My decision to pursue a degree in healthcare, specifically psychology, comes from my own experiences with anxiety and the journey of learning how to overcome it. When I was younger, I had the opportunity to perform at Carnegie Hall as a pianist. After months of preparation, I arrived backstage excited but nervous. As I looked around at the other performers, however, I suddenly felt a strong sense that I did not belong. Surrounded by young musicians in tailored suits, I became painfully aware of how different I felt standing there with my box braids and oversized dress. When my name was called, the pressure became overwhelming. As I sat down at the piano, my hands froze above the keys. My heart raced, and my thoughts spiraled with doubt. Instead of performing, I ran off the stage and hid in a bathroom stall, convinced that everyone would see that I did not belong there. For a long time, that moment stayed with me. I struggled with anxiety and self doubt, especially in environments where I felt different from those around me. Over time, however, I began to understand that many young people experience similar feelings but often do not have the support or language to talk about them. A few years later, I found myself stepping onto another stage, this time performing in the Broadway musical Once On This Island. Standing beside cast members who looked like me and shared similar experiences helped me feel a sense of belonging that I had not felt before. I realized how powerful supportive communities can be in helping people manage fear, build confidence, and grow. Eventually, I returned to piano as well, practicing through frustration and doubt until I was able to perform again with confidence. These experiences helped me recognize that mental health challenges are not signs of weakness. Instead, they are experiences that can be understood, supported, and overcome with the right guidance. Because of this journey, I want to study psychology and pursue a career in mental health. Adolescence is a period when many young people begin experiencing anxiety, pressure, and identity struggles, yet they often feel alone or misunderstood. I hope to work with teenagers, helping them develop coping strategies, build self confidence, and feel seen in environments where they might otherwise feel invisible. As a woman entering the healthcare field, I also hope to contribute to increasing representation and understanding within mental health care. Many young girls, particularly girls of color, grow up without seeing themselves reflected in the professionals who are meant to support them. Representation can make an important difference in whether someone feels safe seeking help and sharing their experiences. In addition to my academic goals, I have already begun supporting younger students in my community. I teach piano to younger Black and brown girls, encouraging them to see themselves in spaces where they may not always feel represented. Through music and mentorship, I hope to create environments where young people feel confident expressing themselves. Through studying psychology and working in mental health, I hope to expand that impact. My goal is to help young people understand that anxiety, fear, and self doubt do not define their potential. With support, patience, and guidance, they can learn to overcome those challenges and discover their own strengths. My experiences have shown me how powerful encouragement and understanding can be. As a woman in healthcare, I hope to provide that same support for the next generation of young people navigating their own challenges.

1，Scholarships recognize not only academic achievement but also the determination to use education to create opportunities for others. My academic and extracurricular experiences have shaped my commitment to creativity, leadership, and community impact. Throughout my education, I have pursued both academic and artistic excellence. Music and performance have been central to my development as a student. As a pianist, I have spent years studying classical repertoire, practicing through challenges, and performing in competitions and recitals. Returning to perform at Carnegie Hall after overcoming earlier self doubt was a meaningful milestone that reflected both perseverance and growth. In addition to music, theater has been an important part of my academic journey. Performing on Broadway in Once On This Island allowed me to experience storytelling on a professional stage while balancing schoolwork and artistic commitments. Through theater, I learned the importance of collaboration, discipline, and creative expression. However, my most meaningful accomplishment has been using these experiences to support others in my community. Growing up, I realized that many students in my neighborhood did not have access to arts education. Acting classes, music lessons, and creative programs were often expensive and difficult for families to afford. Motivated by this realization, I founded Beyond the Curtains, a nonprofit theater program that introduces children in my community to performance and creative expression. Through the program, I organize rehearsals, coordinate volunteers, and mentor young performers as they prepare for their first time on stage. One of the most rewarding parts of this work has been seeing students discover confidence in themselves. Some participants begin the program feeling shy or hesitant to speak. Over time, however, they begin sharing ideas, supporting one another, and expressing themselves more freely through storytelling and performance. In addition to theater, I also teach piano to younger Black and brown students, encouraging them to see themselves in spaces where they may not always feel represented. Music has given me a voice and a sense of belonging, and I want other students to experience that same opportunity. These experiences have shaped my academic goals. In college, I plan to study psychology and continue exploring the intersection of education, creativity, and mental health. I hope to develop programs that support young people through artistic expression while also promoting emotional well being. