“The only thing I know is that I know nothing, and I am not quite sure that I know that.” —Socrates My first quiz bowl practice felt like a pie to the face. It undermined years of perfect grades to remind me that I did not, in fact, know everything. Initially, I struggled to adjust to cluelessness in the face of molecular compounds and twelfth-century epics. My tendency to inhale books helped, though, and slowly I carved out a space for myself—first in practice, then on the A-team, and eventually as a captain. I made study guides and friends, and soon my coach’s practice room felt like home. Quiz bowl is a beautiful contradiction. For every question you learn the answer to, three more lurk in the shadows. I’d never previously understood learning as a vulnerable act, but quiz bowl left me no other choice. The game became an opportunity to explore a universe infinitely bigger than myself. This expanding world of new things to learn changed my education from a foregone set of goals to an opportunity. Once I understood that I knew nothing, I no longer feared ignorance. A year later, when I became interested in studying co-occurring trauma and autism, a field nobody else was researching, the lack of precedent did not put me off. Guided by my love for the autistic community and my fascination with finding new ways to help them, I embraced the uncertainty of a path not yet charted. My education is a crucial part of building my future. The courses I take and the new skills I learn will empower me to support my community both personally and professionally. I do not know what the field of trauma care will look like when I reach it. Current research doesn’t account for the areas I want to explore. I will have to build my own course of study with the guidance of faculty who appreciate the need for flexibility and a program that will allow me to explore across disciplines. But with a versatile education and an understanding of my own ignorance on my side, I believe it’s possible. When I picture my future, I see a beautiful unknown.

My bold moment began on a jog with my brother, who's autistic. We were discussing sickness when I realized that he'd never learned what a cell is. This shocked me—it felt like such basic information! But with research, I realized that this was a common shortcoming in special education programs. In 2019, I co-founded a 501(c)(3) nonprofit dedicated to bridging disparities in STEM education for developmentally disabled students. Since then, I've served my brother and other students like him through adaptive ecology hikes and online educational resources. Though I'm only a teenager, serving this community has helped me be bold.

Modern society suffers from a lack of indoor swings, and I for one am sick of it. From the moment I saw my first in the occupational therapy room at Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta, I was smitten. The perky therapist in scrubs quickly burst my bubble; therapy equipment was for patients only. I chafed at the indignity—my brother Finn, who is autistic, seemed to get everything fun. My toys were his for the taking, my afternoons were spent at his doctors’ appointments, and each day my four-year-old brain felt more like the world was built to cater to Finn’s needs. “It’s not fair!” I said to my mother. “A lot of things in life aren’t fair,” she replied. “Most of them work out in your favor.” I was not satisfied with this answer at the time, but years later her meaning became painfully clear. My parents divorced, and as my mom and I began to heal in therapy, Finn developed separation anxiety. I remember hours spent at the window reassuring him that mom was just getting groceries, and she’d be right back. It was a time of instability for everyone, but Finn’s discomfort with transitions made the situation especially difficult, and my mom couldn’t find a therapist who treated autistic patients anywhere in Georgia. At this point, an array of life experiences came together for me. I’d watched from behind a two-way mirror while Finn underwent every genre of therapeutic treatment but psychotherapy. It had never occurred to me that an autism diagnosis could impede healthcare delivery. I was in the midst of working at the Ellis Center, a school for nonverbal students with multiple disabilities where the staff centered every moment around adaptive communication. I was discovering the many ways to listen. The idea that people were left unheard because of communication barriers hurt. I resolved to be the therapist I wanted to see in the world. When I took AP Seminar in my sophomore year, I threw myself into researching the psychological effects of abuse on adults diagnosed with Intellectual Disability. I later did an individual research project on linguistic deprivation in deaf and hard of hearing children. Through HOSA—Future Health Professionals, I sharpened my understanding of diagnostic and clinical tools in psychotherapy. Through my 501(c)(3), the Branch Out Initiative, I have developed skills in marketing and grant-writing. I plan to major in psychology, and eventually, earn a Ph.D. in developmental psychology. I do not know what my chosen field will look like when I reach it. There is no fixed trajectory for me to follow. I will have to build my own course of study with the guidance of experienced faculty and the help of a program that will allow me to explore across disciplines. There is such an opportunity in this nascent field to learn from the people who actually need mental health services. I want to build a practice rooted in empathy. When I picture my future, I see a beautiful unknown.