It didn’t happen all at once. It wasn’t a dramatic explosion, not at first. It was more like a slow erosion. Of boundaries, of self-respect, of who I believed I was. The first time he shoved me, it wasn’t out of anger. It was a joke, a “playful” push when I said something too sarcastic. I laughed it off. I always laughed things off. The second time, it was during an argument, and I apologized for provoking him. By the fourth time, I was wearing long sleeves in June. That wasn’t a joke, and I wasn’t laughing. The hardest part wasn’t the bruises or the fear, but the shame. I was supposed to be smart. I was the kid people turned to for help on their essays, the one who edited college applications and always had the right answer in class. I prided myself on being analytical, perceptive, “too clever to fall for that.” But I did. And when it got worse, when I stopped recognizing myself in the mirror, I still couldn’t bring myself to say the word abuse, because that felt like admitting defeat. What finally made me leave wasn’t a grand revelation. It was the quiet moment I realized I’d stopped hoping he’d change. After that, everything unraveled and rebuilt at once. I started to see how many others were walking around with the same shame folded into their ribcage. People who were isolated, confused, trying to convince themselves that hurt could be earned. I wasn’t alone. And if I wasn’t alone, I could help. I’m currently pursuing a degree in pharmaceutical sciences. On the surface, that might not seem like the most obvious path toward advocacy, but I see it differently. Medication is only one piece of care. The environment we deliver it in, the trust we build, the way we meet people where they are, those are just as important. My long-term goal is to open an independent pharmacy tailored to underserved communities, particularly immigrant families and low-income neighborhoods. Not just a pharmacy, but a place with a private room where survivors can access free literature, hotline cards, and trauma-informed care without asking for it out loud. A place with staff trained to recognize signs of domestic violence, to speak gently, to listen without pressure. I know firsthand how hard it is to speak up. I know how pride and fear can silence someone. That’s why I want to create a space where nothing has to be said for someone to receive help. Right now, I’m laying that foundation. I volunteer as a test prep tutor for immigrant and first-gen students, helping them navigate a system that so often wasn’t designed for us. I don’t preach or prod. I just show up, consistently. I let them know they’re capable. I hold space when they’re frustrated. I try to be the kind of person I needed when I was still hiding what was happening to me. Abuse doesn’t always look like the after-school specials warned us about. Sometimes it sounds like “you’re too sensitive” or “you’re lucky someone even loves you.” And sometimes, the people who experience it are the ones who never thought they would. I didn’t think I would. But I did. And I got out. And now I’m trying to rebuild something from the pain: something practical, something rooted in science and compassion. I may not save the world. But I can make a room feel safe again. I can be one hand extended in a quiet moment. And I can make sure someone like me doesn’t have to go through it alone.

I didn’t start swimming because I dreamed of the Olympics. I started because I liked how quiet it was underwater. There’s a moment when you push off the wall, glide through the silence, and the whole world falls away. You’re not thinking about grades, or parents, or what you said yesterday that kept you up all night. It’s just you, your breath, and the rhythm of your arms cutting through the water. That quiet? That was everything. Swimming wasn’t a sport I chose to win at. It was something I chose to survive with. In the water, I didn’t have to explain myself. I didn’t have to be the loudest or the smartest. I just had to keep going. Lap after lap, practice after practice, it gave me a way to work through things I didn’t have words for. Anger turned into power off the blocks. Grief got buried in the turns. Anxiety dissolved into the chlorine. Over time, it became a routine, then a refuge, and finally, a relationship. You learn to love the grind. The early mornings, the sore shoulders, the smell of your hair even after three showers, it all becomes part of the deal. And somewhere in that routine, I started to grow. I learned how to focus. How to push through the urge to quit. How to lose with grace and win without letting it define me. I learned that being consistent matters more than being flashy, and that showing up on the hard days is what separates a swimmer from someone who just happens to swim. What surprised me, though, was how much of swimming is mental. It’s easy to think it’s all muscle, fast starts and strong finishes. But some of the toughest moments are the ones in your own head. When you miss your goal time by half a second. When you plateau and don’t know why. When your friends are out having fun and you're counting seconds between breaths. The discipline it takes to stay with it, to trust that showing up will eventually pay off, that’s the kind of growth that sticks with you far beyond the pool. Even now, whether I’m swimming competitively or just doing laps on my own, it’s still the place I go when I need to think. It’s where I sort things out, not by talking, but by moving. And maybe that’s what I’ve loved about it all along: it’s a conversation that doesn’t need words. Swimming has shaped how I approach everything else in life, school, relationships, goals. It’s taught me how to break big challenges into smaller pieces. How to trust that progress isn’t always visible right away. How to keep going even when no one’s watching. And most of all, it’s taught me how to breathe, steady, focused, and without panic, even when I feel like I’m underwater.