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to continue pursuing both my academic goals and my commitment to community service. More importantly, it would support my long term mission of expanding access to arts education and mentorship for students who may not otherwise have those opportunities. The opportunities I have received through education, music, and mentorship have shaped who I am today. Through my work with younger students, I hope to ensure that more young people have the chance to discover their confidence, creativity, and potential. 2，One of the most difficult challenges I faced during my education occurred when I was preparing to perform at Carnegie Hall as a young pianist. After months of practice, I arrived backstage excited but nervous. As I looked around, however, I suddenly felt a strong sense that I did not belong. Surrounded by other young performers in tailored suits, I became painfully aware of how different I felt standing there with my box braids and oversized dress. When my name was called, the pressure became overwhelming. As I sat down at the piano, my hands froze above the keys. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, anxiety took control, and instead of performing, I ran off the stage and hid in a bathroom stall. At the time, I felt embarrassed and deeply disappointed in myself. I had worked so hard for that moment, yet I could not bring myself to perform. For a long time, I saw that experience as a failure. However, over time I began to understand that challenges like this are often part of growth. Instead of giving up on performing altogether, I began exploring other creative spaces where I could rebuild my confidence. Theater became one of those spaces. A few years later, I found myself backstage again, this time performing in the Broadway musical Once On This Island. Although I still felt nervous before stepping onto the stage, the support of my castmates and the shared experience of storytelling helped me move past the fear that had once stopped me. Eventually, I returned to piano as well. Rebuilding my skills required patience and persistence. There were many hours of practice, missed notes, and moments of doubt. Yet each small improvement reminded me that growth often happens gradually. When I finally returned to perform at Carnegie Hall again, the experience felt completely different. Instead of focusing on fear, I focused on the music and the journey that had brought me back to that stage. This challenge taught me that setbacks do not define a person’s ability or potential. What matters most is the willingness to continue learning, growing, and trying again. The experience strengthened my resilience and helped me understand that confidence is built through perseverance. Today, that lesson continues to guide me in both my academic work and my leadership in the arts. It reminds me that challenges are often opportunities for growth and that overcoming them can lead to stronger confidence and greater purpose.

What am I doing here? I was frozen backstage, surrounded by young musicians in custom tailored suits, suddenly hyperaware of how my box braids defied gravity, how my dark skin absorbed light, how my $49 “ruffled, too big” dress, as I called it, hung like a costume. “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” my grandmother had whispered while weaving my braids earlier that morning. She meant to encourage me, but her words felt heavy with unspoken expectations. Then my name was called. As I sat at the piano, my hands froze over Middle C. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, I bolted. I disappeared into a bathroom stall, crouched with my forehead pressed against the porcelain wall, my heart pounding in my chest. A Black security guard with plaits like mine followed me. “You okay, baby?” she asked softly from behind the stall door. Her voice sounded warm, like my grandmother’s. “They’re waiting for you.” Me? I don’t belong here. I eventually left the stall and watched everyone else perform, applause landing like a hammer for every note I should have played. A few months later, I found myself about to bolt again, not at Carnegie, but backstage at Circle in the Square Theater on the opening night of Broadway’s Once On This Island. I had quit piano and thrown myself into acting, filling my weeks with rehearsals and auditions. Yet right before my first entrance, familiar nerves returned. My hands shook. My heart raced. Then Daniel, a fellow actor, gave me a fistbump and said, “Break a leg!” For the first time, I noticed how his skin reflected the stage lights like mine. Another actor, Cassondra, had braids just like me. I took a breath and stepped onstage to sing “We Dance.” As I focused on sharing a story of hope breaking through barriers of race, class, and prejudice, happiness surged through me. For the first time in a long time, I proved something to myself. I could do it. Three years later, I returned to piano lessons, hoping to reclaim the instrument for myself. My teacher did not offer easy praise. My wrists ached from scales. I practiced missed notes until they became muscle memory. At my first competition since returning, I wore clothes that felt like me. When I began my Chopin piece on the wrong note, I did not run. I took a breath and continued, finishing with an honorable mention. Throughout the next year I practiced through exhaustion and doubt. The pieces I once feared became familiar ground. When I finally returned to Carnegie, everything felt different. My posture was strong and my fingers steady. As I played, I remembered my grandmother braiding my hair, the guard comforting me, and my castmates encouraging me. Their voices reminded me that I do belong. Now I teach piano to little Black and brown girls, telling them that their hands deserve this music too. Back at Carnegie, I finished my piece to resounding applause. I imagined my grandmother watching from heaven, clapping not because I was perfect, but because I persevered. That experience also shaped how I understand mental health. The fear that once sent me running from the stage was anxiety and the belief that I did not belong. Many young people experience these feelings in silence. Because of this, I hope to pursue a career in mental health. By studying psychology, I want to support young people facing anxiety, pressure, or doubt, and help them find the same confidence that allowed me to return to the stage.

