I love math because of its consistency. I enjoy formulas that are memorizable and then manipulatable, one equation can give an array of answers. It is the same reason that physics was both the bane of my existence and my favorite class. The mathematics were easy and my saving grace on tests, while I bumbled around the theories like a toddler. The points added for the simplicity of understanding how to rearrange an equation always made me giddy, it made me feel smart. It made me love math. I held onto that knowledge from my freshman year as it was useful in my honors chemistry course. I breezed through the units on Avacadro’s number conversions and STP questions. A newer concept I have been practicing is statistics. AP biology requires chi-square critical values and the standard deviation of the mean, which is incredibly fun for me. Though, there is one form of math that seems to elude me. For months I stumbled through my geometry class. Proofs looked closer to a riddle than math, the amount of exceptions or inclusions refused to sink in. I felt embarrassed and small, I passed the class, yet I still felt like I was somehow faking my understanding of math. I had to build my confidence after it, as geometry is not a large part of my career. I know the basics and even grasped the concepts better towards the end, yet I sometimes still feel that twinge of shame knowing that I am unable to feel skilled in a part of a branch I love. Math is engraved into science in such an integral way that if I did hate it, then I would be miserable. I draw myself further and further into the scientific uses of mathematics and each time I am delighted at the results. How probability can be founded from simple words, how the likelihood of a random event occurring can be calculated, or simply how common a number was in a sample size. I find it glorious to see the world through a scientific and mathematical lens. I wish to continue this view throughout my life by using my love for math to get as far as possible. To be one of those scientists who has to slave over a microscope and calculator.

I want to change the way I view my life. I’ve had a very somber thought process since I was nine, and I don’t want it to follow me anymore. At some point, around three years ago, this wave of diagnosis’ seemed to swallow me whole. A deep, violate water that held me until I was entirely drained of life. Even during the months when everything was supposedly fine, I had an urge to plunge myself back into that miserable feeling. It’s a scary way to live, the idea that I’ll never get better. A cycle of self-sabotage and chemical imbalances seems to hold me down. However, I stare back at those seven years and I feel mournful. Of course, there was no way to turn off a disorder, but I could’ve chosen not to trap myself in loneliness and the glorification of depression. I want to learn how to pull myself up again, regardless of how I got pulled under. It’s a long process, but, it’s one I have begun already. I finally talked to doctors, to people who can give professional advice and recommendations. To my surprise, it wasn’t terrible. I had built up this expectation of being brushed off, of being told all the things I thought of when I was alone. Rather, I got medication prescribed. I got a name for what I had, which was a strange feeling of liberation. I started loving things again. I looked for opportunities to learn, to understand the world that I had blocked out for so long. I became obsessed with the small things that kept the world alive. I started thinking about my future again, one where I wasn’t lonesome or underground. A future where I was in a college and I was happy. A place that I had not an inkling of an idea on how to afford or apply to. It all felt heavy again for a moment, but I refused to give up that quickly. I found scholarships and thought that they could help. The fact that telling my story could help my dreams confounded me and inspired me. Writing could get me the money needed to continue my schooling, and my love for knowledge. I couldn’t pass up other people’s graciousness. I couldn’t give up this scholarship where I can say how grateful I am for the people who take second chances seriously. An essay where I can write and not feel judged for how I thought and how I escaped it. A chance to ease my debts, both emotional and financial. Talking could’ve saved me a lot of stress. A conversation with a counselor for my emotions or future. A chat on what an R1 or R2 college is. I try hard to talk to my sophomore friends about their mental health, their classes, and grades, which apps to download, and where to find information about certain schools. I do not want someone who I could’ve helped to feel lost. I want to aid the people who feel scared or overwhelmed. I have not had all the answers, and I won’t, but I hope being a guide to them will relieve some of the burden. Speaking in the future tense, I want my work with molecular biology to unravel some of the secrets behind life-altering disorders. Creating a more effective medication or technology to combat the effects of the disorders would take a load off of my shoulders. I hope to create a change in how mental illness is treated and prevent some of the struggles I had.

