“Happy Birsssday to you” For seventeen birthdays, that’s how my family has sung to me. No matter how many times we practiced, the “th” sound never quite made it into our household. It was more like a soft z. The other kids had store-bought cakes with neon icing, while I had a flaky Russian “Napoleon” cake that my friends hesitated to try. There was comfort in those traditions, but a slight unease: a feeling of unfamiliarity persisted. However, being my family’s unofficial interpreter came with an unexpected benefit: I became really good at navigating disorderly situations without panic. Until the age of five, Russian was the only language I knew. I entered the public school system without speaking a word of English. That initial shock of not understanding a single word spoken to me is difficult to explain. How was I supposed to understand concepts before understanding the words used to explain them? Luckily, I was placed in an ELL program. That individualized attention helped me catch on quickly. Three years later, I was the new family English expert. My dad would hand me letters from school, asking, “Maya, what does this mean?” My grandparents would nod politely through conversations, then whisper, “Translate later?” Somewhere along the way, I accidentally became the family's customer service representative, legal translator, technology support, and interpreter, all before I even started middle school. Eventually, finding order when things feel chaotic became familiar, even a little fun. Being bilingual often feels like thinking with two different minds, each language carrying its own logic, tone, and way of seeing the world. So, to my community, I bring something practical: the ability to navigate mixed-up situations effectively and with humor. If group project instructions read like a riddle, I can reverse-engineer the assignment. When a humanities concept feels puzzling, I can translate it into something my grandparents would understand. Meeting people whose backgrounds don’t overlap is my natural habitat. These days, that comfort with unfamiliarity shows up in unexpected ways. Last year, I served as an International Trustee for Key Club. My days bounced between conversations with students in Ohio, Texas-Oklahoma, and the Philippine-Luzon District. At midnight I was drinking coffee while my friends in the Philippines sat in bright morning sunlight teasing me about my "vampire hours." Those first few months were awkward. Yet by the end of my term, those conversations felt effortless. I stepped down a week ago, but the friendships I built will last a lifetime. Looking back, I think my "awkward" thing has never been my accent, my Russian cakes, or the way my family sings "birthday." It has been growing up in between worlds. I was never completely like my classmates, but I also wasn't exactly like my relatives overseas. For a long time, that felt like standing in the hallway instead of either room. Now I realize hallways connect places. That perspective has allowed me to mentor younger students, teach mathematics to Ukrainian refugee students whose schooling was interrupted by war, and help people from different backgrounds feel understood. My own journey has taken me from an ELL classroom to delivering my valedictorian speech to more than 3,000 classmates, families, and guests. What once made me feel different has become the reason I can make others feel included. If growing up awkward taught me anything, it's that unfamiliarity isn't something to outgrow. It's something to embrace. After all, some of the most meaningful conversations begin with someone saying a word a little differently.

I live in a house of girls: my mother, my older sister, and me. (And, if we are being thorough, my extremely masculine cat, Meowzers.) Our home is loud with Russian, layered with stories of survival, and anchored in a Jewish identity that feels both inherited and fiercely protected. In a predominantly Catholic town, we proudly display a menorah in the window and sit down for Shabbat dinners. The most meaningful relationships in my life are the ones I share with my mother and sister. Together, they have shaped who I am and the way I build connections with others. My parents came to the United States with very little. My mother arrived as a refugee in 1989; my father immigrated years later from Kazakhstan. They carried with them memories of instability and of opportunities evaporating overnight. So in our house, success was vital. My parents divorced when I was young, and my mother became the sole provider for our family. We struggled to make ends meet year after year. Growing up in a single-parent household meant that instability was a constant: stretching resources and making hard choices. Yet my mother never allowed hardship to define us. As a family, we sought and found opportunities: community theater groups, school band programs, subsidized art classes, Russian language lessons, concerts, lectures, and museum visits. I know the cost of those opportunities. I am grateful for them because they made me who I am today. Not defined by instability. My mother's perseverance taught me that meaningful relationships are built through showing up consistently for people, even when circumstances are difficult. Because she always made others feel valued despite her own challenges, I try to do the same. Then my sister quietly detonated the blueprint. Instead of pre-med courses or LSAT prep books, she