intend to achieve—publishing research, designing innovative products, or discovering new engineering feats—I now feel ready to embrace the challenges ahead.

In the soft glow of a dimly lit room, a young boy quietly tinkers with small, colorful bricks. He assembles, adjusts, stacks, and scatters them with a hushed concentration. Slowly, the features of a city took shape beneath his fingers. The boy gazes at his creation admiringly, carefully adding and removing elements. Then, in just a split second, he tears it down—but only to begin again. As the day turns into night, the boy continues this cycle until he hears the click-clack of the front door opening. It was in second grade when I was first left alone at home. What began as an isolated event became a regular occurrence. By fourth grade, I walked to school on my own. By fifth, I frequently ran errands. By sixth, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. Early on, I relished being left alone; the freedom to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, the independence contoured me like water eroding rock. I had few friends, and those I made would slip away as easily as I grasped them. The slow drip of solitude transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. The words would clog in my throat when I tried asking for my teacher’s help, fearing I would be a bother. I avoided asking store employees to locate an item. At dinner, I often sat in silence, unable to maintain conversations with my parents. High school only intensified the symptoms. Interacting with others became a strenuous effort. I became more conscious about the way others would perceive me, stifling my ability to initiate conversations. I knew I couldn’t continue like this. Luckily, there were always opportunities for me to take that first step. The summer after 10th grade, I left home to live in a college dorm for a week-long experience. Immersed in unfamiliar surroundings, I was forced to talk to strangers, to interact in ways I was never used to. Despite the deep-rooted cracks in my confidence, I managed to become close with those living in Texas, Tennessee, and Chicago. As I set down my luggage back home, I paused—had a self-evaluation. If I am able to connect with people across the country, why not those around me? It felt as if the cracks within me were being filled. I became more involved in my club, engaged in more meaningful conversations, and reached out to others in ways I never thought I possibly could. It’s ironic—the independence that once isolated me became the very reason for overcoming that isolation. My long days of being alone led me to invent new ways to occupy myself. I would let my imagination run wild on those few pieces of LEGO bricks, crafting hundreds of different scenes—the sole architect in an imaginary universe. Yet, I started to wonder. What use was building with LEGOs in the real world? What else can I turn to as an outlet for my creativity and passion? With my newfound confidence and desire to change, all the pieces fell into place. With this degree, I am able to accomplish much more. One of the many goals is to secure a job that I will both enjoy and that will sustain me and my family for the rest of our lives. Another is to give back to my community through the wonders of engineering. All the accomplishments I intend to achieve—publishing research, designing innovative products, or discovering new engineering feats—I now feel ready to embrace the challenges ahead.

I was whisked away to my home country from America before I could even walk. Although I am a natural-born American, I spent the first years of my childhood living with my grandparents in China. My parents weren’t ready for a second child, having to work multiple jobs in order to provide for my older brother. I was only able to meet my parents through FaceTime. Eventually, I returned and saw my family in person for the first time. I had to quickly adapt to American culture in order to adjust to my new life. One of the first steps was to learn the language. My parents had me take English classes on the side to supplement my learning. By sixth grade, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. A mix of both the way I grew up and not being in America for much of my childhood, I had some difficulties fitting into my classes. However, the summer after 10th grade, I left home to live in a college dorm for a week-long experience. Immersed in unfamiliar surroundings, I was forced to talk to strangers, to interact in ways I was never used to. Despite the deep-rooted cracks in my confidence, I managed to become close with those living in Texas, Tennessee, and Chicago. As I set down my luggage back home, I paused—had a self-evaluation. If I am able to connect with people across the country, why not those around me? I became more involved in my club, engaged in more meaningful conversations, and reached out to others in ways I never thought I possibly could. Being a first-generation student has not been a disadvantage but rather beneficial for me. I wouldn’t have been as ambitious to keep up with my fellow classmates. With a degree, I am able to accomplish much more. One of the many goals is to secure a job that I will both enjoy and that will sustain me and my family for the rest of our lives. Another is to give back to my community through the wonders of engineering. This scholarship will help be my first step towards my aspirations. All the accomplishments I intend to achieve—publishing research, designing innovative products, or discovering new engineering feats—I will be able to feel ready to embrace the challenges ahead.