Since the fifth grade, I’ve known that I have social anxiety. I have a vivid memory of shaking so hard that I couldn’t hold my project paper still and was on the verge of tears for the entirety of the presentation. It did not get much better. In fact, when I ran for vice president of my class, I shook so hard my entire body was visibly quivering on the screen. I almost vomited. Not the perfect experience. It took until 2023 to finally speak up about it to my doctor. Ironically, the conversation displayed how bad it was. Looking back on it, it is funny. However, at the time, I muttered quietly that I thought I had social anxiety and then started crying, my doctor asked me what my symptoms were, and I sobbed out that I “didn’t know”; shortly after I was diagnosed. I always hate the feeling, too, as I know it is illogical. I’ll say that I don’t care about people's opinions of me, and then I’ll turn into a leaf in the wind within two seconds. I am medicated now and still struggle on a smaller basis. But there is an exception, a place and moment where I am not scared, worried, or thinking of people's eyes on me: theater. I think it’s funny that I feel less judged on a stage than in front of a classroom. I am sure there is more to it, an emotional disconnect between me and the character I am portraying. But, I can’t help laughing at it. No, I cannot do a five-minute presentation in front of my peers, but I’ll gladly make a fool out of myself in front of the same people on a stage. It’s most likely the community. Many theater kids have a similar fear of social situations. I feel seen, they can relate to the momentary stumbles and mortified glances. I am seen by the kids, hiding in the wings, more than any audience member. My passion drives me and at some point, which I did not notice, I began to grow. Every interaction was just a little less miserable. My stutters significantly reduced, yet still peaking through. Theater and social anxiety mix in a paradoxical symphony for me, glorious and puzzling. I want that community to follow me. The people gossiping backstage, quoting stupid lines, or quietly comforting the hurt. However, I want other communities too. I want a large group of people who also guide me and love science, cooking, reading, or writing. There is no better place to find a temporary home and solace than a college. I want to chase my dreams, I want to get into a good research school, I want to understand biology on a deep level. But, I do not want to be the student who is so invested in work that they can no longer be integrated to those around them. I have felt that before, and I rest assured that I will never let myself do it again. Because, community is one of the best ways to fight your fears, even if new people are what you are frightened of.

I got diagnosed with epilepsy exactly a month after my birthday. Quite a present, I’m aware. Being told that being alone in a room can be unsafe crushed me. Which, seems so insignificant, but I want to be a biologist. I want to work in labs. I want to research late into the night and be the perfect stereotype of a STEM student. Other cliches of the college experience seemed to vanish in front of me. I need eight hours of sleep to function at all. Which, tore my late-night study sessions from my steel grip. Forcing me to adapt a healthy schedule. I cannot drink energy drinks without counting my caffeine intake. I am sure my heart is thankful, yet my heavy eyes and foggy mind are not. I should balance my stress levels; a seemingly impossible task as someone who wants to go into molecular biology. Some smaller things also worried me. I can’t accurately pour into flasks, beakers, or graduated cylinders without a tremor. I cannot hold a glass without the back of my mind asking how poorly it could go if I had a seizure. I lay dejected in a nurse’s office when my body is sluggish and twitching. I give a fantastically boring speech about how emergency mediation is administered, where I can watch in real-time as my friend tunes me out. I can curse the world or fate without having an adult blink. Being epileptic is a good way to avoid being questioned about why I am bitter. As chronic and incurable as epilepsy is, I find myself grateful. I am medicated. I have supportive friends who will laugh with me. As scary as life can be, as a life sentence of illness may be, you can always try hard. Living in a world of constant innovation, curiosity, and advancing technology, I am confident that I can pursue what I love. Nothing can pull me away from biology. I get to know exactly why my brain is not communicating to its cell signals correctly. I’m able to research epilepsy, to help future generations of little girls and boys who will succeed like me. I could be the one to figure out which genetic mutation is causing my epilepsy or simply a girl who followed her dreams. I do not mind if I change the world; as long as I can inspire one person to reach for the stars, even if they feel scared or have a disability. How lovely it is to fight doubt with knowledge and hope.

