I love to sing. For most people, a singer is a person who stands on stage and sings for applause. But for me, it hasn’t been for the audience, but for myself. My passion for singing has never been about performance, but about connection to myself and to others. As a child, I played "Rapunzel," and sang Disney's lyrics with uninhibited passion. I felt proud whenever the neighbors complemented me. I used music to bond with them as they clapped along, and I twirled in my princess dress. I created memories and friendships with them. It was in these moments that I began to embrace identity as a singer. When I started high school and became involved in the choir department, directors told me to seize opportunities where my voice would “shine.” They encouraged me to sing in competitions, and “share my gift with the world.” I did well at these competitions, but I noticed that I often tried to mold myself to what the judges wanted, and wondered if I was “performer material.” I often second guessed my song choices. I discovered that I was beginning to sing for validation rather than connection, but the applause felt hollow compared to when I sang alone or with my friends. This made me question my personal motivation for singing. I needed to redefine my gift, not as a performance for others, but as a tool for understanding and connection. These realizations changed how I connected with others. I realized the same questions I asked myself about singing became questions I used to help my friends. I observed that many of them were navigating the idea of purpose and value like I was. When my friend, Lily, told me she felt confined by her parents' expectations for her college major, I recognized that feeling. When my friend, Adam, struggled with feeling like 'not enough' despite his achievements, I understood too. These conversations taught me that my real gift wasn't my voice, but the knowledge and understanding of others that my journey with my voice has given me. I’ve come to be grateful for my struggles, because they have led me to be someone who can sincerely say, “I understand.” I understand fear of failure, feeling like you don’t fit in, and existing in a community that has decided who you should be before you have decided for yourself. This knowledge is the true gift, and one that I’m committed to not wasting. This is the part of me that I want to shine. This discovery has revealed to me what I want to pursue in my life: psychology. I want to serve people by studying how external expectations can shape identities, and help people bridge the gap between who they are and who they are told to be. During my career, I plan to research behavior and identity development, and use my research to create an environment where people can be their authentic selves. When people hold themselves back or struggle to find their place, I want to be someone who helps them find their path and voice. I believe that when I study the mind and its behaviors, that I will learn how to approach situations with the proper attitude and perspective to help my clients trust and truly listen. I also want to write books for parents on how to create an environment where their children feel valued and accepted, motivated by my hobby for creative writing. The lessons I have learned from singing have shaped my passion and motivation for creating a society where love is at the center.

I used to have Barbie’s shoes. They were my favorite little pink ballet shoes, that I believed were magic, like Barbie’s shoes from “Barbie in The Pink Shoes.” At the time, they had the magic of making me feel beautiful, like a princess, and I danced with passion the rest of my fifth birthday party. Sadly, though, I cannot say that dancing always made me feel beautiful. In middle school, I struggled with body dysmorphia. I remember wishing that I was thinner, or had smaller feet, or blonde hair. I used to wear sheer skirts or cardigans over my leotard to class to cover myself, and I focused much more on the girl in the mirror across than on the teacher. The rows of identical ballerinas produced in me an inevitable, degrading mental state. Ballet classes were suddenly filled with anxiety and doubt, and a place where I used to express my emotion through grace became a burden rather than an opportunity. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, I expectedly no longer went to classes. Instead, my parents gifted me with a ballet barre for my birthday. I would practice my form, my développés and attitudes. I would pirouette in my living room, and move my arms to the elegant push and pulls of the orchestra. I lost myself in the music, the dance, the way my body seemed to float and my feet bounced rather than moved. It was during this reflective time that I realized my true connection to dancing. For me, dance is not a race for perfection. It is not a place for comparison, and it is not an environment for self-doubt. It is a mindset, a feeling, and a passion. It is somewhere to feel joy, and a place to express oneself as an artist. Time stands still when I dance now; I feel confident in my own skin. It is such a wonderful feeling. This struggle with self-doubt has led me to want to pursue a career in psychology. I want to understand human tendencies and their origins in the mind so that I can help and accommodate my clients best. Just as I had to step away from the mirror to see my true passion for dancing, I want to help others step back from their destructive self-narratives to see their passions as well. I want to help those who doubt themselves, their potential, or their beauty, and show them that they are fully capable of making their own path. I want to create a space where they feel valued and confident in their own skin, and instead of destroying their self-doubt, I want to reveal to them their inherent worth. Dance taught me something unexpected. It taught me that sometimes walking away from something we love can reveal to us why we love that thing in the first place. I found my truest self, dancing in my living room, and I discovered exactly what I was struggling with, and why it was a false reality, in the absence of my triggers. Now, I want to teach people this same lesson. To be themselves, and discover what their passions mean to them.