Pursuing higher education as the daughter of immigrants has been both a privilege and a challenge. Growing up, I watched my parents navigate a foreign country with limited resources, working tirelessly so that I could have opportunities they never had. From an early age, I understood that education was more than learning—it was a pathway to stability, empowerment, and a chance to break cycles of limitation. But along the way, I encountered obstacles that tested my resilience and determination. One defining moment came during a DECA competition. After months of preparation, I approached my roleplay presentation only to notice that the judge greeted the two contestants before me warmly, shaking their hands, while offering me no acknowledgment. For a brief moment, I felt disheartened and uncertain, questioning whether all my effort mattered. Yet, I reminded myself that my worth was not determined by someone else’s actions. I took a deep breath, presented with confidence and professionalism, and advanced to the state finals. That experience taught me that perseverance is not just about pushing forward—it’s about maintaining dignity, focus, and resilience even when circumstances feel unfair. In addition to overcoming bias, I have faced the challenges that often accompany being a minority student pursuing STEM. Being one of the few students of color in advanced science and math classes sometimes made me feel isolated. I had to advocate for myself, seek out mentorship, and build a support system where one didn’t exist. These experiences strengthened my independence, adaptability, and empathy—skills I know will serve me well in higher education and beyond. I plan to use my education in aerospace engineering to give back to my community in tangible ways. I want to inspire students who may feel excluded from STEM fields, showing them that innovation and curiosity are not limited by background or circumstance. By mentoring, volunteering, and sharing my experiences, I hope to make STEM accessible and exciting for the next generation. Additionally, I aim to develop technologies that contribute to sustainability and environmental responsibility, ensuring that advancements in aerospace benefit society as a whole. Higher education is more than a personal goal; it is a tool for creating impact. The obstacles I’ve faced have taught me that resilience, resourcefulness, and compassion are critical to both personal success and meaningful contributions to the community. I am committed to using the education I work so hard to achieve not just for my own growth, but to uplift others and open doors where opportunities may be limited.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by the sky—the quiet hum of airplanes above, the elegance of rockets breaking through the clouds, and the thought that somewhere out there, human innovation was pushing beyond what once seemed impossible. But as a child from an immigrant family, the path to aerospace engineering often felt as distant as the stars I dreamed of studying. Going to college isn’t just about pursuing a degree for me—it represents the realization of generations of sacrifice, the breaking of barriers, and the chance to transform wonder into innovation. My parents came to this country with little more than determination and faith in education. They often told me that knowledge is something no one can take away. Still, being a student from a minority background, I’ve seen how opportunity doesn’t always come evenly. I’ve had to navigate educational systems where few people looked like me in advanced STEM classes and where my ambitions were sometimes met with surprise rather than encouragement. But each challenge became fuel for my motivation rather than a deterrent. College, for me, means finally stepping into an environment where I can transform that persistence into action—where the curiosity I had as a child staring up at airplanes becomes tangible through engineering design, physics, and innovation. I want to study aerospace engineering not just to build machines that soar, but to represent voices that have too often been grounded by systemic barriers. My dream is to contribute to sustainable aviation and space systems—developing technologies that make flight more efficient and environmentally responsible, ensuring that exploration doesn’t come at the cost of the planet we call home. Through programs like DECA and research initiatives I’ve joined, I’ve learned how to think critically, communicate effectively, and lead under pressure. One of my proudest moments came during a DECA roleplay competition when, despite being visibly treated differently by a judge, I maintained my composure, delivered my presentation with confidence, and advanced to the state finals. That moment taught me that dignity, professionalism, and preparation can overcome bias—and that resilience isn’t about avoiding turbulence, but navigating through it with control. It’s a lesson I’ll carry into every engineering challenge I face. Earning a college degree will not only allow me to step into an industry I’ve admired my entire life—it will also honor the sacrifices of my parents, who worked tirelessly so that I could have the opportunities they never had. My education will serve as a bridge between their dreams and my own, allowing me to inspire younger students who might think aerospace is a field reserved for others. Ultimately, college represents far more than academic achievement—it’s the launching pad for my lifelong mission: to build, innovate, and lead in ways that open doors for others like me. With every equation I solve, every design I draft, and every challenge I overcome, I’m not just reaching for the skies—I’m proving that no dream is out of reach when passion meets perseverance.