I miss a girl I never met. The expansion of the internet makes that sentence less worrisome. I was eight years old when I met her, I would not struggle with mental health issues until two years passed. However, she spoke openly about her struggles. I didn’t know how to help until she told me one day my presence was enough. Every night, I gravitated towards the juvenile Minecraft server to ask her if she was okay. She told me she would be, and that I should never change. I did not see her for around two years after that. It’s a strange feeling to mourn someone you don’t know. I simply knew that I wanted to talk to her, especially since I knew how she felt. I found out what suicidal ideation meant, how to write a very final letter, and how to curl yourself into nothing. Ironically, her presence was what I was lacking when mine aided hers. I continued to count the days since I’d seen her. I wanted to stay to know if she did. I felt like I owed it to her to know if she killed herself. I don’t understand the logic either, I was ten and wanted to live. Then, I talked to her again. There is an indescribable feeling you get inside of your gut when you learn that someone survived. That was the first time I felt that explosion of love and fleeing of premature grief. I asked her if I changed. She said yes. She said yes and told me that she was proud of how I changed. That comment baffled me, how could I be improved when I felt so shattered? I thanked her. Every long pause in communication came with a less despairing anxiety. She felt happy again, it took time. In more recent years, I have found myself not thinking of her for months on end. I never logged in to see if she was there. Some part of me was still worried that she had succumbed to the fate we fought together. I talked to her again for the first time in around three years a couple of months ago. It was eerily familiar, the same way it feels to walk into your childhood home. We said our goodbyes after only a few hours. We both said that we would try to talk again soon. I think both of us knew it was a lie. I believe that we both wanted proof that everything does not end: that the people we love can pull through. I do not miss her anymore, as I do not need to. I am no longer the girl on the other side of the screen who is keeping her alive, just as she is no longer mine. I hope she does not miss me. I want her to know that she saved me, and that is why there is no worry. It is silly how such a tiny portion of life can change you. I dedicated myself to working hard because she told me that she believed in me. I did not kill myself because I didn’t want to leave her alone. I learned to love in the face of fear. How mental health is not a death sentence. How easy it can be to live again. It’s something I struggle to explain, how a girl I do not know the name of made me a better person. Made me stay a person, rather than air. I miss her, unconsciously, as she is the reason for each one of my breaths.

I imagine that my response to learning that I am chronically disabled was not how people expected it to be. However, the way I was told wasn’t average either. A text message, from my neurologist, stating my symptoms matched up with a disease called “Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy”. I texted him back a “thank you,” and everything went on. I did not cry, nor was I shocked or worried. I went to my bedroom and called my friend to laugh about it. It might’ve been slow processing, as there were nights when I sobbed about my inability to do all I’ve ever wanted. Though, the thought process that I always circled back to was either thinking about it in a logical manner or the phrase “Life goes on”. I researched epilepsy after I had my first seizure, it is a frightening disease, yet I understood it. Abnormal brain energy created in the brain that can block neuron communication. I couldn’t look at it too hard before I felt silly over my own worry. In fact, I found the entire thing unimaginably intriguing. Checking what my EEG’s might’ve looked like, how many people Sudden Unexpected Death Due To Epilepsy killed in a year, what kinds of seizures existed, and their abundance. I prided myself on my own compartmentalization by using logic. It made me feel better that my love for research and science could improve my life quality. I did mention another tactic I use. One I find marginally more embarrassing. “Life goes on”. I am not surprised that it is calming to me, as said, I try to find logic in my problems. The greatest known fact to those who have struggled in life is that: nothing stops the world. A majority of the time it feels like the world has stopped rotating. Whatever issue I am facing at the moment takes over my entire mind. I have to study, or I have to take out the trash, or I have to apologize to my friend, or I have to stop thinking. Life goes on. There is more after this. Just because the moment I am in is paused, does not mean that there is no solution to it. It took me a long, and medicated, process to grasp that. A sedentary second is an outlier in the vast years you spend going forward. My reaction may not have been normal, but I believe it helped me grow more than sobbing would’ve. Forcing myself to look into the future made me want it more. Life goes on, and I will go with it. I would be unbelievably grateful for this scholarship. I have never had the luxury of having a college savings account or a backup plan if college "didn't work out". The major I want to go into is not known for its cheap textbooks, STEM careers aren't praised for the minimum amount of money spent during college. Without the burden of financial worries, studying and trying my hardest to bring about change in the world would be easier. The money either going to textbooks, tuition, housing, or other important expenses that colleges give out, it would be a great help. I would love to honor Arlin's memory with this scholarship, as a Latina woman going into STEM, I understand how important it is to strive in these fields. To make it known that we are enough, that just because we are a different ethnicity, gender, or ability range our contributions to science are still relevant. I have spent many days wondering how it would go as an epileptic in a lab, and knowing that there are women out there, in STEM fields, proving that it is possible is beautiful. I would be delighted to be one of those women to show young girls that it is a reality, that we are taken seriously, and that our memories, ideas, and research will live on.

