Being a Captain of the Modern Dance Company (MDC) stands out as my most empowering experience. The path to get to this point was a journey of self-discovery and hard work. My journey as a performer began with my dad singing me to sleep every night with lullabies that his mom sang to him. My private bedtime concerts are where my lifelong love for music was born. Music has always resonated deeply with me and brought up feelings I have struggled to articulate. Eventually, I found a way with movement. As a pre-teen, I was trapped in a bubble of self-consciousness that held me tightly in a space where expressing myself openly felt impossible. Everything changed in my sophomore year when I stepped out of my comfort zone and into a dance studio for the first time. Dancing gave me a language to express myself publicly, and it allowed me to share my creativity with others. In the studio, I learned to take up space, feel my emotions, and share them through movement on stage. I felt behind as a beginner in a studio of seasoned dancers but was determined to improve.I felt behind as a beginner in a studio of seasoned dancers but was determined to improve. I spent a year taking dance classes almost every day after school, making space in my schedule to take Dance 1 through Advanced Dance Technique and Choreography during the school day, and challenging myself to inch further out of my comfort zone. By the spring of my junior year, I was ready to choreograph my first of three pieces for MDC. My first time choreographing transformed my understanding of dance. I created something entirely original, taught it to a cast of 20, and performed it on stage. My piece, titled “Choices,” was received with astounding positivity and gave me even more motivation to continue improving. I couldn’t imagine capturing the quality and confidence of a performer as a pre-teen, but dance strengthened my relationship with myself, and performance strengthened my relationship with others. My identity as a dancer and performer is new, but it is already a fundamental part of who I am. I celebrate my growth as a person every time I step on stage and remember the hard work I put in to get there. Modern Dance Company is a home for all students from any background to learn dance without judgment. CRLS dance brought me on a journey of self-discovery and acceptance that I carry with me in every space I enter. Dance empowers me to keep growing and setting an example for younger dancers, continuing the MDC's legacy of non-judgment and welcoming all with open arms.

On July 4th, 2024, I set off on my first-ever solo trip, a 28-hour journey from Boston to Taipei. I was one of six volunteers selected to teach English at Neiwan Elementary School, the only public elementary school available to the children of farmers in a remote village in Miaoli County, Taiwan. There, I had my own classroom of 15 students aged 7-9. They were shy at first, and I’d hear them whisper “wai guo ren” (外国人) to each other, believing I didn’t understand Mandarin for “foreigner.” The curiosity of the children was expressed in a way that offended me until I realized I was likely the first mixed-race person they’d ever met. Their whispers weren’t meant to hurt me; they were sincerely trying to understand. My sense of belonging would only be weakened if I let it be. Over four weeks, I developed strong relationships with every one of my students. Some were more enthusiastic than others to be learning English, but all were interested in learning about me, a teenage teacher from America. Over the weeks, the children softened to me; the perfectly behaved students I met on day one were not the same after only a couple days. Part of my job as a teacher was to help serve the students lunch. It was clear how important this meal, complete with protein, vegetables, grain, and fruit, was to the students, many of whom were food insecure. In the last days of my time at Neiwan Elementary, Taiwan was hit with a major Typhoon. School was cancelled for three days, and the storm devastated some of the students’ family farms. My last day at Neiwan was heavy, with tears from the students who would miss their teachers and the emotional weight the storm carried. My time at Neiwan became more than an opportunity to teach; it became a lesson in understanding and human connection. What started as a difficulty finding belonging in Taiwan turned into a deeply meaningful exchange between myself and my students. Their initial whispers became meaningful bonds, and they showed me the world through their eyes. Community service is about breaking socioeconomic, cultural, or linguistic barriers. Teaching at Neiwan Elementary was not just a language exchange but a bridge between worlds. Recognizing the inequalities these children faced, from food insecurity to devastation by natural disaster, changed my understanding of my role in the world to one dedicated to working toward a more just world. This teaching experience reinforced my strong belief in the importance and power of education and human connection as a means to achieve peace and justice. Small moments carry the potential to build empathy and dissolve misunderstandings. I see a reflection of the kind of world I hope to help create in these small interactions: one where all children are given the opportunity to thrive.