What am I doing here? I was frozen backstage, surrounded by young Asian boys in custom-tailored suits, suddenly hyperaware of how my box braids defied gravity, how my dark skin absorbed light, how my $99 “ruffled, too big” dress, as I called it, hung like a costume. “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” my grandmother had whispered while weaving my braids earlier that morning. She meant to encourage me, but her words felt heavy with unspoken expectations. Then my name was called. As I sat over the piano, my hands froze over Middle C. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, I bolted. I disappeared into a bathroom stall, crouched with my forehead against the porcelain wall, my heart pounding in my chest. A Black security guard with plaits like mine followed me. “You okay, baby?” she asked gently from behind the stall door. Her voice sounded warm, like my grandmother’s. “They’re waiting for you.” Me? I don’t belong here. I eventually left the stall to watch everyone else perform, applause landing like a hammer for every note I should have played. A few months later, I found myself about to bolt again, not at Carnegie, but backstage at Circle in the Square Theater on the opening night of Broadway’s Once On This Island. I had quit piano and thrown myself into acting, filling my weeks with rehearsals and auditions. Yet right before my first entrance, familiar nerves returned. My hands shook. My heart raced. Then Daniel, a fellow actor, gave me a fistbump and said, “Break a leg!” For the first time, I noticed how his skin reflected the stage lights like mine. Another actor, Cassondra, had braids just like me. I took a breath and stepped onstage to sing “We Dance.” As I focused on sharing a story of hope breaking through barriers of race, class, and prejudice, happiness surged through me. For the first time in a long time, I proved something to myself. I could do it. Three years later, I returned to piano lessons, hoping to reclaim the instrument for myself. My teacher did not offer easy praise. My wrists ached from scales. I practiced missed notes until they became muscle memory. At my first competition since returning, I wore clothes that felt like me. When I began my Chopin piece on the wrong note, I did not run. I took a breath and continued, finishing with an honorable mention. Throughout the next year I practiced through exhaustion and doubt. The pieces I once feared became familiar ground. When I finally returned to Carnegie, everything felt different. My posture was strong and my fingers steady. As I played, I remembered my grandmother braiding my hair, the guard comforting me, and my castmates encouraging me. Their voices reminded me that I do belong. Now I teach piano to little Black and brown girls, telling them that their hands deserve this music too. Back at Carnegie, I finished my piece to resounding applause. I imagined my grandmother watching from heaven, clapping not because I was perfect, but because I persevered. That experience also shaped how I understand mental health. The fear that once sent me running from the stage was anxiety and the belief that I did not belong. Many young people experience these feelings in silence. Because of this, I hope to pursue a career in mental health. By studying psychology, I want to support young people facing anxiety, pressure, or doubt, and help them find the same confidence that allowed me to return to the stage.