There is truly only one person I could’ve written this about. The girl I call my best friend, Carolina. I have known her since I was nine years old. This is an indescribably weird thing to say considering it means we have known each other for seven years now. She is nothing less than a saving grace. She has seen me at my worst and best and knew exactly what to say at those times. I would live a perfectly happy life with her as my best friend until the end. I don’t think there is a way she hasn’t impacted me, but one of the largest ones is how I see myself. She is one of the best people I’ve met, and that is not hyperbole. She’s sweet, truthful, and kind-hearted. I am not known for my confidence, and I was lacking even more when I was younger. But, every single day lovely Carolina would talk to me and make me feel like a person again. It’s a strange thing, that just talking to someone can increase your self-esteem. If she could enjoy a conversation with me, then I couldn’t have been as awkward as I believed. She slowly pieced me back together when I hadn’t quite realized I was broken. She makes me feel confident, because if she still loves me then I will be okay. Carolina is unwaveringly good-natured, while I have always struggled with exact social cues and what I should verbalize or not. I would stare at her in a lull of communication and silently beg for her input, somehow she always had the answer on the tip of her tongue. We both hate talking to new people, yet the moment I reach out for her connection it’s like she has been planning what to say since she was born. She has taught me more about interpreting what to do or say next than my other peers. I would be an embarrassing amount of too honest without her, and I cannot applaud her enough for helping me when I couldn’t understand. She is also unimaginably intelligent. I could listen to her talk for hours about what she learned in a day. I feel honored to be the person who can hear this, to engulf a new set of knowledge from her. She encourages me to study and we will study together. We will complain about the assigned reading together or discuss theories. I’ll beg her for the notes when I am invariably gone for a day and she’ll ask me to buy her an energy drink. I’ll attempt to convince her to join AP Statistics with me (For when I read this to her: Please!). I’ll refuse to take AP Language and Composition with her. I couldn’t feel so joyous begging anyone else to take a math course with me. Carolina has done more than help me realize my potential. She’s helped me build my potential. She made me stick it out through hard times. She’s kept every secret I’ve told her. She forced me to challenge myself. She told me when I was wrong. She has been the best person I could ever know for seven years. She is the most annoying person I’ve met, and I have the joy of being the most annoying person she has ever met.

Pennsylvania has been an extremely boring state since I was first able to toddle. Yes, it has beautiful scenery and a long past, but there is nothing to do. Every time I want to hang out with a new friend we have to grapple our way around where to go. The consistently empty mall, the singular boba shop, or wandering around like we aren’t lost. Somehow, as inconvenient as it is, it makes spending time with whomever better. We are forced to talk about where we have been before, and what we like or hate; it’s a surprisingly connecting conversation. Even if it’s about how boring our town is, it’s a weird version of a love note to it as well. Yes, it's tedious to go to the same spot every time I want to do anything, but I also know the streets like the back of my hand. Congratulations to William Penn, who wanted Pennsylvania to be inclusive to all. A large amount of his wishes came to light. It is a very diverse state, matching its beginning. However, it lacks in the LGBTQ+ acceptance area. Being a gay person in Pennsylvania is awkward. Being a completely obvious queer is even worse. The amount of inane insults I’ve had slung at me is surprisingly unsurprising. Though, again, community saves us at the end of the day. Just because there are some systemic issues does not mean gay people don’t exist. I, while understanding this is extremely cliché, joined my school's theater and became a regular person rather than a walking object to ogle. William Penn would still be, mostly, proud of this state. One of my favorite things to say to people I have just met is: “God, I hate this state,”. They always agree. However, one thing it has always had is its history. When I was young, I loved reading the historical facts that lined the streets. Either something about the Articles of Confederation or how George Washington once coughed while walking down a street. We have so much history, and it always made me want to know more. My school, Dallastown Area High School, is brilliant. I can complain all I like, but it is one of the best schools in the entire state. I have been able to attend the science courses I have loved, it has let me learn what I’ve always wanted to know more about. Not only that, but my school has produced many kids who are excited to learn, and who want to challenge themselves, and I feel seen in these classes. I won’t be bored and I will love the content. As much as I’ve degraded Pennsylvania, it is where I love to be. I’d rather be bored out of my mind with everyone I’ve met in strangely labeled streets than anywhere else.