In the soft glow of a dimly lit room, a young boy quietly tinkers with small, colorful bricks. He assembles, adjusts, stacks, and scatters them with a hushed concentration. Slowly, the features of a city took shape beneath his fingers. The boy gazes at his creation admiringly, carefully adding and removing elements. Then, in just a split second, he tears it down—but only to begin again. As the day turns into night, the boy continues this cycle until he hears the click-clack of the front door opening. It was in second grade when I was first left alone at home. What began as an isolated event became a regular occurrence. By fourth grade, I walked to school on my own. By fifth, I frequently ran errands. By sixth, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. Early on, I relished being left alone; the freedom to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, the independence contoured me like water eroding rock. I had few friends, and those I made would slip away as easily as I grasped them. The slow drip of solitude transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. The words would clog in my throat when I tried asking for my teacher’s help, fearing I would be a bother. I avoided asking store employees to locate an item. At dinner, I often sat in silence, unable to maintain conversations with my parents. High school only intensified the symptoms. Interacting with others became a strenuous effort. I became more conscious about the way others would perceive me, stifling my ability to initiate conversations. I knew I couldn’t continue like this. Luckily, there were always opportunities for me to take that first step. The summer after 10th grade, I left home to live in a college dorm for a week-long experience. Immersed in unfamiliar surroundings, I was forced to talk to strangers, to interact in ways I was never used to. Despite the deep-rooted cracks in my confidence, I managed to become close with those living in Texas, Tennessee, and Chicago. As I set down my luggage back home, I paused—had a self-evaluation. If I am able to connect with people across the country, why not those around me? It felt as if the cracks within me were being filled. I became more involved in my club, engaged in more meaningful conversations, and reached out to others in ways I never thought I possibly could. It’s ironic—the independence that once isolated me became the very reason for overcoming that isolation. My long days of being alone led me to invent new ways to occupy myself. I would let my imagination run wild on those few pieces of LEGO bricks, crafting hundreds of different scenes—the sole architect in an imaginary universe. Yet, I started to wonder. What use was building with LEGOs in the real world? What else can I turn to as an outlet for my creativity and passion? With my newfound confidence and desire to change, all the pieces fell into place. With this degree, I am able to accomplish much more. One of the many goals is to secure a job that I will both enjoy and that will sustain me and my family for the rest of our lives. Another is to give back to my community through the wonders of engineering. All the accomplishments I intend to achieve—publishing research, designing innovative products, or discovering new engineering feats—I now feel ready to embrace the challenges ahead.

It was in second grade when I was first left alone at home. What began as an isolated event became a regular occurrence. By fourth grade, I walked to school on my own. By fifth, I frequently ran errands. By sixth grade, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. Early on, I relished being left alone; the freedom to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, the independence contoured me like water eroding rock. I had few friends, and those I made would slip away as easily as I grasped them. The slow drip of solitude transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. The words would clog in my throat when I tried asking for my teacher’s help, fearing I would be a bother. I avoided asking store employees to locate an item. At dinner, I often sat in silence, unable to maintain conversations with my parents. High school only intensified the symptoms. Interacting with others became a strenuous effort. I became more conscious about the way others would perceive me, stifling my ability to initiate conversations. I knew I couldn’t continue like this. Luckily, there were always opportunities for me to take that first step. The summer after 10th grade, I left home to live in a college dorm for a week-long experience. Immersed in unfamiliar surroundings, I was forced to talk to strangers, to interact in ways I was never used to. However, through it all, a stranger turned my life upside down: my roommate for the week. I remember the trip we took to the nearby town. During our time together exploring the town, he taught me how to play Texas Holdem on some misplaced chairs, and we enjoyed enormous burritos at the Mexican restaurant. I still have the gumball machine we bought at the souvenir shop. These experiences that I was guided through have molded me into the person I am today, more confident and more ambitious. As I set down my luggage back home, I paused—had a self-evaluation. If I am able to connect with people across the country, why not those around me? I became more involved in my club, engaged in more meaningful conversations, and reached out to others in ways I never thought I possibly could. At times, I find myself feeling envious toward my fellow classmates, with their connections to renowned professors and access to prestigious college advising programs. So, upon receiving an email regarding a program that provides such college advice, I eagerly enrolled. Matriculate is a program that allows current students from top schools to give advice through the college process to aspiring college undergraduates. Engaging face-to-face with someone who has experienced the college process makes their advice feel more genuine and reliable. I also applied for another program dedicated to first-generation students, QuestBridge. Though the process was grueling, I made it past the application rounds and became a finalist. This was a scholarship that allowed first-generation, low-income students to attend a top college for free. I was also allowed resources and connections with other first-generation students as we traveled the treacherous waters of college together. Being a first-generation student has not been a disadvantage but rather beneficial for me. I wouldn’t have been as ambitious to keep up with my fellow classmates. Thank you for allowing me to share my story and apply for this scholarship.