When I was eight years old, I watched my brother die. His name was Collier. He was goofy, warm, the kind of older sibling who could make a room feel like home just by walking into it. And then one day, he collapsed. A brain aneurysm, something I didn’t even know existed, took him from us before we had time to say goodbye. At that age, grief didn’t look like dramatic crying or long conversations about feelings. It looked like silence. A kind of numb confusion. I didn’t know how to process what had happened, but I knew it mattered. I knew I never wanted another kid to sit in a cold hospital hallway, staring at machines and wondering what they were supposed to mean. That was the first time I ever thought about science, not in the classroom sense, but in the life-and-death kind of way. Over the years, that curiosity grew. I started digging into how the body works, how medications are developed, how some people get help and others just… don’t. I started seeing patterns. Aneurysms, diseases, misdiagnoses: they didn’t hit everyone equally. It was always the people with fewer resources, fewer connections, fewer options. People like my family. That’s part of why I started tutoring. It began as helping a few friends with ACT prep and turned into a volunteer program for immigrant students who reminded me of myself. Kids with potential but without a clear path. I focused on English and Reading, and over time, I saw their scores jump by ten points or more. One of my students told me, “I didn’t think college was even an option. Now it’s all I can think about.” That stuck with me. Grief turned into direction. Tutoring turned into passion. And now, I’m planning to pursue pharmaceutical sciences. My dream is to one day found a company focused on improving access to affordable, effective medication in communities like the one I grew up in. I don’t want to chase prestige, I want to create something that actually helps people who’ve been overlooked. I want to make sure no one else loses a sibling just because their neighborhood didn’t have the right kind of doctor, or their pharmacy didn’t carry what they needed. I’ll never get Collier back. I’ll never see who he would’ve grown into. But I carry him with me. In the questions I ask, the work I do, the kind of future I want to build. His life, and his loss, shaped mine. I don’t know what he’d do if he saw me today. But I can only hope he’d be proud.

I spent most of my life in Atlanta, a city buzzing with movement, culture, and contradiction. I grew up in a single-parent household and watched the people around me work twice as hard just to be seen—immigrants, low-income families, kids like me who always seemed a few steps behind. That early exposure to injustice didn’t fill me with grand ideas of changing the world. It just made me want to help the people I could reach. Now, as a high school senior, that instinct has evolved into a real commitment. I volunteer in-person as an ACT English and Reading tutor, working with immigrant students—most of whom have been overlooked by traditional school systems. We meet weekly in a borrowed classroom at a community center just outside the city. I help them with grammar, pacing, reading comprehension, and even confidence—because half the battle is getting them to believe they belong in a test room in the first place. It’s not glamorous work. But the wins are undeniable. Several of my students have increased their English and Reading scores by over 10 points, which is life-changing in the college admissions world. For context, going from an 18 to a 28 could turn a rejected application into an acceptance with scholarship money attached. One student texted me after a session: “I used to think I was just bad at this stuff. Now I actually think I can do this.” That hit me hard. Not because it made me feel good about myself, but because it meant the space we built together actually worked. And that’s what I want to keep doing—building spaces where people like him are allowed to hope. This work has given me clarity on what I want to do next. I plan to study pharmaceutical sciences, with the long-term goal of founding a pharmaceutical company focused on health equity. Too often, access to medicine and care is treated like a luxury—especially for the uninsured, for immigrants, for communities speaking English as a second (or third) language. My company would focus on affordable, accessible medications, yes—but more importantly, on education and distribution systems that are actually designed with those communities in mind. Instructions in multiple languages. Pharmacy techs who come from those neighborhoods. Sliding scale prices. Partnerships with nonprofits instead of upcharges. That’s the kind of future I want to build. But you don’t have to wait until I have a degree to see what I care about. It’s already in how I spend my time now. Whether it’s helping someone improve their ACT score or working with local organizers to register voters, I’m always looking for ways to empower people in the small ways that matter. I believe real change happens when we don’t try to save people, but walk with them, listen to them, and give them tools to shape their own paths. I may not be in Atlanta anymore, but the fire that city gave me hasn’t gone out. I carry it into every tutoring session, every college class, and—someday—every prescription label with my company’s name on it.