I still remember the moment I ran off the stage at Carnegie Hall. As a young pianist, performing there had once felt like a dream. I had practiced for months, imagining the moment I would finally walk onto that stage and play the piece I had worked so hard to perfect. But when I arrived backstage, excitement quickly turned into doubt. Looking around, I suddenly felt like I did not belong. Many of the other performers were young Asian boys wearing tailored suits, confidently preparing for their performances. Standing among them, I became painfully aware of how different I looked. My box braids, my dark skin, and my growing nervousness made me feel like I was in a space where I was not expected to be. When my name was called, I walked toward the stage, but fear took over before I even touched the piano keys. Instead of performing, I ran off the stage and hid in a bathroom stall. Sitting there, I felt overwhelmed by embarrassment and disappointment. I had worked so hard for that moment, yet I could not bring myself to step into the spotlight. For a long time, that experience stayed with me. It made me question whether spaces like that were meant for someone like me. Yet it also forced me to reflect on what education and opportunity truly mean. Growing up in the inner city, I had already seen how access to certain opportunities was not equal. Many arts programs, lessons, and training opportunities required financial resources that were difficult for families in my community to afford. Despite these challenges, the arts continued to play a major role in my education. Theater and performance gave me a space where I could express ideas and emotions that were sometimes difficult to share elsewhere. Through creative education, I began to rebuild the confidence I had lost that day at Carnegie Hall. Years later, I found myself backstage once again, this time preparing for opening night of the Broadway musical Once On This Island. As the curtain was about to rise, I felt a familiar wave of nerves. For a brief moment, I remembered the young girl hiding in that bathroom stall. But this time, something felt different. Looking around, I saw a community of performers who supported and encouraged one another. Many of them shared backgrounds and experiences similar to mine. Instead of feeling isolated, I felt surrounded by people who believed in each other’s voices and stories. When I stepped onto the stage that night, I realized that performance was not about perfection. It was about courage, storytelling, and connection. That moment changed how I understood education. Education is not only about mastering skills or achieving recognition. It is also about learning how to use your voice, discovering your confidence, and building communities where people feel they belong. As I continued learning and growing through the arts, I began thinking about the students in my own community. Growing up in the inner city, I had seen many talented young people who never had access to creative education. Acting classes, music lessons, and performance programs were often expensive or unavailable in local schools. As a result, many students never had the chance to explore their creativity or experience the confidence that the arts can help build. Knowing how transformative those opportunities had been for me, I wanted to create a space where younger students could experience the same sense of expression and belonging. This motivation led me to found Beyond the Curtains, a nonprofit theater program that introduces children in my community to performance and creative expression. Through the program, I organize rehearsals, coordinate volunteers, and guide students as they prepare for performances. Beyond the Curtains is designed not only to teach acting skills but also to help students develop confidence and self expression. Many participants join the program feeling shy or unsure of themselves. Some hesitate to speak during early rehearsals, worried about making mistakes in front of others. Over time, however, those same students begin to change. They start sharing ideas, stepping forward for roles, and supporting their fellow cast members. Watching these transformations reminds me of how meaningful access to education can be. When students are given a supportive environment to explore their creativity, they begin to see possibilities for themselves that they may not have imagined before. My experiences have taught me that education is not limited to classrooms or textbooks. Education can also take place on a stage, in rehearsal spaces, and in communities where people are encouraged to share their stories. It can build confidence, inspire leadership, and create opportunities for people who might otherwise be overlooked. The challenges I faced early on helped shape the goals I pursue today. The moment I ran off the stage at Carnegie Hall once made me feel like I did not belong. Yet the lessons I learned through education and creative expression helped me return to those spaces with greater confidence and purpose. In the future, I hope to continue expanding access to arts education and community based creative programs. By combining storytelling, performance, and education, I want to help more young people discover their voices and develop the confidence to pursue their goals. Education gave me the tools to overcome doubt and find direction. Now, I hope to use those same tools to create opportunities for others so that more students can step forward, share their stories, and believe that their voices deserve to be heard.