It was in second grade when I was first left alone at home. What began as an isolated event became a regular occurrence. By fourth grade, I walked to school on my own. By fifth, I frequently ran errands. By sixth, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. Early on, I relished being left alone; the freedom to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, the independence contoured me like water eroding rock. I had few friends, and those I made would slip away as easily as I grasped them. The slow drip of solitude transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. The words would clog in my throat when I tried asking for my teacher’s help, fearing I would be a bother. I avoided asking store employees to locate an item. At dinner, I often sat in silence, unable to maintain conversations with my parents. Through this independence, I have come to understand the feeling of wanting to connect. That’s why I plan to reach out to those in a similar position as mine. It could be someone nearby or a larger part of my community. But no matter who it is, there will always be a chance to help. I have worked towards this goal of mine through volunteering. The Queens Public Library has been a prominent landmark throughout my life. Being raised with limited finances, this library provided me with access to books, technology, and a space for recreational interests. Weekly, I would borrow close to 10 books and absorb them just as fast. To give back to this community, I have volunteered as a Summer Reading Assistant, helping young children to learn how to read.

In the soft glow of a dimly lit room, a young boy quietly tinkers with small, colorful bricks. He assembles, adjusts, stacks, and scatters them with a hushed concentration. Slowly, the features of a city took shape beneath his fingers. The boy gazes at his creation admiringly, carefully adding and removing elements. Then, in just a split second, he tears it down—but only to begin again. As the day turns into night, the boy continues this cycle until he hears the click-clack of the front door opening. It was in second grade when I was first left alone at home. What began as an isolated event became a regular occurrence. By fourth grade, I walked to school on my own. By fifth, I frequently ran errands. By sixth, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. Early on, I relished being left alone; the freedom to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, the independence contoured me like water eroding rock. I had few friends, and those I made would slip away as easily as I grasped them. The slow drip of solitude transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. The words would clog in my throat when I tried asking for my teacher’s help, fearing I would be a bother. I avoided asking store employees to locate an item. At dinner, I often sat in silence, unable to maintain conversations with my parents. High school only intensified the symptoms. Interacting with others became a strenuous effort. I became more conscious about the way others would perceive me, stifling my ability to initiate conversations. I knew I couldn’t continue like this. Luckily, there were always opportunities for me to take that first step. The summer after 10th grade, I left home to live in a college dorm for a week-long experience. Immersed in unfamiliar surroundings, I was forced to talk to strangers, to interact in ways I was never used to. Despite the deep-rooted cracks in my confidence, I managed to become close with those living in Texas, Tennessee, and Chicago. As I set down my luggage back home, I paused—had a self-evaluation. If I am able to connect with people across the country, why not those around me? It felt as if the cracks within me were being filled. I became more involved in my club, engaged in more meaningful conversations, and reached out to others in ways I never thought I possibly could. It’s ironic—the independence that once isolated me became the very reason for overcoming that isolation. Despite the progress I have made to overcome my adversity, there are still moments of weakness that slip through. Whether it’s meeting new people or making a change in my daily schedule, I still feel the slight hint of hesitation. To those trying to overcome a similar adversity to mine, I say to take it slow. There will always be that one chance for change to occur, so persevere for now even if it’s hard. This change could be something small, or noticeable, but a few years down the line, you will remember the moment when your life has been flipped upside down.