It started with a laptop, a group chat, and a question: “Can you help me with the ACT?” He was an immigrant student, same age as me, but already working part-time to support his family. English wasn’t his first language, and when it came to the ACT’s Reading and English sections, the test felt less like an evaluation and more like a punishment. I remembered feeling that way myself. So I said yes. At first, I thought I’d be helping just him. But word spreads fast in tight-knit communities. One turned to three, then ten. Every weekend, I sat down and walked them through practice tests, showing them how to dissect questions, find patterns, and trust their instincts. I saw their confidence grow. Some of them raised their Reading and English scores by 10 points, which is enough to go from “maybe community college” to full-ride consideration. That sort of change went beyond "Oh, look, I can get into a better college now!" It's proof that they can thrive, even if the system wasn't made for them, and I believe that's a beautiful thing. I didn’t have that when I was younger. I grew up in a single-parent household. College felt distant. Healthcare felt worse. I saw my mom skip medicine to pay rent, or stretch a prescription because she couldn’t miss another day of work. That gap—between what you need and what you can afford—shaped me. At first, I was confused, but the more I understood, the more I grew angry at the injustice: how could the world's richest country be so cruel to its underserved? That's why I want to go into pharmaceutical sciences. Not just to become a pharmacist, but to eventually build my own pharmaceutical company focused on low-cost, accessible treatment for underserved and immigrant communities. The company I envision won’t look like your typical pharma giant. It would partner directly with local clinics and community centers. It would manufacture and distribute generic medications at affordable prices and invest in mobile health units that bring care to rural and immigrant-heavy areas. It would employ multilingual staff and publish transparent educational materials in the most spoken languages of each region we serve. It would emphasize trust, accessibility, and preventative care, not just profit. On a structural level, I’d model the company as a social enterprise: for-profit, but with capped markups and a legal commitment to reinvest a portion of all proceeds into healthcare initiatives in low-income ZIP codes. I want it to be sustainable, but also mission-driven. Because I believe access to medicine shouldn’t be a privilege. In the same way I helped my ACT students unlock doors they didn’t think they could open, I want to help families get the treatment they deserve without fear or shame. That starts with higher education, but it doesn’t end there. I’m not trying to change the entire world. Just the part of it I’ve seen. The one that’s often forgotten, but the one where the people inside of it never stop fighting. And I’ll start with a laptop, a group chat, and one person who just needs a little help to believe they can.

