It is said that Thomas Edison created 1000 failed prototypes because he made a working lightbulb. I imagine him surrounded by his failures, the shards of a thousand broken lightbulbs scattered on the floor. Some of them are marred by streaks of blood from over-worked fingers. From his seat at his workbench, he pays the mess no mind. The warm glow of success lights up his face in the still night. When I think about it, that's insane. How many failures does it take for me to give up when trying something new? One? Five if Im determined? I tell myself things like: "I just suck at this new hobby," or "I'm a failure," but that negative self-talk does nothing but stop me from pursuing my dreams. Thomas Edison's story is a lesson in perseverence, and I look to his story to drive myself forward. I imagine a world without lightbulbs to light factories at night: the industrial revolution would never have swung into full force, and the night would still be dark and treacherous. I may not revolutionize the world by picking up jogging for the eighth time, but I'm revolutionizing myself and my health. Every wheezing breath and side stitch is frustrating, but I don't mind. I picture Edison beaming at his successful lightbulb, and I know the moment I get my first runner's high, I'll forget every agonizing training session before it - like shards of prototypes littering the gound.

People often ask me why I chose Raqs Sharqi, more commonly referred to in the west as "belly dance," as a hobby. I could tell them about how it strengthens the spine, develops coordination, and is easier on the body than many kinds of western dance. That wouldn't be the full truth, though. Raqs Sharqi has been creeping into my art for years now. As a digital art hobbyist, elements of the dance show up in the poses I pick for my subjects and in the clothes that they wear. It is a reflection of my desire to explore other cultures and to integrate myself with them. I chose Raqs Sharqi because it is a way to appreciate and experience another culture, even in the small, homogenous town I call home. Ever since I was little, I've adored other cultures. I distinctly remember the time my father brought home a kimono from Japan. I snatched the cotton garment up with greedy little hands and studied its exotic pattern. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before. I credit that as the moment I became enthralled with the world outside my little small-town American bubble. At the age of twenty-five, I achieved my life-long dream of leaving the country. Over the summer, I took an Ancient World History class in Japan and then a non-credit Chinese class in Nanjing, China. I explored ancient gardens, prayed at a Buddhist temple, and had conversations with the locals. I made takoyaki with students from the partnering school and attended a karaoke gathering at a local park. One elderly woman, exceedingly patient with my poor Japanese, sat down with me at a restaurant, and talked about her grandchildren. Experiencing other cultures gave me a broad range of experiences. Some of them were amazing, and some were humbling. In China, I needed help for everything from shopping for shampoo to learning how to cross the street without being hit by hurrying scooter drivers. Successfully navigating situations gave me more empathy for foreigners visiting the US as well as confidence in myself. My current plans are to finish my bachelor's degree at Middle Tennessee State University and then attend the University of New South Wales in Sydney, Australia for grad school. Sydney is a truly international city. Over 30% of its residents were born outside of Australia, making it a hub for immigration. While there, I intend to continue my Raqs Sharqi studies at a dance school located near campus. I also intend to find new influences for my digital art. The beauty of the Australian landscape, the unique animals, and the diversity of the people I encounter will influence me and my art for the better. After all, immersing yourself in another culture is a huge challenge, and it is through overcoming those challenges that we become stronger.

「我可以扎照片吗？」 "May I take a picture?" I rehearsed the words under my breath, practicing the inflections of each syllable. My heart thudded in my chest, and a wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. I couldn't just walk up to a pair of monks and ask for a picture. They had come to the Sun Yat-Sen Mausoleum for a pilgrimage, not to be gawked at by tourists. But this was a once in a life time chance. I took a deep breath and tentatively approached them. 「我可以扎照片吗？」 They began a rapid exchange before answering. "We want a picture with you."