filled her room with camera equipment and film scripts. She talked about lighting, editing software, narrative arcs, and character development. She announced she would be studying film and television. Passionately, she explained why storytelling matters and why art is essential. She honors our mother's sacrifices differently, stepping outside expectations. Our family's journey has always been about freedom. She showed me that freedom includes choosing your own path. Watching my sister pursue a future that genuinely reflected who she was changed the way I think about people. Rather than assuming everyone should follow the same definition of success, I learned to approach others with curiosity. Her example taught me to listen before judging and to appreciate perspectives that differ from my own. I am now about to start my own college journey. Being good at math and science, I once assumed a pre-med path was inevitable. But thanks to my upbringing and the influence of my family, I realized there are many ways to make a difference. When I picture my future, I see small desks and construction-paper bulletin boards, kids raising their hands, unsure but hopeful. I see a teacher kneeling beside a student who thought they "weren't good at math," showing them they are. I see the kind of teacher who notices who forgot their lunch and who needs a little extra encouragement before a test. Because I know what instability feels like, I want to be the kind of person who notices it in others. I want to help other kids seek and find opportunities. My definition of success changed: I want to live thoughtfully and fully, with connection and intention. This desire draws me to teaching. Providing support and encouragement, enacting subtle change, feeding curiosity in others, and helping people see themselves in a new light are all ways of building the kinds of relationships that shaped me. My sister models courage. My mother models perseverance. Together, they taught me empathy and the importance of seeing people for who they are rather than who they are expected to be. In a town where we often feel different, Jewish in a sea of Catholic traditions, a family of first- and second-generation immigrants navigating American expectations, we value difference as something to build from. Because of them, I approach relationships with openness and compassion. I am proud to be part of our all-girl household, full of possibilities and love.

My dream is a world where treatable diseases are never allowed to become death sentences. Education is what gave that dream direction. The unsettling part is that this goal isn’t that far-fetched, yet it feels impossibly remote. Cures already exist, yet access to them does not. Take tuberculosis: deadly and, paradoxically, once admired. In the nineteenth century, it was known as the “disease of the civilized,” associated with artistic brilliance and refinement. When figures like John Keats and the Brontë sisters succumbed to it, society romanticized the illness. Its physical effects, pale skin, flushed cheeks, and thin frames, were seen as desirable. But that perception shattered with the discovery of its bacterial cause. The same disease once linked to genius became a symbol of filth and poverty, disproportionately associated with marginalized communities. And now, even though it has been curable since 1943, it continues to decimate impoverished communities worldwide. Through my studies, I came to a clearer conclusion: outcomes are often determined by political systems, not science. That realization became real during my time at the MIT Picower Institute for Learning and Memory. Surrounded by advanced technologies with remarkable precision, they almost felt unreal, and innovation felt limitless. We have the tools, and we have the cure, yet diseases like tuberculosis persist. That contradiction challenged assumptions I had always held: that progress naturally reaches everyone and that medicine is inherently equitable. I came to understand that access is not accidental. It is structured. Policy and economics determine who receives treatment and who does not. Reaching that understanding wasn’t automatic. As an ESL learner growing up speaking Russian, I often had to work harder to access the same academic spaces as my peers. At times, concepts felt just out of reach because I was still learning the language used to explain them. Over time, education became more than a system I navigated; it became a tool I could use to ask better questions and challenge the structures around me. That is what drives how I plan to use my education to create change. I will study Public Health and Mathematics to analyze both how diseases spread and how systems determine access to care. Using statistical modeling and epidemiological data, I want to quantify disparities and evaluate interventions by measuring improvements in access and survival rates. Public health will allow me to examine patterns at a population level, while mathematics will give me the precision to test solutions and hold systems accountable. I have already begun working toward this kind of impact, starting with access to STEM itself. At my school, math has become the subject everyone loves to hate. Frequent curriculum changes have made students feel more like test subjects than learners, fostering a culture in which struggling with math is expected. Behind the jokes about “math trauma” is a real stigma around a subject