“When we are truly alive, everything we do or touch is a miracle. To walk on earth is a miracle, to behold the blue sky, to hear the singing of the birds, the laughter of a child—all these are miracles. We can smile, breathe, and be present in the moment. The greatest miracle is not to walk on water or in thin air, but to walk on the earth.” Thich Nhat Hanh’s reflection invites us to reconsider what it means to live meaningfully. His words reject the notion that miracles are rare or supernatural; instead, he suggests that the greatest miracle is simply being conscious—“to walk on the earth.” In a world that glorifies speed, competition, and constant progress, his message is a quiet act of resistance: that life itself, in its smallest moments, is sacred. To me, this passage is not only about spirituality, but about awareness, balance, and the courage to find purpose in the ordinary. As the daughter of immigrants, I often felt pulled between two worlds. My parents carried the weight of rebuilding their lives in a foreign country, while I carried the responsibility of proving that their sacrifices were worthwhile. I learned to move quickly—to adapt, to achieve, to never waste an opportunity. For a long time, I believed success meant never slowing down. But Thich Nhat Hanh’s words taught me that being “truly alive” means something much deeper: it means engaging with each moment with intention and gratitude, not racing past it. When Hanh writes that “the greatest miracle is not to walk on water or in thin air, but to walk on the earth,” he reminds us that the most profound human achievement is presence. The blue sky, the laughter of a child, the simple act of breathing—all are reminders that existence itself is extraordinary. This idea has changed how I respond to challenges in my own life. During a DECA competition, a judge once refused to shake my hand after warmly greeting the contestants before me. For a moment, I felt invisible. But instead of reacting in anger, I grounded myself in the present. I focused on what I could control—my professionalism, confidence, and voice. That mindfulness helped me advance to the state finals and taught me that stillness, not aggression, is the true expression of strength. This lesson has shaped how I approach my future in STEM. Engineering, like mindfulness, requires observation, patience, and understanding. A good engineer does not force solutions; they listen to the system—its failures, its patterns, its potential—and respond with creativity and care. Thich Nhat Hanh’s philosophy mirrors that mindset. To see the “miracle” in what already exists is to begin innovation with appreciation rather than dominance. Every great design, from a bridge to a circuit, begins with awareness—the act of seeing clearly before creating. Mindfulness also cultivates empathy, a quality essential to responsible engineering. To design technologies that serve people, one must first understand people. Growing up between cultures, I’ve learned to listen deeply—to interpret silence, respect difference, and find common ground where others see division. Hanh’s emphasis on awareness reinforces this truth: when we slow down enough to observe and connect, innovation becomes not just functional, but human. It becomes a bridge between experience and possibility. His teaching also challenges how I define success. In STEM fields, progress is often measured in speed—how quickly a prototype is built, how efficiently a problem is solved. Yet Hanh reminds us that true success lies in depth of understanding. The miracle is not in producing more, but in being fully present in what we produce. Mindfulness does not weaken ambition; it purifies it. It transforms achievement from a race into a purpose. I see this harmony every time I design something new. Engineering demands focus, creativity, and resilience—qualities born from the same stillness that Thich Nhat Hanh describes. When I approach my work mindfully, I notice patterns others overlook, make fewer assumptions, and learn from every failure. Most importantly, I remember why I am building in the first place: to make life better, to honor the simple miracle of being alive, and to walk this earth responsibly. Thich Nhat Hanh’s words remind me that mindfulness and progress are not opposites—they are partners. To be “truly alive,” as he writes, is to build with awareness, innovate with empathy, and move through the world with gratitude. As I pursue engineering, I want to embody that philosophy—not just to solve problems, but to create solutions rooted in compassion and purpose. The greatest miracle, I’ve learned, is not what we achieve, but how we live and create. To walk on this earth fully aware of its beauty, fragility, and possibility is, in itself, the truest innovation of all.

As the daughter of immigrants, I grew up watching my parents rebuild their lives from the ground up—learning a new language, adapting to unfamiliar systems, and working tirelessly to give me the opportunities they never had. Their perseverance became my blueprint for success. Still, I didn’t fully understand the strength it takes to stand firm in the face of bias until a moment during a DECA competition made me confront it firsthand. At a state-level DECA roleplay event, I was one of the final students to present my marketing strategy. Before me, two contestants—both white—had just finished their presentations. The judge smiled, shook their hands, and congratulated them. When it was my turn, I approached confidently, extended my hand, and waited. The judge’s expression hardened. She looked at me, said nothing, and turned back to her notes. My hand hung in the air before I quietly lowered it. It was a small moment, but it carried the weight of something larger—a reminder that no matter how hard I worked, I might still be judged by things I couldn’t change. For a brief second, I felt invisible. But then, I remembered what my parents always told me: You don’t control how others see you—you control how you respond. I took a breath, stood tall, and gave my presentation with clarity, confidence, and composure. That day, I advanced to the state finals. In hindsight, that moment was more than an instance of bias—it was a test of focus and resilience. I realized that composure under pressure is not only valuable in competition, but essential in any professional field, especially in STEM. Engineering and technology often demand creative problem-solving under uncertainty. In many ways, that DECA moment mirrored what engineers face every day: conditions that aren’t fair, systems that don’t always cooperate, and yet the expectation to perform—and to innovate—anyway. As a future engineer, I want to design solutions that make systems fairer and more efficient—whether that’s developing sustainable technologies or building tools that remove human bias from decision-making. My immigrant background gives me a unique lens for this work. I know what it feels like to navigate systems not built for you, and that empathy drives me to create technologies that serve diverse communities. My experience also taught me that resilience is not about suppressing emotion—it’s about channeling it. I’ve learned to transform frustration into determination, to use every setback as data for improvement, and to view obstacles as design challenges waiting to be solved. That’s the mindset I plan to carry into my studies and career in engineering. Today, when I look back on that DECA moment, I don’t see rejection—I see proof of growth. I learned that respect might not always be offered, but professionalism and excellence can demand it. That realization has shaped how I approach every opportunity, from leading group projects to conducting research: stay focused, stay curious, and let performance speak louder than prejudice. I may not have been met with an open hand that day, but I left that room with something far more powerful—an unshakable sense of purpose. My immigrant story has taught me how to turn discomfort into drive and how to transform barriers into blueprints. And as I pursue engineering, I intend to use that same mindset to build systems, communities, and opportunities that welcome everyone to the table.