I was whisked away to my home country from America before I could even walk. Although I am a natural-born American, I spent the first years of my childhood living with my grandparents in China. My parents weren’t ready for a second child, having to work multiple jobs in order to provide for my older brother. I was only able to meet my parents through FaceTime. Eventually, I returned and saw my family in person for the first time. I had to quickly adapt to American culture in order to adjust to my new life. One of the first steps was to learn the language. My parents had me take English classes on the side to supplement my learning. By sixth grade, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. A mix of both the way I grew up and not being in America for much of my childhood, I had some difficulties fitting into my classes. However, the summer after 10th grade, I left home to live in a college dorm for a week-long experience. Immersed in unfamiliar surroundings, I was forced to talk to strangers, to interact in ways I was never used to. Despite the deep-rooted cracks in my confidence, I managed to become close with those living in Texas, Tennessee, and Chicago. As I set down my luggage back home, I paused—had a self-evaluation. If I am able to connect with people across the country, why not those around me? I became more involved in my club, engaged in more meaningful conversations, and reached out to others in ways I never thought I possibly could. I sat in the bustling meeting room, taking a break before needing to leave for my next competition. My physics teacher, who was also my Science Olympiad advisor, pulled out a large, black rectangle from his backpack. He had brought his gaming laptop to an invitational. Bewildered, I saw him boot up a video game and start shooting the enemy team. We started to talk about our favorite games to play. From then on, he was my mentor in and out of the classroom. My school provides a program called SGI. It was essentially office hours, where students could receive help after school to make up tests or finish homework. He helped me through my journey in breaking free from my mold and through my physics journey. Tools clatter and saws buzz as I direct my team on what to build next. Scanning through our materials, I rushed to the next room over. I fumble through dozens of drawers, searching for the super glue we keep running out of. Science Olympiad provides me with the opportunity to utilize my creative impulses and share them with others. This is just one of the many reasons I plan to pursue mechanical engineering in college. I intend to take this flame, this passion I have cultivated, and carry it forward. All the accomplishments I intend to achieve—publishing research, designing innovative products, or discovering new engineering feats—I now feel ready to embrace the challenges ahead. I believe a 4-year program is not the end of my educational journey. I first plan to attend a master’s program to gain even more knowledge. With this degree, I am able to accomplish much more. One of the many goals is to secure a job that I will both enjoy and that will sustain me and my family for the rest of our lives. Another is to give back to my community through the wonders of engineering. There are a multitude of inventions to help make this world a better place that I require a degree for. I allowed the gate to creak behind me as I affixed my volunteer badge, sighing as I braced myself for another day of organizing books. But today was different. The librarian calls me to the conference room, where vibrant sheets and various art supplies scatter the desks—it is project day. Children of varying ages flood in, their excitement permeating through the air. The Queens Public Library has been a prominent landmark throughout my life. Being raised with limited finances, this library provided me with access to books, technology, and a space for recreational interests. Weekly, I would borrow close to 10 books and absorb them just as fast. Although I don’t visit as often, each glimpse of the building evokes waves of nostalgia.

In the soft glow of a dimly lit room, a young boy quietly tinkers with small, colorful bricks. He assembles, adjusts, stacks, and scatters them with a hushed concentration. Slowly, the features of a city took shape beneath his fingers. The boy gazes at his creation admiringly, carefully adding and removing elements. Then, in just a split second, he tears it down—but only to begin again. As the day turns into night, the boy continues this cycle until he hears the click-clack of the front door opening. It was in second grade when I was first left alone at home. What began as an isolated event became a regular occurrence. By fourth grade, I walked to school on my own. By fifth, I frequently ran errands. By sixth, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. Early on, I relished being left alone; the freedom to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, the independence contoured me like water eroding rock. I had few friends, and those I made would slip away as easily as I grasped them. The slow drip of solitude transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. The words would clog in my throat when I tried asking for my teacher’s help, fearing I would be a bother. I avoided asking store employees to locate an item. At dinner, I often sat in silence, unable to maintain conversations with my parents. High school only intensified the symptoms. Interacting with others became a strenuous effort. I became more conscious about the way others would perceive me, stifling my ability to initiate conversations. I knew I couldn’t continue like this. Luckily, there were always opportunities for me to take that first step. The summer after 10th grade, I left home to live in a college dorm for a week-long experience. Immersed in unfamiliar surroundings, I was forced to talk to strangers, to interact in ways I was never used to. Despite the deep-rooted cracks in my confidence, I managed to become close with those living in Texas, Tennessee, and Chicago. As I set down my luggage back home, I paused—had a self-evaluation. If I am able to connect with people across the country, why not those around me? It felt as if the cracks within me were being filled. I became more involved in my club, engaged in more meaningful conversations, and reached out to others in ways I never thought I possibly could. It’s ironic—the independence that once isolated me became the very reason for overcoming that isolation. My long days of being alone led me to invent new ways to occupy myself. I would let my imagination run wild on those few pieces of LEGO bricks, crafting hundreds of different scenes—the sole architect in an imaginary universe. Yet, I started to wonder. What use was building with LEGOs in the real world? What else can I turn to as an outlet for my creativity and passion? With my newfound confidence and desire to change, all the pieces fell into place. I intend to take this flame, this passion, I have cultivated and carry it forward. All the accomplishments I intend to achieve—publishing research, designing innovative products, or discovering new engineering feats—I now feel ready to embrace the challenges ahead. Whether I stay on the trail of engineering or chart a brand new path, I know that the experiences I have gone through will never alter.