Our house smelled like a hospital. Our medicine cabinet filled a bookshelf. A shower chair supported my older sister, Anya, who was too weak to stand from twelve rounds of radiation and 24 months of chemotherapy. Over those two years, my role as a six-year-younger sister shifted to caregiver. In 2013, Anya was diagnosed with leukemia. She had nausea, restless legs, and body aches that medication didn’t help. Looking for solutions, my mom eventually turned to Reiki, a form of energy healing. At six, I watched closely as she patiently performed Reiki every day, intensely focused, eyes closed, gently hovering her hands above Anya. It became the only thing that eased Anya’s chronic pain as she struggled to wean off powerful medications. After two years, we left Boston Children’s Hospital healthy. Holistic healing was also fundamentally important to my paternal grandmother, whom we called Nainai, the phonetic spelling of 奶奶, which is Mandarin for grandmother. Nainai resisted seeing a doctor for more than a year after noticing she had lost some mobility in her legs, resorting to herbal remedies and walking sticks to get around. She entrusted her care to an herbalist, who prescribed oils and supplements that further weakened her body. I learned that when a person entrusts someone with their well-being, that caregiver has a responsibility to provide honest treatment attuned to the patient's needs. In March 2020, after several forced doctor’s visits, she was diagnosed with a rapidly progressing form of ALS combined with dementia. The herbal remedies were not just ineffective, they stole the last eight lucid months of her life. The diagnosis came too late for her to make an end-of-life plan, arrange her own care, or say goodbye to her loved ones. Nine months of hospice care followed before she passed away peacefully in her Cambridge apartment. I was named her official hospice companion. I wasn’t qualified to administer morphine, but once she lost the ability to speak coherently, I became able to read a tiny wince, a slight clench of her jaw, or a sharp exhale. Translating those expressions for her hospice nurse made sure she got the medication she needed when she was anxious or in pain. For the first time, I had a formal role as a caretaker and a written set of responsibilities. The role came naturally to me, these healing practices being nothing new in my family. First, holistic healing brought my family together during our years with Anya in the hospital, and then it brought me to the bedside of my grandmother. Nainai’s end-of-life treatment consisted of a combination of emotional and medicinal care. Being thirteen, I provided support without practicing medicine. My family instilled in me a capacity to love and care that I now carry and share wherever I go. My sister’s cancer journey and ultimate recovery taught me that healing is a complex mix of the physical and the emotional. My grandmother’s journey taught me that while we couldn’t heal her physically, we could help in other ways, making the end of her life as comfortable as possible. I learned to perform the emotional side of nursing while I could only observe the physical. In a sense, I’ve always been a nurse from the years of my sister’s illness, to the end-of-life care I provided for my grandmother. In a world that needs more nurturing and empathetic nurses, I want to enter nursing school to become an advocate for patients and families in pediatric cancer units, providing the kind of care that made a direct, lasting impact on my sister’s life and mine.

Our house smelled like a hospital. Our medicine cabinet filled a bookshelf. A shower chair supported my older sister, Anya, who was too weak to stand from twelve rounds of radiation and 24 months of chemotherapy. Over those two years, my role as a six-year-younger sister shifted to caregiver. In 2013, Anya was diagnosed with leukemia. She had nausea, restless legs, and body aches that medication didn’t help. Looking for solutions, my mom eventually turned to Reiki, a form of energy healing. At six, I watched closely as she patiently performed Reiki every day, intensely focused, eyes closed, gently hovering her hands above Anya. It became the only thing that eased Anya’s chronic pain as she struggled to wean off powerful medications. After two years, we left Boston Children’s Hospital healthy. Holistic healing was also fundamentally important to my paternal grandmother, whom we called Nainai, the phonetic spelling of 奶奶, which is Mandarin for grandmother. Nainai resisted seeing a doctor for more than a year after noticing she had lost some mobility in her legs, resorting to herbal remedies and walking sticks to get around. She entrusted her care to an herbalist, who prescribed oils and supplements that further weakened her body. I learned that when a person entrusts someone with their well-being, that caregiver has a responsibility to provide honest treatment attuned to the patient's needs. In March 2020, after several forced doctor’s visits, she was diagnosed with a rapidly progressing form of ALS combined with dementia. The herbal remedies were not just ineffective, they stole the last eight lucid months of her life. The diagnosis came too late for her to make an end-of-life plan, arrange her own care, or say goodbye to her loved ones. Nine months of hospice care followed before she passed away peacefully in her Cambridge apartment. I was named her official hospice companion. I wasn’t qualified to administer morphine, but once she lost the ability to speak coherently, I became able to read a tiny wince, a slight clench of her jaw, or a sharp exhale. Translating those expressions for her hospice nurse made sure she got the medication she needed when she was anxious or in pain. For the first time, I had a formal role as a caretaker and a written set of responsibilities. The role came naturally to me, these healing practices being nothing new in my family. First, holistic healing brought my family together during our years with Anya in the hospital, and then it brought me to the bedside of my grandmother. Nainai’s end-of-life treatment consisted of a combination of emotional and medicinal care. Being thirteen, I provided support without practicing medicine. My family instilled in me a capacity to love and care that I now carry and share wherever I go. My sister’s cancer journey and ultimate recovery taught me that healing is a complex mix of the physical and the emotional. My grandmother’s journey taught me that while we couldn’t heal her physically, we could help in other ways, making the end of her life as comfortable as possible. I learned to perform the emotional side of nursing while I could only observe the physical. In a sense, I’ve always been a nurse--from my early years of grade school when my classmates would ask that I be the one to accompany them to the nurse's office, to the years of my sister’s illness, to the end-of-life care I provided for my grandmother. I want nothing more than to enter nursing school so that I can bring my passion for warm, responsible, whole-person care to the profession.