I was nine the first time I heard “Defying Gravity.” I didn’t understand most of it; I thought Elphaba was literally flying away on a broomstick to escape her homework, but I remember something strange happening when she hit that final note: I stood up. In my living room. Alone. No applause. Just me, standing there like I had witnessed something holy. That song stuck with me. So did the story. I didn’t even see the full musical until years later, but the idea of it, the feeling of it, that never left. A girl who’s misunderstood, powerful, rejected, complicated… and good? Even if no one sees it? That hit a little too close to home for a shy, queer kid trying to figure out who they were in a world that only seemed to notice what they weren’t. What I love about Wicked is that it refuses to simplify anyone. Elphaba isn’t a villain just because she’s different. Glinda isn’t shallow just because she likes the spotlight. The Wizard isn’t kind just because he smiles. In that world, image and reality are constantly at odds, and that's something I think most teenagers come to realize, sometimes the hard way. I’ve had my “Elphaba moments.” Times when I stood up for what I believed in and got burned for it. Times when I tried to speak out and no one listened. Times when it felt like being “good” wasn’t enough to be accepted. And yet… I kept going. That’s what Wicked taught me. That being true to yourself won’t always make you popular. But it will make you powerful. And free. To me, Wicked is a reminder that we all have the power to choose who we become—even if the world tries to write our story for us. I’ll always be a fan of that message. And yeah, I still cry during “For Good.” Every single time.

When I think about Team USA, the first name that comes to mind is Simone Biles. Not just because of her unmatched talent (though, let’s be honest, watching her fly through the air like gravity is a suggestion is absolutely awe-inspiring), but because of what she represents. Simone is the kind of athlete who turns sports into something more than competition. She turns it into a statement. As someone who grew up in a single-parent household and often had to mature quickly, I saw in Simone a quiet kind of courage I could relate to. Yes, her medals are impressive. But what really stuck with me was the 2020 Tokyo Olympics, when she withdrew from several events to protect her mental health. That moment was bigger than gold. It told people—especially young people—that it’s okay to pause, to heal, and to put your well-being above the expectations of others. We live in a world that often sees athletes (and students, and workers, and artists) as machines—good for what they can produce, but not always for who they are. Simone challenged that. She reminded all of us that strength isn’t about pushing through pain at any cost; it’s about knowing yourself well enough to recognize when something isn’t right, and brave enough to act on it, even when the world is watching, but especially when it's not. Simone’s legacy isn’t just about gymnastics. It’s about honesty. More specifically, honesty to one's self. About refusing to shrink yourself into a box someone else built. About raising the bar for how we treat not just athletes, but ourselves. That’s something I try to carry with me, whether it be in the way I talk about mental health with others, in the way I handle setbacks, and in the way I work with the students I tutor. Some of them come from places like I did, where silence is mistaken for strength. Simone reminds me to show them something else. So, sure, when Simone Biles steps onto the mat, I cheer. But even more than that, I respect her for stepping off when she needed to. That’s a kind of strength worth celebrating. And for me, she’ll always be Team USA’s greatest example of it.

“I scream inside to deal with it, like, ‘Ah’” – All-American Bitch, Olivia Rodrigo That line might not seem profound on the surface, but to me, it’s one of the most accurate descriptions of being a teenager today. I’ve never felt more seen by a sarcastic “ah.” Because really, what else can you do sometimes? There’s pressure coming from all angles, school, expectations, family, your own self imposed standards, and the only appropriate response in public is to sit quietly and say, “I’m fine.” Meanwhile, inside your head, there’s a very polite, muted existential crisis happening. That lyric feels like my high school experience in a nutshell. I’ve had to scream inside through the loss of my dad’s presence in my life, through financial uncertainty, through trying to be everything to everyone, the “smart kid,” the “stable one,” the role model, even when I felt like I was running on fumes. I used to think I had to be perfect. That to be respected, to be worthy of the future I wanted, I had to hide the chaos, hold my breath, and just push through. I helped tutor immigrant students in ACT English and Reading while secretly worried I wouldn’t do well on the test myself. I applied for scholarships and mentored younger students while telling myself I wasn’t allowed to stumble. There wasn’t room to mess up. There was barely room to breathe. But what Olivia’s lyric captures—in its absurd simplicity—is that sometimes the only way to cope is to not cope in a traditional way. Sometimes screaming quietly is surviving. And when I realized I wasn’t the only one doing that, I started forgiving myself a little. Knowing you're not alone in your struggle can do that, even if you don't know the person personally, it tells you "well, at least I'm not crazy!" and that can go a long way. I started tutoring not to impress colleges, but to help students who, like me, felt forgotten by the system. I started writing again—not because it made me “stand out,” but because it gave me back my voice. I even started admitting when I didn’t know something. I started letting go of the idea that I had to be invulnerable to be valuable. That lyric is silly. But it’s also a mirror. And for once, I saw myself in it—not the version of me that always holds it together, but the kid just trying to get through the day with a little bit of grace and a quiet internal scream. And honestly? That’s enough.