In the soft glow of a dimly lit room, a young boy quietly tinkers with small, colorful bricks. He assembles, adjusts, stacks, and scatters them with a hushed concentration. Slowly, the features of a city took shape beneath his fingers. The boy gazes at his creation admiringly, carefully adding and removing elements. Then, in just a split second, he tears it down—but only to begin again. As the day turns into night, the boy continues this cycle until he hears the click-clack of the front door opening. It was in second grade when I was first left alone at home. What began as an isolated event became a regular occurrence. By fourth grade, I walked to school on my own. By fifth, I frequently ran errands. By sixth, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. Early on, I relished being left alone; the freedom to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, the independence contoured me like water eroding rock. I had few friends, and those I made would slip away as easily as I grasped them. The slow drip of solitude transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. The words would clog in my throat when I tried asking for my teacher’s help, fearing I would be a bother. I avoided asking store employees to locate an item. At dinner, I often sat in silence, unable to maintain conversations with my parents. High school only intensified the symptoms. Interacting with others became a strenuous effort. I became more conscious about the way others would perceive me, stifling my ability to initiate conversations. I knew I couldn’t continue like this. Luckily, there were always opportunities for me to take that first step. The summer after 10th grade, I left home to live in a college dorm for a week-long experience. Immersed in unfamiliar surroundings, I was forced to talk to strangers, to interact in ways I was never used to. Despite the deep-rooted cracks in my confidence, I managed to become close with those living in Texas, Tennessee, and Chicago. As I set down my luggage back home, I paused—had a self-evaluation. If I am able to connect with people across the country, why not those around me? It felt as if the cracks within me were being filled. I became more involved in my club, engaged in more meaningful conversations, and reached out to others in ways I never thought I possibly could. It’s ironic—the independence that once isolated me became the very reason for overcoming that isolation. My long days of being alone led me to invent new ways to occupy myself. I would let my imagination run wild on those few pieces of LEGO bricks, crafting hundreds of different scenes—the sole architect in an imaginary universe. Yet, I started to wonder. What use was building with LEGOs in the real world? What else can I turn to as an outlet for my creativity and passion? With my newfound confidence and desire to change, all the pieces fell into place. I rediscovered 3D computer-aided design (CAD), a passion I first encountered in 9th grade. Just like LEGOs, there is freedom for infinite creativity. However, I am able to create actual impact while becoming the perfect workspace for me to expand my imagination even further. Though I enjoyed creating with 3D CAD back then, I lacked the initiative to pursue it further. Now, that initial spark ignited into an unwavering flame.

In the soft glow of a dimly lit room, a young boy quietly tinkers with small, colorful bricks. He assembles, adjusts, stacks, and scatters them with a hushed concentration. Slowly, the features of a city took shape beneath his fingers. The boy gazes at his creation admiringly, carefully adding and removing elements. Then, in just a split second, he tears it down—but only to begin again. As the day turns into night, the boy continues this cycle until he hears the click-clack of the front door opening. It was in second grade when I was first left alone at home. What began as an isolated event became a regular occurrence. By fourth grade, I walked to school on my own. By fifth, I frequently ran errands. By sixth, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. Early on, I relished being left alone; the freedom to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, the independence contoured me like water eroding rock. I had few friends, and those I made would slip away as easily as I grasped them. The slow drip of solitude transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. The words would clog in my throat when I tried asking for my teacher’s help, fearing I would be a bother. I avoided asking store employees to locate an item. At dinner, I often sat in silence, unable to maintain conversations with my parents. High school only intensified the symptoms. Interacting with others became a strenuous effort. I became more conscious about the way others would perceive me, stifling my ability to initiate conversations. I knew I couldn’t continue like this. Luckily, there were always opportunities for me to take that first step. The summer after 10th grade, I left home to live in a college dorm for a week-long experience. Immersed in unfamiliar surroundings, I was forced to talk to strangers, to interact in ways I was never used to. Despite the deep-rooted cracks in my confidence, I managed to become close with those living in Texas, Tennessee, and Chicago. As I set down my luggage back home, I paused—had a self-evaluation. If I am able to connect with people across the country, why not those around me? It felt as if the cracks within me were being filled. I became more involved in my club, engaged in more meaningful conversations, and reached out to others in ways I never thought I possibly could. It’s ironic—the independence that once isolated me became the very reason for overcoming that isolation. My long days of being alone led me to invent new ways to occupy myself. I would let my imagination run wild on those few pieces of LEGO bricks, crafting hundreds of different scenes—the sole architect in an imaginary universe. Yet, I started to wonder. What use was building with LEGOs in the real world? What else can I turn to as an outlet for my creativity and passion? With my newfound confidence and desire to change, all the pieces fell into place. I rediscovered 3D computer-aided design (CAD), a passion I first encountered in 9th grade. Just like LEGOs, there is freedom for infinite creativity. However, I am able to create actual impact while becoming the perfect workspace for me to expand my imagination even further. Though I enjoyed creating with 3D CAD back then, I lacked the initiative to pursue it further. Now, that initial spark ignited into an unwavering flame. I intend to take this flame, this passion, I have cultivated and carry it forward. All the accomplishments I intend to achieve—publishing research, designing innovative products, or discovering new engineering feats—I now feel ready to embrace the challenges ahead. Whether I stay on the trail of engineering or chart a brand new path, I know that the experiences I have gone through will never alter. With this scholarship, I will be able to take that first step forward on my journey.