Our house smelled like a hospital. Our medicine cabinet filled a bookshelf. A shower chair supported my older sister, Anya, who was too weak to stand from twelve rounds of radiation and 24 months of chemotherapy. Over those two years, my role as a six-year-younger sister shifted to caregiver. In 2013, Anya was diagnosed with leukemia. She had nausea, restless legs, and body aches that medication didn’t help. Looking for solutions, my mom eventually turned to Reiki, a form of energy healing. At six, I watched closely as she patiently performed Reiki every day, intensely focused, eyes closed, gently hovering her hands above Anya. It became the only thing that eased Anya’s chronic pain as she struggled to wean off powerful medications. After two years, we left Boston Children’s Hospital healthy. Holistic healing was also fundamentally important to my paternal grandmother, whom we called Nainai, the phonetic spelling of 奶奶, which is Mandarin for grandmother. Nainai resisted seeing a doctor for more than a year after noticing she had lost some mobility in her legs, resorting to herbal remedies and walking sticks to get around. She entrusted her care to an herbalist, who prescribed oils and supplements that further weakened her body. I learned that when a person entrusts someone with their well-being, that caregiver has a responsibility to provide honest treatment attuned to the patient's needs. In March 2020, after several forced doctor’s visits, she was diagnosed with a rapidly progressing form of ALS combined with dementia. The herbal remedies were not just ineffective, they stole the last eight lucid months of her life. The diagnosis came too late for her to make an end-of-life plan, arrange her own care, or say goodbye to her loved ones. Nine months of hospice care followed before she passed away peacefully in her Cambridge apartment. I was named her official hospice companion. I wasn’t qualified to administer morphine, but once she lost the ability to speak coherently, I became able to read a tiny wince, a slight clench of her jaw, or a sharp exhale. Translating those expressions for her hospice nurse made sure she got the medication she needed when she was anxious or in pain. For the first time, I had a formal role as a caretaker and a written set of responsibilities. The role came naturally to me, these healing practices being nothing new in my family. First, holistic healing brought my family together during our years with Anya in the hospital, and then it brought me to the bedside of my grandmother. Nainai’s end-of-life treatment consisted of a combination of emotional and medicinal care. Being thirteen, I provided support without practicing medicine. My family instilled in me a capacity to love and care that I now carry and share wherever I go. My sister’s cancer journey and ultimate recovery taught me that healing is a complex mix of the physical and the emotional. My grandmother’s journey taught me that while we couldn’t heal her physically, we could help in other ways, making the end of her life as comfortable as possible. I learned to perform the emotional side of nursing while I could only observe the physical. In a sense, I’ve always been a nurse--from my early years of grade school when my classmates would ask that I be the one to accompany them to the nurse's office, to the years of my sister’s illness, to the end-of-life care I provided for my grandmother. I want nothing more than to enter nursing school so that I can bring my passion for warm, responsible, whole-person care to the profession.

