My mom is a math teacher. It was always a bit annoying to me, seeing how every person I met somehow knew her or had heard of her. It seemed as if I’d gone over it a thousand times. After all, how many people could one woman interact with from the confines of a classroom? My closest friends in track, incoming freshmen in clubs, and random adults I meet in a supermarket; they all light up with a flash of recognition when I mention that my mother is Mrs. Choi-Lee. I didn’t always want to be a teacher. I’d always imagined myself doing something greatly impactful, something so profound that it wasn’t just another career on the market. I wanted to travel the world and write about the injustices of society, wanted to meet people, help people, reach people. I wanted a purpose in shaping our world. Searching for careers and majors that would fulfil my desire, I came across a suggestion that slightly chafed. “You would make a great teacher,” she said. What? It wasn’t an idea that I immediately embraced. But the evidence was everywhere. From having a plethora of suggestions for my mom’s classroom dilemmas to helping my younger brother through his perfectionism-induced writer’s block, I started to see in myself what others were already pointing out. I really could be a teacher. But did I want to be? See, when I heard the word “teacher,” I didn’t think about my mom or the teachers I’d grown close to but about the image I conjured up of a person enclosed in a classroom with a group of unmotivated children, excluded from the outside world. I see now that I was greatly mistaken. Paying closer attention, I realize that my teachers have an unimaginable impact on the future. The students they teach are the future. They can make up the world’s best or worst in only a few years’ time. Every reassurance, every push to work harder, every time a teacher takes the time to really know who they are teaching, they are shaping the world. Which is exactly what I want to do. It was never just about teaching. It was about getting to be in the best place to mold, encourage, and motivate the future to be the best they can be. The longer I think about it, the more sure I seem to get. Early on, I applied to all my colleges undecided, with the hesitancy of stepping fully into this career that I never really considered valuable. Now, I am filled with excitement, hoping to attend Rutgers University, majoring in Secondary Education. I no longer doubt the impact I can make in a classroom. I hope that one day, when my kids are older and they face the world before them, I will have had a part in shaping it. Little by little, one person at a time, to be the light in their lives with the hopes of steering them towards their fullest potential and passion.

There is something about writing that both closes and opens doors. I am always writing. At home, at school, in my mind, on paper, I always seem to have something to say. The moment my pen touches paper–or my fingers touch keyboard–I become enclosed in my mind, my private thoughts. Suddenly, the world outside is shut out, and I am left with everything I stored away for myself in the past few moments. As my thoughts come to the forefront, I scramble to get everything out, not wanting to lose a single idea. Once, my younger brother came to me struggling to write. I knew he was smart; he was full of ideas. In fact, he was a mini-me. And I knew exactly what I wanted to tell this mini-me. "Dump everything out. Fill your page to the brim. It has to look a little messy before it can be beautiful." I've learned to enjoy the messy. To take the chaos and rambling in my brain and splatter it onto a visible piece. I find that there are connections, puzzle pieces, clues, within just my observations and questions. Each bullet point and scribbled phrase starts to morph into one idea, something I hadn't even imagined when I began. That is what writing gives me. It is the place where I can contain my thoughts to release them. Where I present my confusion so that I can understand. There really are no limitations to writing. I could write an essay, a song, or journal my thoughts. I could write an impeccable outline or a poem that breaks every rule of grammar. Each one of these would give me satisfaction in a different way. When I write, I discover things about myself. I love to journal about my day, to relive the moments that sped by again in slow motion. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, often disorienting. But when I write about it, I see it all again. I reflect on my most joyous victories and my times of deepest regret. I remember what I am thankful for as well as what I would change about myself. Writing has allowed me to grow. Writing will continue to allow me to grow. I want to write every day. I want to remember, relive, learn, and change. I plan to live my life with meaning and intention. Writing helps with that. As I step into a different world of college, some things will change, others will remain the same. I know my writing will do both. It will be different: the way I write, the things I write about, maybe even the feelings I have when I do. But I know that even still, my writing will always show me glimpses of who I have been and who I can be. And that is what I love about it.