I didn’t grow up with the kind of life where college was a given. First-generation, single-parent household, no college role model to follow, no dinner table conversations about scholarships or dorm life. If anything, higher education felt like something other people did, people with the resources, the support, the map. I didn’t have that. What I had was the quiet belief that maybe, just maybe, if I kept going, I could make life feel less like survival. That’s why I chose higher education. Not because it was expected of me, but because I’ve lived through what it’s like to not have support, to not understand the system, and to feel like you’re always ten steps behind. I don’t want that for anyone else. I want to be the person who helps someone breathe easier in a moment where everything feels impossible. It’s why I started tutoring. It began with a single Zoom call. A friend told me about a student he worked with, an immigrant high schooler struggling with ACT reading. I figured I’d help for an hour. But that one student brought a friend. Then another. Now I run weekly ACT tutoring sessions for a group of students who remind me of myself: first-gen, overwhelmed, doing their best to play catch-up in a game they weren’t invited to learn the rules for. There’s no fancy program, no funding, and attending is free. It's just me, a shared Google Doc, some slides I make during the week, sometimes questionable Wi-Fi, and a group of students who show up because they want a shot. We go over grammar, timing strategies, and reading skills—but more importantly, we build a space where no one has to feel embarrassed for asking a question. Where they’re allowed to be behind without being made to feel like a failure. It’s one of the most meaningful things I’ve ever done. And it’s what helped me realize what kind of future I want to build through higher education. I’m pursuing pharmaceutical sciences because I want to work in communities like the one I came from—where care is complicated, language is a barrier, and the system doesn’t explain itself. I want to help simplify the hard stuff. Whether that’s designing better medication instructions or just slowing down to make sure someone truly understands what they’re being told, I want to make the world a little less overwhelming for the people who’ve always had to figure it out alone. Choosing higher education wasn’t about prestige or pressure. It was a decision rooted in survival—and now, in purpose. I want to take what I’ve learned the hard way and turn it into something useful for someone else. I want fewer people to feel stuck where I was. But to do that, I need this education. I need the training, the structure, the access to spaces that weren’t built with people like me in mind. Because once I’m through the door, I’m holding it open for someone else.

I didn’t grow up with a roadmap. No college savings, no one ahead of me showing how things were done. First-gen, single mom, a lot of guessing and Googling. I figured things out the slow way: FAFSA forms at midnight, college applications that felt like they were written in another language, dual enrollment deadlines that I barely made. But I stayed with it. I worked hard in school, even when life outside it was anything but easy. I didn’t know exactly where I was going at first, just that I wanted to build something more stable than what I came from. Eventually, that feeling turned into something useful. A friend told me about some immigrant high school students who were struggling with ACT prep, mostly English and reading. I offered to help one of them over Zoom. Just one Saturday. Just one student. It didn’t stop there. That student brought a friend. Then another. Now, every week, I run free ACT tutoring sessions—no program, no money, just a shared Google Doc and a small group of students doing their best. Most of them speak English as a second language. Most are first-gen like me. And all of them, at some point, have been made to feel like they’re behind. I know that feeling well. We go over passages, grammar, strategy—but mostly, I try to make the space safe. Somewhere they don’t have to apologize for not knowing something yet. Somewhere they can just try, without shame. And slowly, that space became one of the most meaningful parts of my life. It also made me realize something about myself: I care about systems. The quiet ones. The ones people have to move through to get healthcare, or education, or support, and how often those systems leave people out. That’s why I’m studying pharmaceutical sciences. I want to work in communities like the one I grew up in, where clarity and trust in healthcare don’t come easy. I want to make things make sense. I want to be the person who explains things without condescension, who slows down when no one else will. I’m not trying to change the world. I just want to help someone breathe a little easier in a system that usually makes them hold their breath. This scholarship would take a real weight off my shoulders. I don’t have a financial safety net. What I do have is grit, a lot of empathy, and a very pieced-together plan that’s somehow held up so far. Support like this helps me keep going, not just toward a degree, but toward the kind of work that means something to me. And if I can keep showing up, for students, for patients, for anyone who needs a moment of stillness in a loud world, then that’s the kind of life I want to live.

