Rain is the embodiment of time. It allows the observer to reminisce over open skies and the warmth of sunlight on bare skin, and promises a future of reflective puddles, waiting to be disturbed by any slight tremor in the ground. In the present, drops of rain plummet through the air and touch the ground with the delicacy of a ballerina, yet contain the strength of a thousand men. The song of a storm can be heard for miles around, but is only perceived by those who choose to listen. The mournful adagio of a light drizzle builds as the gale grows near. Claps of thunder keep tempo for the crescendos and decrescendos of a downpour. Mother Nature conducts the mighty winds whipping through trees to create melodies exclusive to those who give their attention to Her song. Her anthem rises to a deafening volume as slick sheets of rain fall to the earth, filling the ears of Her audience. In an instant, the chorale comes to a close, and the fortissimo of the tempest diminishes to a gentle piano. Yet, what comes after a storm is the most beautiful to me. Magnificent as the song of the rain can be, it is not nearly as elegant as the silence that follows. Silence elicits a deep feeling of appreciation within myself. Appreciation for clear skies, brewing storms, showers of rain, and the sickly sweet smell that lingers in the air for hours after the performance. The seamless transitions from thundering orchestras to stillness flaunt the raw strength and capability of Nature, and showcase the insignificance of man in comparison to Her.

Sometimes, in a moment of unbreakable, overbearing silence, I find myself looking at the moon. Looking isn’t the best word for it. It’s a gaze of admiration and understanding; of waiting and of longing. As my fixed stare lingers, I can’t help but feel a sort of insignificance - an awareness of how minuscule I am compared to everything, my small shadow drawn thin and emaciated, and my complexion washed pale and transparent by the moonlight. In these moments, it’s hard not to wonder why I’m conscious and breathing and staring up at an untouchable place, staring back at me with its eyes carved from asteroids. I find myself struggling for meaning more often than I would like to admit. After delving deep into my reasoning for my existence, I tend to come up empty-handed, left wondering why I’m on this planet and where I should go from this point. It takes a great deal of effort to articulate my thoughts sometimes, which I suppose is why I turn to books as often as I do. If I can’t find the right words to express my thoughts, someone else usually can. This is exactly why The Stranger, by Albert Camus, changed my life as much as it did. A lot of it is centered around human interaction, but the most impactful one in the novel is with a stranger. I find this to be a truth in life - interaction with other people and the development of interactions with other humans is what provides meaning. Camus was able to articulate my perspective on the world in a way that I hadn't thought possible. The Stranger allowed me to find a purpose. It is my interaction and impact on others that makes life worth living.

I was terribly extroverted as a child. Terribly. I felt a desire to be the funniest person in the room, which I am sure annoyed many of the adults in my life. I had success, though, as I was as popular as a nine-year-old could be in a small, suburban elementary school. However, my over-inflated prepubescent ego took a massive hit as I grew a little bit older. As a result of some traumatic experiences, I did not feel any desire to be the center of attention anymore. In fact, I craved the exact opposite. The bubbly nine-year-old that wanted nothing more than to put a smile on every passing stranger's face was gone, and in her place stood a preteen hermit, suspiciously quiet and pensive. Luckily, I found a new way to express myself - music. I picked up the guitar when I was about ten, and started to teach myself how to play my favorite songs from YouTube videos. Slowly but surely, I gained enough proficiency to learn songs by ear, and began to gain confidence in my playing. I started to share my music with the few friends that I had, and by the time I was 12, I had joined a band. This band completely changed the trajectory of my life. Writing music with bandmates started to break the shell I had created for myself. It wasn't an easy process, but I learned to heal and became a person nine-year-old me would look up to.

Inclusivity has never been a word that has sat right with me. Growing up, I never felt like I belonged to anything; I never felt included. It always seemed to me that everyone had their "thing." Whether it was a group of friends, a club, or even a tight-knit family, all of the people around me fit neatly into a group while I sat on the outs. I suppose it didn't help that I was an introverted, closeted dork that would rather sit in a quiet corner of a library than socialize. But when I entered high school, I decided to change that, and it started with coming out. In all honesty, I loathe the idea that people who don't fit societal norms are expected to make an announcement of this sort. Even the term "come out" suggests that there was something to hide to begin with. Nonetheless, I gathered three of my closest friends one night, and verbalized the words "I'm not straight" for the first time in my life. Since that night, I've embarked on a journey of becoming comfortable with my sexuality, and because of that, I've found a community of my own. I've received a great deal of advice and wisdom from other people who are on similar journeys, and they provide support for me that I do not receive at home. Some of the greatest support has come from total strangers, but by sharing their experiences and opening up to me, I have grown much more comfortable in my skin. Coming out has been an emotionally arduous process thus far, and by no means is my journey over. When I graduate college, my ultimate goal is to become a pilot. Only seven percent of pilots are women, a statistic that shocks me every time I see it. Over a few years, I have had the absolute pleasure of meeting with a few of these incredible women, getting to learn about their experiences in the workforce. I was shocked to find out that many of them are a part of the LGBTQ+ community, but unfortunately do not feel comfortable being open about it with their colleagues. Because of this, I have a plan to create a club that provides emotional support to women in the aviation industry, allowing them an opportunity to make their voices heard and feel more comfortable in their skin. I know how it feels to be on the outs, thinking that no one understands your struggles. I know how it feels to be unrepresented and lonely, unable to find someone to look up to. But I also know how it feels to find a mentor, and I know how it feels to build a family of your own and finally feel accepted. I want nothing more than to provide a space for others in the LGBTQ+ community to feel at home and accepted, as that feeling of homeliness that others gave me quite literally saved my life.