Our house smelled like a hospital. Our medicine cabinet filled a bookshelf. A shower chair supported my older sister, Anya, who was too weak to stand from twelve rounds of radiation and 24 months of chemotherapy. Over those two years, my role as a six-year-younger sister shifted to caregiver. In 2013, Anya was diagnosed with leukemia. She had nausea, restless legs, and body aches that medication didn’t help. Looking for solutions, my mom eventually turned to Reiki, a form of energy healing. At six, I watched closely as she patiently performed Reiki every day, intensely focused, eyes closed, gently hovering her hands above Anya. It became the only thing that eased Anya’s chronic pain as she struggled to wean off powerful medications. After two years, we left Boston Children’s Hospital healthy. Holistic healing was also fundamentally important to my paternal grandmother, whom we called Nainai, the phonetic spelling of 奶奶, which is Mandarin for grandmother. Nainai resisted seeing a doctor for more than a year after noticing she had lost some mobility in her legs, resorting to herbal remedies and walking sticks to get around. She entrusted her care to an herbalist, who prescribed oils and supplements that further weakened her body. I learned that when a person entrusts someone with their well-being, that caregiver has a responsibility to provide honest treatment attuned to the patient's needs. In March 2020, after several forced doctor’s visits, she was diagnosed with a rapidly progressing form of ALS combined with dementia. The herbal remedies were not just ineffective, they stole the last eight lucid months of her life. The diagnosis came too late for her to make an end-of-life plan, arrange her own care, or say goodbye to her loved ones. Nine months of hospice care followed before she passed away peacefully in her Cambridge apartment. I was named her official hospice companion. I wasn’t qualified to administer morphine, but once she lost the ability to speak coherently, I became able to read a tiny wince, a slight clench of her jaw, or a sharp exhale. Translating those expressions for her hospice nurse made sure she got the medication she needed when she was anxious or in pain. For the first time, I had a formal role as a caretaker and a written set of responsibilities. The role came naturally to me, these healing practices being nothing new in my family. First, holistic healing brought my family together during our years with Anya in the hospital, and then it brought me to the bedside of my grandmother. Nainai’s end-of-life treatment consisted of a combination of emotional and medicinal care. Being thirteen, I provided support without practicing medicine. My family instilled in me a capacity to love and care that I now carry and share wherever I go. My sister’s cancer journey and ultimate recovery taught me that healing is a complex mix of the physical and the emotional. My grandmother’s journey taught me that while we couldn’t heal her physically, we could help in other ways, making the end of her life as comfortable as possible. I learned to perform the emotional side of nursing while I could only observe the physical. In a sense, I’ve always been a nurse--from my early years of grade school when my classmates would ask that I be the one to accompany them to the nurse's office, to the years of my sister’s illness, to the end-of-life care I provided for my grandmother. I want nothing more than to enter nursing school so that I can bring my passion for warm, responsible, whole-person care to the profession.

Growing up as the younger sister of a childhood cancer patient and survivor, I have seen firsthand how incredibly impactful nurses are to both patients and their families. During my sister Anya’s two-year course of treatment, I saw the contrast between compassionate, supportive care and apathetic, solely clinical methods. The compassionate nurses approached Anya with warmth and were committed to healing my sister and supporting my entire family. On the flip side, there were nurses who were distant and offered little comfort. Although all nurses undergo the same training and are equally qualified, only those who bring empathy into care make a lasting, positive impact. I was in first grade when my sister was diagnosed with leukemia, and her nurses connected my family with a camp called The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp. Hole in the Wall is a place created for children and their families coping with life-threatening illnesses. I was seven years old in my first summer at camp, and it was my first sleep-away experience. Many of the counselors and volunteers were trained healthcare professionals whose gentle understanding mirrored that of the nurses who cared for my sister in the hospital. Their involvement and ability to support me as a sibling to a patient is something I will never forget. They introduced me to other siblings of children with cancers like my sisters, giving me an invaluable community that I wouldn’t have found otherwise. The nurses who connected us to Hole in the Wall understood the value of healing that includes the whole family, not just the patient. While my experience at camp was overwhelmingly positive, not all of Anya’s nurses treated her with the same provided her with the same degree of thoughtful and holistic care. One experience during Anya’s treatment made it clear how a lack of emotional care can overshadow any clinical skills. During treatment, Anya developed a serious blood infection, hospitalizing her for several days. One night, a visibly irritated nurse was assigned to administer a transfusion of the antibiotic Cefepime. Unlike previous nurses who kindly explained and prepared Anya for the procedure, this nurse offered no warning before the painful IV insertion and left immediately afterward. The flow of cold, stinging antibiotic pumped too quickly, and fluid pooled painfully under her skin, filling the tissue in her wrist rather than entering her vein. When the nurse finally responded to calls for assistance, Anya had already stopped the infusion herself, the pain so unbearable she was forced to remove her own IV. Despite her qualifications on paper, this nurse lacked the emotional capacity to provide the highest quality of care. Knowing how to do something is one thing; putting that knowledge into practice is another, and only the best nurses can do both. My admiration for nurses who care for their patients holistically has only grown since my sister’s treatment. Nursing is only impactful when the care provided is comprehensive and compassionate. In a world that needs nurturing, empathetic nurses, I want to become an advocate for patients and families, providing the kind of care that made a direct, lasting impact on my sister’s life and mine.