I didn’t grow up with a map. No counselor to hold my hand, no savings account set aside for college, no calm voice telling me how to make the right choices. Just me, a single mom doing her best, and a whole lot of figuring it out as I went. Most of the time, it felt like trying to build something with half the instructions missing. Despite that, though, I tried to play it cool—like I understood what FAFSA was, like I wasn’t falling behind on things everyone else seemed to just know, but the fact remained that I was a scared kid trying to find their way through life. I was guessing, constantly, and throughout it all, I kept thinking: it shouldn’t be this hard to try. That thought stuck with me. So when a friend mentioned a few immigrant high school students that he worked with were struggling with the ACT, specifically the reading and English sections, I said I’d help, thinking that my background with creative writing would allow me to give them the help they needed, that this would be a great opportunity to give back to the community. I had no idea what I set myself up for It was just supposed to be one student—one Saturday—but word spread. That one student brought a friend. Then another. Now I host free tutoring sessions every week, going on two years strong—no program, no funding, just a Zoom link and a bunch of kids trying to claw their way forward. They remind me of myself, and I think that's part of the reason why I keep coming back. First-gen. A little lost. Smart in ways that don’t always show up on paper. I see all of that, and I try to be the person I wish I’d had—someone patient, someone who doesn’t treat their questions like burdens. We go over grammar. Break down passages. Reread things as many times as we need. No one gets laughed at for not knowing something. I’m studying pharmaceutical sciences now because I want to make systems feel more human—especially healthcare. I’ve seen what it’s like when you don’t know what a prescription label means or how to ask the right question in a doctor’s office. And I want to help make that easier. Gentler. I want to keep making complicated things feel a little less scary for people who are used to being talked over and cast aside. I’m not trying to change the world. But I do want to make life feel a little more possible for someone else. Even if it’s one person at a time. Even if it’s just a kid breathing easier after finally understanding a reading passage that used to make them panic. This scholarship would help me keep going—not just with school, but with the work that feels most like mine. I don’t come from a place where college was a guarantee. But I’ve made it here, one step at a time, and I don’t plan to stop now. And if all I ever do is create spaces where people feel like their voice matters—in school, in healthcare, in their own future—I’ll be proud of that. Because I know what it’s like to feel invisible. And I know how much it means when someone finally sees you.