In 2014, a beloved public figure, Bill Cosby, made national headlines after accusations surfaced that he had drugged and raped multiple women over his long career. It was the talk of every news channel and water tank, even the break table at work. It seemed no one could believe he was capable of such things, or, if he was, it was the victim's fault. "Everyone knows not to accept a pill from a stranger," my co-worker snarked in her usually gentle southern drawl. "Besides, what did she think would happen in a hotel room?" My other co-workers scrambled to agree. It was illogical, irrational that she would come out after all this time. She was wrong to accuse him. She should have kept her mouth shut. I sat quietly with my head down. Shame, anger, and fear pooled in my stomach. Was naivety such a crime that rape was a fitting punishment? If they knew my own story, what would they think of me? According to the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network, 11.2% of college students are "rape[d] or sexually assault[ed] through physical force, violence, or incapacitation." For me, he was twice my size and three times as strong. The organization further estimates that students are most vulnerable during their first year, with most assaults happening in the first four months. For me, it was in October of 2011. The rape and the events that followed, three long months isolated at the hands of my rapist, had whetted the appetite of a beast that had been wrestling for control as long as I can remember. When I was sixteen, I was diagnosed with Massive Depressive Disorder and Social Anxiety Disorder. I was convinced even then that the world wanted me dead. After I escaped, I was certain of it. If I went for a walk, I would imagine the neighbors staring out their windows scowling at me. I didn't deserve to breathe the same air as them. I was less than nothing. Public outings were fraught with anxiety attacks, so I stayed home. I watched daytime television and read romance novels to fill my meaningless days. All the while, a humming static was building up inside me, a restlessness that demanded to be sated. I wasn’t meant to stay cooped up inside for the rest of my life. There are two books I credit with saving my life. One is called The Power of Quiet. I had always believed that my painful shyness was a weakness. This book was my first introduction to the idea that I didn't have to be loud and boisterous to be strong. In its own way, my tendency to watch and observe a situation before acting was a strength. Reading that book was the first time I felt like I didn't have to change who I was on a fundamental level to be worthy of existing. The second book was about Social Anxiety Disorder. After years of psychiatrists ignoring my needs, and my parents pressuring me to see a therapist who wasn't right for me, I had long given up on treatment. Educating myself on my disorder empowered me to make decisions about my recovery. I began attending group therapy and found a therapist who suited me and a psychiatrist who would listen. The road to recovery was arduous. I would attend Wednesday night church services and bring my mother along for moral support. At first, I sat in the floor in the back of the room. The people in the pews must have thought I was crazy. I have no doubt they heard me those nights when simply being in a room with so many people was too much to handle, and I had to go outside and sob uncontrollably. Still, I made progress with each passing day. Getting in and out of the grocery store without hyperventilating was the first step. Then, I applied for a temporary job, which turned into permanent employment. Soon, I began working a second job. It was at my second job that I rediscovered my love of learning. To ease the tedium of cleaning an empty store, I would listen to lectures from The Great Courses on Audible. As professors wove intricate tales of history and threaded together complex economic concepts, I found myself longing to be in a seat in the auditorium with my notebook and pencil in front of me. My grades had been average before I stopped attending classes. This time, I was determined to make the most of my opportunity. I studied every night using methods I picked up from books on how to learn. To my delight, I made straight A's my first semester back. Since then, I have joined two honors societies, studied abroad in Japan and China, involved myself in extracurricular activities, and even taken a public speaking class. These tasks would have been impossible just a few short years ago. Yet, despite a rough beginning, I prevailed. Now that I have a solid GPA, I plan to use the associate degree I’m working toward to try to make the impossible happen once more. The actuarial studies program at UNSW in Australia is one of the top five in the world. If I can get in, I will have a lot to figure out, particularly financially. If, however, I do manage to attend, I plan to use my earnings to help other sexual assault survivors get their second chance. After all, what happened was never their fault and it never will be, no matter what anyone says.

My first attempt at college was a complete disaster. I had only been in treatment for anxiety and depression for two years and was still learning to cope with my disorders. The vocational rehabilitation services the state had offered in high school were understaffed, and inquiries for help had been met with static silence. In the hopes that I would become more independent, my parents refused to help me apply for college accommodations. For the first time in my life, I was utterly alone, and it was terrifying. Then, in October of 2011, I was sexually assaulted near campus. Any hopes I'd had of muddling through were dashed, and I stopped attending classes. I didn't withdraw, and as a result, I finished that semester with nearly all Fs. If someone had told my therapist when I started seeing her that I would one day participate in college study abroad programs, she wouldn't have believed them. I barely left the house, and, at one point, my depression got so severe that I was hospitalized for several days. How could someone like me go back to college, much less leave the country? It was far from easy. I pushed myself out of my rut by taking tiny, incremental steps. First, I started attending group therapy. Then, I got a job, and soon I was working two. Getting real experience in the workforce gave me much-needed confidence. Before, I had been terrified that my employer would quickly fire me. When, to my surprise, I had managed to hold down my first job for five years, I decided I had matured enough to commit to going back to college. I came back to college driven and confident. I needed those extra years to marinate— to focus on myself and to heal. If I hadn't failed that first semester of college, I would never have had the confidence to travel abroad or the wherewithal to maintain a near-perfect GPA. Thanks to scholarships, hard work, and a lot of luck, I was able to study Chinese in China and Ancient World History in Japan. I'm currently applying to an Australian school ranked as one of the top five actuarial programs in the world. Before, I would never have been bold enough to take that risk. Because I got a late start, I can do better and dream bigger. I used to think the world consisted of two groups of people: those who fail and those who succeed. I believed I was a failure, and I was right. I am a failure, but I am also a winner. It was only through failure that I could learn and grow enough to succeed. Failure is inevitable. It's how we grow from it that matters.