Tools clatter and saws buzz as I direct my team on what to build next. Glancing through our materials, I rushed to the next room over. I fumble through a maze of drawers, searching for the super glue we keep running out of. Through Science Olympiad, I am able to express and share my creative impulses with others. It embodies what I believe to be the true essence of engineering—creativity and innovation—while enjoying the process. Rushing past the front lawn, I pull open the building’s door, greeted by a rush of cool air. I quickly glance at the starred email, approaching the nearest person to ask for directions to Suite 200. I straighten out my shirt and ring the doorbell to the office where I will be spending the summer and my senior year. Landing an internship at a pension firm was unexpected, to say the least, and it showed. My limited qualifications thrust me into unfamiliar tasks. With minimal background in finance, I started a Google document that became a glossary of industry terms and definitions. Thankfully, an understanding supervisor and kind coworkers guided me through complex processes. I regularly shadowed them, frantically jotting down what notes I could gather on a bright yellow notepad. But as the days passed, it became fascinating to watch the tasks I once struggled with gradually integrate into my daily routine. Now, I face new challenges and setbacks with determination, confident that I will always overcome them. Each time I tackle a new chapter in my life, the world around me expands, though there’s been no physical change. I begin to view situations with different perspectives, recognizing the various stories that may have occurred. I better appreciate my teachers’ analogies and their attentiveness to each student because I’ve experienced teaching through Science Olympiad. A simple typo in an email at work reminds me that the writer might be tired or overwhelmed—a situation I’m all too familiar with. These experiences taught me why I should endeavor to make connections. A significant part of my high school career has been learning the art of making connections. It began with Science Olympiad, where I found a sense of belonging in interacting among like-minded individuals. My pension internship introduced the significance of building professional, not just personal, relationships. Each experience has broadened my perspective, allowing me the chance to approach decisions with greater empathy and formulate my own take on issues with more insight.

In the soft glow of a dimly lit room, a young boy quietly tinkers with small, colorful bricks. He assembles, adjusts, stacks, and scatters them with a hushed concentration. Slowly, the features of a city took shape beneath his fingers. The boy gazes at his creation admiringly, carefully adding and removing elements. Then, in just a split second, he tears it down—but only to begin again. As the day turns into night, the boy continues this cycle until he hears the click-clack of the front door opening. It was in second grade when I was first left alone at home. What began as an isolated event became a regular occurrence. By fourth grade, I walked to school on my own. By fifth, I frequently ran errands. By sixth, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. Early on, I relished being left alone; the freedom to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, the independence contoured me like water eroding rock. I had few friends, and those I made would slip away as easily as I grasped them. The slow drip of solitude transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. The words would clog in my throat when I tried asking for my teacher’s help, fearing I would be a bother. I avoided asking store employees to locate an item. At dinner, I often sat in silence, unable to maintain conversations with my parents. High school only intensified the symptoms. Interacting with others became a strenuous effort. I became more conscious about the way others would perceive me, stifling my ability to initiate conversations. I knew I couldn’t continue like this. Luckily, there were always opportunities for me to take that first step. The summer after 10th grade, I left home to live in a college dorm for a week-long experience. Immersed in unfamiliar surroundings, I was forced to talk to strangers, to interact in ways I was never used to. Despite the deep-rooted cracks in my confidence, I managed to become close with those living in Texas, Tennessee, and Chicago. As I set down my luggage back home, I paused—had a self-evaluation. If I am able to connect with people across the country, why not those around me? It felt as if the cracks within me were being filled. I became more involved in my club, engaged in more meaningful conversations, and reached out to others in ways I never thought I possibly could. It’s ironic—the independence that once isolated me became the very reason for overcoming that isolation. My long days of being alone led me to invent new ways to occupy myself. I would let my imagination run wild on those few pieces of LEGO bricks, crafting hundreds of different scenes—the sole architect in an imaginary universe. Yet, I started to wonder. What use was building with LEGOs in the real world? What else can I turn to as an outlet for my creativity and passion? With my newfound confidence and desire to change, all the pieces fell into place. I rediscovered 3D computer-aided design (CAD), a passion I first encountered in 9th grade. Just like LEGOs, there is freedom for infinite creativity. However, I am able to create actual impact while becoming the perfect workspace for me to expand my imagination even further. Though I enjoyed creating with 3D CAD back then, I lacked the initiative to pursue it further. Now, that initial spark ignited into an unwavering flame.