It started simple. One Saturday. One student. A Zoom link and a shared Google doc. An acquaintance of mine, someone I’d met through the local writing community, helped run a small nonprofit. One Friday afternoon, he told me that he’d been working with a group of immigrant high school students in his area, mentioning how many of them were struggling with ACT prep, especially the reading and English sections. I remember thinking to myself, kind of half-joking, “Hey, I’m a published author. I know a thing or two about words.” It wasn’t some big initiative. Just a small “hey, why not?” moment. So, that Friday night, I created some slides and chose a local news article to analyze, figuring that I’d just help one student and call it a day. Except, the next Saturday, that same friend asked if the student I was teaching could bring another friend his. That friend ended up bringing someone else... And before I really knew what was happening, or what I was even getting into, I was hosting weekly virtual tutoring sessions with a small group of immigrant students. Topics varied from ACT reading, to grammar, to essay support. There was no application form or official program. Just a growing group of students who needed help, and me doing what I could to meet them where they were. I built lesson plans each week, rotated focus areas, and adjusted based on where students seemed stuck. But I quickly learned the most important part wasn’t the structure; rather, it was making sure the space felt safe, somewhere they didn’t have to be embarrassed if they misunderstood a word or needed something explained again. Being mocked for making a mistake is always demoralizing, but when done to you when you're trying to learn a new language, that shame is increased tenfold. I wanted to avoid that at all costs. Over time, something unexpected happened: they started teaching me things too. About the way they saw language. About their ethnic traditions. About what they noticed in test questions that I had overlooked. About the quiet grit it takes to learn an entirely new academic system while still trying to be a teenager. It taught me something about leadership: it isn’t about always having the answers, sometimes it’s about learning to ask better questions, or realizing your approach might not work for everyone. A good leader doesn’t just teach. They adapt. They change their mind. When I was younger, I thought leadership entailed being loud, taking charge, giving directions, making things happen. But what I’ve learned through my time tutoring is that real leadership often looks like service. It’s showing up before you’re asked. It’s creating space where others can feel seen. It’s helping someone believe they’re not falling behind just because they're different. The day I realized that I was truly making a difference, however, was when a student messaged me after a session about a poem he’d written. I didn’t expect it, but it stuck with me (poem is attached below.) His willingness to be vulnerable meant that the space we were building together was doing what it needed to. I believe leadership through service matters because it keeps your priorities in the right place: not focused on credit, but on connection. You focus on the people you're serving, not just their problems. It keeps you humble, because it requires you to keep learning, too. I didn’t set out with the intention of doing anything grand. I just said yes to someone who needed help. Now I know that’s where the best kind of leadership begins.

For most of my life, people called me the quiet one. They meant it nicely, I think. Shy. Polite. “Reserved.” It sounded like a compliment when teachers said it in front of the class. But it never felt like one. There were days I went the whole school day without speaking. Not because I didn’t have anything to say--I usually did, so much so that keeping it all in would hurt, I’d rehearse answers in my head until I had the phrasing just right. But when the moment came, nothing came out. My heart would start racing, my throat would close up, and the sentence I’d practiced over and over would vanish, like it had never even existed. That fear wasn’t loud. That was the hard part. If it had been, someone might’ve noticed my struggle. But it was the kind of suffering that hums beneath everything. Always there. Always waiting. Maliciously silent. I was diagnosed with social anxiety and selective mutism in middle school. It didn’t come as a surprise to me. I already knew something was different--I just didn’t know what to call it. Giving it a name didn’t magically make it easier to explain, though. I still had teachers who thought I was being rude. Peers who thought I didn’t care. Adults who told me to “just speak up” like it hadn’t already taken everything in me just to sit in that room. Class discussions. Group projects. Presentations. The usual stuff. Except for me, it felt like trying to breathe underwater. I found my own ways to survive--writing more than I spoke, overpreparing everything, fading into the background whenever I could. It worked. Sort of. I got by. But I also learned how to stay small. How to stop taking up space before anyone asked me to. I still catch myself doing that sometimes. Overthinking basic conversations. Apologizing for things I haven’t even done. Playing out every possible outcome of a sentence before I say it, just in case. But I’ve learned that progress doesn’t always feel like confidence. Sometimes it just looks like staying in the room. Even when it’s uncomfortable. College scares me a little, but I want to be there anyway. Not because I’ve conquered anything, but because I’ve learned how to keep going even when it’s hard. For me, higher education isn’t about being fearless--it’s about building a life that isn’t shaped around fear. I’m planning to study pharmaceutical engineering. There’s something quietly powerful about designing systems that help people feel better without demanding attention. Systems that are dependable. Precise. Safe. I like the idea of working on things that make someone’s life easier, even if they never know who made it that way. There’s something deeply human about that. There are people who go unheard. People who can’t always speak up, or who stop trying because no one ever listened. I’ve been one of them. I want to help build something that works better for people like that--not someday, but now. And if the person I used to be could see where I’m standing now-still anxious, still figuring it out, but showing up anyway--I think they’d be proud. And I’m proud too.