Born in a musical family, I come from a lineage of artists tracing back generations from my family’s home country of Serbia. Even throughout turbulent Serbian history, classical music retained a constant rhythm in the family. My great-great-grandfather used his skills as a violinist to survive a concentration camp during the Second World War. My parents, who emigrated to the United States from a war-torn Serbia with only a few hundred dollars and a desire for a better life as violinists, eventually became prominent music educators. When it came to me, there was a never-ending drive to continue the legacy. Walking into my third-grade music room for the first time, I immediately noticed an instrument case with an unusual, wavy shape. As I clicked open the latches, shimmering keys and smooth lacquer knocked me out of my size-seven sneakers. To my parents’ horror, I brought home my new saxophone. I took up a silent rebellion against the strict, Serbian ideals of classical music. I felt proud to become the first to deviate from generations of string musicians. Though I loved my saxophone, I felt I was betraying the rules set by my family. I was afraid to defy the expectations. Conflicted, I wanted to explore a new world of my creation. So, despite the pressure, I took the risk. After eight years, the saxophone became my personal escape. When school became harder, I found peace alone in my room with jazz. I fell in love with improvisation, uncertainty, and the possibility of creating something unique in every solo. Realizing how much music meant to me, I began researching the effects of music on Alzheimer’s patients. I was fascinated by how songs from someone’s youth could suddenly bring back memories, emotion, and identity. Wanting to use my own skills to make that impact, I began performing for residents at the Brandywine Senior Home in Summit. At first, the audience seemed distant--some stared blankly while others dozed off. After each song, however, the crowd began to warm up and blossom as I progressed through my setlist. Ballads, up-tempo blues, and famous jazz standards took the audience on an emotional journey through their good old days. People clapped, cheered, danced, and cried tears of joy. While I needed several performances to properly engage the audience with their past, what I learned from this experience went far beyond music. I came to understand the deep significance of connecting with an often-forgotten community: people whose stories, passions, and identities are too easily lost to time and illness. I felt empowered. My music could serve as more than just a form of entertainment; it could be a tool to give back what had been lost. In conducting this research and creating something out of a skill I love, I learned something about myself, too: I found purpose rooted in a desire to use what I know to make people feel recognized and remembered. For me, “One Heart, One Beat” means recognizing that music can unite people across generations, cultures, and experiences in ways that seem completely unlikely. A skill that once helped my family survive hardship in Serbia became the same drive that allowed me to bring comfort and connection to my local elder community, and beyond. Whether through my family’s past or my own experiences today, music has shown me that even completely different lives can share the same rhythm. At Brown University, I hope to continue this legacy and further explore my passions, find purpose, and learn about the world around me while giving back.