In the soft glow of a dimly lit room, a young boy quietly tinkers with small, colorful bricks. He assembles, adjusts, stacks, and scatters them with a hushed concentration. Slowly, the features of a city took shape beneath his fingers. The boy gazes at his creation admiringly, carefully adding and removing elements. Then, in just a split second, he tears it down—but only to begin again. As the day turns into night, the boy continues this cycle until he hears the click-clack of the front door opening. It was in second grade when I was first left alone at home. What began as an isolated event became a regular occurrence. By fourth grade, I walked to school on my own. By fifth, I frequently ran errands. By sixth, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. Early on, I relished being left alone; the freedom to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, the independence contoured me like water eroding rock. I had few friends, and those I made would slip away as easily as I grasped them. The slow drip of solitude transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. The words would clog in my throat when I tried asking for my teacher’s help, fearing I would be a bother. I avoided asking store employees to locate an item. At dinner, I often sat in silence, unable to maintain conversations with my parents. High school only intensified the symptoms. Interacting with others became a strenuous effort. I became more conscious about the way others would perceive me, stifling my ability to initiate conversations. I knew I couldn’t continue like this. Luckily, there were always opportunities for me to take that first step. My long days of being alone led me to invent new ways to occupy myself. I would let my imagination run wild on those few pieces of LEGO bricks, crafting hundreds of different scenes—the sole architect in an imaginary universe. Yet, I started to wonder. What use was building with LEGOs in the real world? What else can I turn to as an outlet for my creativity and passion? With my newfound confidence and desire to change, all the pieces fell into place. I rediscovered 3D computer-aided design (CAD), a passion I first encountered in 9th grade. Just like LEGOs, there is freedom for infinite creativity. However, I am able to create actual impact while becoming the perfect workspace for me to expand my imagination even further. Though I enjoyed creating with 3D CAD back then, I lacked the initiative to pursue it further. Now, that initial spark ignited into an unwavering flame. I intend to take this flame, this passion, I have cultivated and carry it forward. All the accomplishments I intend to achieve—publishing research, designing innovative products, or discovering new engineering feats—I now feel ready to embrace the challenges ahead. Whether I stay on the trail of engineering or chart a brand new path, I know that the experiences I have gone through will never alter.

The first time I was left alone in the house was in the 2nd grade. My mom had an important meeting with my brother’s school, and my dad, as usual, was at work. By 4th grade, I started walking to school on my own. By fifth, I was asked to buy groceries and run errands. By sixth, my mother also took on a job, and their presence at home became increasingly limited. Early on, I relished being left alone. Being able to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, being independent contoured me, like the dripping of water eroding a rock. I wasn’t a very social child to begin with. I had few friends, those of whom would slip away as easily as I grasped them as I frequently moved from one home to another. The drip transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. It started to be hard for me to ask my teacher for help. I couldn’t ask a store clerk to locate an item for me. It was awkward to tell my parents the details of my day. However, it was during high school that I started to discover myself. Through my experiences in my Science Olympiad team, volunteering, and my job at a pension firm, I became more confident to go beyond what I thought I have reached. My parents were immigrants from China that have worked hard to support my dreams. I want them to enjoy the rest of their lives however they want, knowing their son is also enjoying his. In order to do so, I plan to pursue an education that will both provide me a secure future, but also being one that I will enjoy doing for the rest of my life.