Growing up as the younger sister of a childhood cancer patient and survivor, I have seen firsthand how incredibly impactful nurses are to both patients and their families. During my sister Anya’s two-year course of treatment, I saw the contrast between compassionate, supportive care and apathetic, solely clinical methods. The compassionate nurses approached Anya with warmth and were committed to healing my sister and supporting my entire family. On the flip side, there were nurses who were distant and offered little comfort. Although all nurses undergo the same training and are equally qualified, only those who bring empathy into care make a lasting, positive impact. I was in first grade when my sister was diagnosed with leukemia, and her nurses connected my family with a camp called The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp. Hole in the Wall is a place created for children and their families coping with life-threatening illnesses. I was seven years old in my first summer at camp, and it was my first sleep-away experience. Many of the counselors and volunteers were trained healthcare professionals whose gentle understanding mirrored that of the nurses who cared for my sister in the hospital. Their involvement and ability to support me as a sibling to a patient is something I will never forget. They introduced me to other siblings of children with cancers like my sisters, giving me an invaluable community that I wouldn’t have found otherwise. The nurses who connected us to Hole in the Wall understood the value of healing that includes the whole family, not just the patient. While my experience at camp was overwhelmingly positive, not all of Anya’s nurses treated her with the same provided her with the same degree of thoughtful and holistic care. One experience during Anya’s treatment made it clear how a lack of emotional care can overshadow any clinical skills. During treatment, Anya developed a serious blood infection, hospitalizing her for several days. One night, a visibly irritated nurse was assigned to administer a transfusion of the antibiotic Cefepime. Unlike previous nurses who kindly explained and prepared Anya for the procedure, this nurse offered no warning before the painful IV insertion and left immediately afterward. The flow of cold, stinging antibiotic pumped too quickly, and fluid pooled painfully under her skin, filling the tissue in her wrist rather than entering her vein. When the nurse finally responded to calls for assistance, Anya had already stopped the infusion herself, the pain so unbearable she was forced to remove her own IV. Despite her qualifications on paper, this nurse lacked the emotional capacity to provide the highest quality of care. Knowing how to do something is one thing; putting that knowledge into practice is another, and only the best nurses can do both. My admiration for nurses who care for their patients holistically has only grown since my sister’s treatment. Nursing is only impactful when the care provided is comprehensive and compassionate. In a world that needs nurturing, empathetic nurses, I want to become an advocate for patients and families, providing the kind of care that made a direct, lasting impact on my sister’s life and mine.

Growing up as the younger sister of a childhood cancer patient and survivor, I have seen firsthand how incredibly impactful nurses are to both patients and their families. During my sister Anya’s two-year course of treatment, I saw the contrast between compassionate, supportive care and apathetic, solely clinical methods. The compassionate nurses approached Anya with warmth and were committed to healing my sister and supporting my entire family. On the flip side, there were nurses who were distant and offered little comfort. Although all nurses undergo the same training and are equally qualified, only those who bring empathy into care make a lasting, positive impact. I was in first grade when my sister was diagnosed with leukemia, and her nurses connected my family with a camp called The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp. Hole in the Wall is a place created for children and their families coping with life-threatening illnesses. I was seven years old in my first summer at camp, and it was my first sleep-away experience. Many of the counselors and volunteers were trained healthcare professionals whose gentle understanding mirrored that of the nurses who cared for my sister in the hospital. Their involvement and ability to support me as a sibling to a patient is something I will never forget. They introduced me to other siblings of children with cancers like my sisters, giving me an invaluable community that I wouldn’t have found otherwise. The nurses who connected us to Hole in the Wall understood the value of healing that includes the whole family, not just the patient. While my experience at camp was overwhelmingly positive, not all of Anya’s nurses treated her with the same provided her with the same degree of thoughtful and holistic care. One experience during Anya’s treatment made it clear how a lack of emotional care can overshadow any clinical skills. During treatment, Anya developed a serious blood infection, hospitalizing her for several days. One night, a visibly irritated nurse was assigned to administer a transfusion of the antibiotic Cefepime. Unlike previous nurses who kindly explained and prepared Anya for the procedure, this nurse offered no warning before the painful IV insertion and left immediately afterward. The flow of cold, stinging antibiotic pumped too quickly, and fluid pooled painfully under her skin, filling the tissue in her wrist rather than entering her vein. When the nurse finally responded to calls for assistance, Anya had already stopped the infusion herself, the pain so unbearable she was forced to remove her own IV. Despite her qualifications on paper, this nurse lacked the emotional capacity to provide the highest quality of care. Knowing how to do something is one thing; putting that knowledge into practice is another, and only the best nurses can do both. My admiration for nurses who care for their patients holistically has only grown since my sister’s treatment. Nursing is only impactful when the care provided is comprehensive and compassionate. In a world that needs nurturing, empathetic nurses, I want to become an advocate for patients and families, providing the kind of care that made a direct, lasting impact on my sister’s life and mine.