that once excited people. This is more than an academic concern; it is a structural one. The math team has been my community since eighth grade, where I found my closest friends through a shared love of logic and problem-solving. Watching the team shrink, not from lack of ability, but from loss of confidence, showed me how exclusion in STEM begins early. If students are pushed out of math, they are pushed out of the very fields that shape solutions to global problems like tuberculosis. So I’ve tried to fight back. I write questions for the middle school math team to keep younger students engaged, designing problems that challenge them while reinforcing that they belong. I run the team’s Instagram to increase visibility and highlight member achievements so students can see themselves reflected in the community. I also volunteer after school, working one-on-one with students to rebuild confidence, breaking down problems step by step until frustration turns into understanding. These efforts may seem small, but they shape something essential: who remains in STEM long enough to make a difference. In the short term, I hope to expand this work through research and global health initiatives focused on improving access to treatment, particularly for diseases such as tuberculosis. In the long term, I hope to work with organizations like Doctors Without Borders, where I can both deliver care and contribute to systemic changes that reduce the need for emergency intervention. Tuberculosis may not be eradicated in my lifetime, but measurable progress is possible: increased access to treatment and stronger health systems. Education has shown me what is possible, why it has not yet been achieved, and how I can help change that.

One of my most meaningful accomplishments has been growing as a leader within Key Club, from a local role to an international position. I began as my school’s publicity coordinator, learning how to capture and share moments of service, highlighting the impact of small actions. What started as posting photos quickly became something more: shaping how people saw service, and encouraging others to get involved. As District Editor for the New England and Bermuda District, I expanded that work by producing district-wide publications and managing communications connecting over 6,000 members. Now, as an International Trustee, I represent the Ohio, Texas-Oklahoma, and Philippine Luzon Districts on the International Board, providing resources, helping set policies and goals, and supporting district growth. Ohio feels somewhat like New England, though we still argue about calling rotaries “roundabouts” (they’re wrong, by the way). In Texas-Oklahoma, a powerhouse district, members joke that I speak with a “Baw-stin” accent. The Philippine Luzon District, twelve hours ahead, meets at my midnight. I sip coffee while someone inevitably jokes about my “vampire hours,” and we laugh. My community now spans the world. Through these roles, I have learned that leadership is not just about organizing people. It is about shaping systems that allow others to make an impact. I apply the same mindset closer to home through my work with my school’s math team. At my school, math has become the subject everyone loves to hate. Ongoing changes to math curriculum led to instability, which has created a culture where struggling with math is expected. Behind the jokes about “math trauma” is a real stigma around a subject that once excited people. The math team has been my community since eighth grade, where I found my closest friends and a shared love of puzzles and logic. Watching the team shrink, not from lack of talent, but because students have been taught to fear math, showed me how quickly confidence can disappear. I have tried to push back against that in small but consistent ways: writing competition problems for middle school students, running our team’s Instagram to highlight achievements. I have seen how quickly confidence can disappear. And how meaningful it is when it returns. Belonging in STEM is not about ability itself, but about confidence in that ability. That understanding shapes how I want to impact my community through engineering. When I open my closet, nearly every piece of clothing is thrifted. A vintage sweater, worn-in denim, a jacket someone else once outgrew; each item reflects a conscious decision to reduce waste rather than contribute to fast fashion’s environmental impact. What began as a practical choice became a philosophy: sustainability is about rethinking systems. That mindset draws me to chemical engineering. While chemicals are often associated with pollution, they are also central to solutions: clean water treatment, renewable energy storage, biodegradable materials, and carbon capture technologies all depend on chemical innovation. I am drawn to the challenge of transforming an industry that has historically contributed to environmental harm into one that leads sustainability efforts. I plan to study chemical engineering with a focus on green chemistry and sustainable process design. I want to learn how to replace hazardous substances with safer alternatives and design manufacturing systems that minimize waste from the start. Just as my leadership in Key Club has focused on building systems that amplify impact, I hope to apply that same approach to engineering, designing processes that not only function efficiently, but also serve communities responsibly.