In the soft glow of a dimly lit room, a young boy quietly tinkers with small, colorful bricks. He assembles, adjusts, stacks, and scatters them with a hushed concentration. Slowly, the features of a city took shape beneath his fingers. The boy gazes at his creation admiringly, carefully adding and removing elements. Then, in just a split second, he tears it down—but only to begin again. As the day turns into night, the boy continues this cycle until he hears the click-clack of the front door opening. It was in second grade when I was first left alone at home. What began as an isolated event became a regular occurrence. By fourth grade, I walked to school on my own. By fifth, I frequently ran errands. By sixth, my mother started working, and my parents' presence at home became increasingly rare. Early on, I relished being left alone; the freedom to indulge in whatever I wanted felt liberating. Yet, somewhere down the line, the independence contoured me like water eroding rock. I had few friends, and those I made would slip away as easily as I grasped them. The slow drip of solitude transformed into a fierce stream, forming cracks and crevices. The words would clog in my throat when I tried asking for my teacher’s help, fearing I would be a bother. I avoided asking store employees to locate an item. At dinner, I often sat in silence, unable to maintain conversations with my parents. High school only intensified the symptoms. Interacting with others became a strenuous effort. I became more conscious about the way others would perceive me, stifling my ability to initiate conversations. I knew I couldn’t continue like this. Luckily, there were always opportunities for me to take that first step. The summer after 10th grade, I left home to live in a college dorm for a week-long experience. Immersed in unfamiliar surroundings, I was forced to talk to strangers, to interact in ways I was never used to. Despite the deep-rooted cracks in my confidence, I managed to become close with those living in Texas, Tennessee, and Chicago. As I set down my luggage back home, I paused—had a self-evaluation. If I am able to connect with people across the country, why not those around me? It felt as if the cracks within me were being filled. I became more involved in my club, engaged in more meaningful conversations, and reached out to others in ways I never thought I possibly could. It’s ironic—the independence that once isolated me became the very reason for overcoming that isolation. My long days of being alone led me to invent new ways to occupy myself. I would let my imagination run wild on those few pieces of LEGO bricks, crafting hundreds of different scenes—the sole architect in an imaginary universe. Yet, I started to wonder. What use was building with LEGOs in the real world? What else can I turn to as an outlet for my creativity and passion? With my newfound confidence and desire to change, all the pieces fell into place. I rediscovered 3D computer-aided design (CAD), a passion I first encountered in 9th grade. Just like LEGOs, there is freedom for infinite creativity. However, I am able to create actual impact while becoming the perfect workspace for me to expand my imagination even further. Though I enjoyed creating with 3D CAD back then, I lacked the initiative to pursue it further. Now, that initial spark ignited into an unwavering flame. I intend to take this flame, this passion, I have cultivated and carry it forward.

I allowed the gate to creak behind me as I affixed my volunteer badge, sighing as I braced myself for another day of organizing books. But today was different. The librarian calls me to the conference room, where vibrant sheets and various art supplies scatter the desks—it is project day. Children of varying ages flood in, their excitement permeating through the air. Amid the chattering groups, one child stood out to me, seated silently and alone. As I provided assistance around the room, I visited his table with greater frequency. When the supervisor asked him who he'd like to work with, he pointed at me, and a genuine smile illuminated my face. The Queens Public Library has been a prominent landmark throughout my life. Raised with limited finances, this library provided me with access to books, technology, and a space for recreational interests. Weekly, I would borrow close to 10 books and absorb them just as fast. Although I don’t visit as often, each glimpse of the building evokes waves of nostalgia. The Queens Botanical Garden also occupies a special place in my heart. Through Key Club, I am able to contribute back by volunteering at their events. During the fall, I assisted children in constructing handshakers made from paper rolls and corn kernels. In early spring, I maintained overgrown saplings. My childhood memories prompted me to give back to this cherished community by volunteering in the same locations where I was once a participant. As I approached college, I sought ways to gain new experience while supporting myself and my family. As I went searching for job opportunities, I was fortunate enough to land an internship at a pension firm. It was unexpected, to say the least, and it showed. My limited qualifications thrust me into unfamiliar tasks. With minimal background in finance, I started a Google document that became a glossary of industry terms and definitions. Thankfully, an understanding supervisor and kind coworkers guided me through complex processes. I regularly shadowed them, frantically jotting down what notes I could gather on a bright yellow notepad. But as the days passed, it became fascinating to watch the tasks I once struggled with gradually integrate into my daily routine. Through my eagerness and determination, my temporary summer internship turned into a part-time job after school. My experiences in high school are just the beginning of my growth. I know that with further education and access to even better resources, I can achieve beyond my limits. I have passions that I am unable to pursue due to financial restraints or educational limitations. For example, my passion for 3D cadding. Although essential to engineering, 3D CAD remains relatively unknown to the general public. Sharing my passion about 3D CAD with others often necessitates starting with a clarification of what it exactly is. Therefore, in order to spread word about its practicality, I want to enhance the utilization of virtual reality in 3D CAD. Instead of only helping out my local community, I will have the resources to positively impact a widespread issue for many others. With this scholarship, I am able to take that first step forward to new change.