Growing up in the inner city shaped how I understood both opportunity and resilience. My community was full of creativity and talent, but access to certain opportunities, especially in the arts, was often limited. Programs that offered professional training, acting classes, or music instruction frequently required financial resources that were not always accessible to many families around me. While I was fortunate to discover my passion for performance at a young age, I became increasingly aware that many talented young people in my community never had the chance to explore those same opportunities. The arts became one of the most important outlets in my life. Theater and music gave me a space where I could express emotions and ideas that were sometimes difficult to communicate elsewhere. Performing allowed me to build confidence and discover my voice, even when I struggled with self doubt. However, one of my earliest experiences on a major stage revealed how difficult that journey could be. When I was preparing to perform at Carnegie Hall as a young pianist, I suddenly felt overwhelmed by a sense that I did not belong. Backstage, I was surrounded by young Asian boys in custom tailored suits, and I became painfully aware of how different I looked. My box braids, my dark skin, and my uncertainty made me feel out of place in a space that seemed unfamiliar and intimidating. When my name was called, fear took over. My hands froze over the piano keys, and instead of performing, I ran off the stage and hid in a bathroom stall. In that moment, I felt embarrassed and defeated, as if the pressure and expectations were too much. Yet that experience did not end my relationship with the arts. Instead, it forced me to confront my fears and reconsider what it meant to belong in creative spaces. A few years later, I found myself backstage again, this time on opening night of the Broadway musical Once On This Island. As the curtain was about to rise, the familiar nerves returned. But this time, something was different. I looked around and saw cast members who shared similar backgrounds and experiences. Instead of feeling isolated, I felt supported by a community of artists who encouraged each other. Stepping onto that stage, I realized that performance was not about being perfect. It was about telling stories, connecting with others, and having the courage to be seen. That moment helped me rebuild my confidence and embrace the arts not only as a personal passion but also as a way to empower others. As I continued performing, I began thinking about the young people in my community who might never have the opportunity to experience what I had learned through theater and music. Many students growing up in the inner city have creativity and talent, but they lack access to programs that nurture those abilities. Motivated by this realization, I founded Beyond the Curtains, a nonprofit theater program designed to introduce children in my community to performance and creative expression. Through this program, I organize rehearsals, coordinate volunteers, and guide students as they prepare for performances. My goal is to create a supportive environment where young people feel encouraged to express themselves and explore their creativity. Working with these students has shown me how transformative access to the arts can be. Many participants arrive feeling shy or unsure of themselves. Over time, however, they begin to grow more confident as they collaborate with others and share their ideas through storytelling and performance. Growing up in the inner city taught me that challenges can shape resilience and inspire action. While limited resources can create obstacles, they can also motivate individuals to create opportunities for others. My experiences have shown me the importance of perseverance, community, and access to creative spaces. By continuing to expand programs like Beyond the Curtains, I hope to help more young people discover their voices and realize their potential.

I believe that making a positive impact on the world begins with creating opportunities for others to discover their potential. My own experiences in the arts taught me how powerful creative spaces can be in helping people find confidence, identity, and belonging. Growing up, theater became one of the few places where I felt completely comfortable expressing myself. On stage, I could communicate emotions and ideas that were often difficult to share elsewhere. Through rehearsals, performances, and collaboration, I learned that the arts are not only about technical skill. They are about storytelling, connection, and the courage to share one’s voice. However, as I became more involved in theater and performance, I began to notice that access to these opportunities was not equal. Acting classes, workshops, and professional training were often expensive, making them difficult for many families in my community to afford. I saw talented and creative young people who never had the chance to explore the arts simply because the opportunities were not available to them. Recognizing this gap made me think about how I could create change within my own community. I wanted younger students to experience the same sense of confidence and belonging that the arts had given me. This motivation led me to found Beyond the Curtains, a nonprofit theater program that introduces children in my community to performance and creative expression. Through the program, I organize rehearsals, coordinate volunteers, and guide students as they prepare for performances. The goal is not only to teach acting skills, but also to create a welcoming environment where young people feel encouraged to express themselves and explore their creativity. Working with these students has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. Many of them arrive feeling shy or uncertain about their abilities. Over time, however, they begin to grow more confident as they collaborate with others and share their ideas through storytelling. Watching students discover their voices and take pride in their performances reminds me how powerful access to creative opportunities can be. Experiences like these have shaped how I hope to make a positive impact in the world. I believe that education, especially in the arts, can help individuals develop confidence, empathy, and a deeper understanding of themselves and others. When people are given the opportunity to tell their stories, they begin to see that their voices matter. In the future, I hope to continue expanding programs that combine the arts, education, and community engagement. By working with schools, nonprofit organizations, and community groups, I want to help create more spaces where young people can explore their creativity and build confidence through storytelling and performance. Ultimately, the impact I hope to make is not measured by recognition or personal success, but by the opportunities I can help create for others. If more young people are able to step onto a stage, share their stories, and realize their potential, then I will know that I have helped open the door for voices that might otherwise have remained unheard.

Growing up in a low income community shaped how I understand perseverance and opportunity. Many of the activities that helped me grow, especially in the arts, required financial resources that were difficult for families in my community to afford. Acting classes, workshops, and professional training were often expensive, which meant that many talented students never had the chance to explore theater or performance. Despite these barriers, I continued pursuing the arts because performance gave me a sense of confidence and belonging. At the same time, I became increasingly aware that many younger students around me lacked access to the same opportunities. Seeing this inequality motivated me not only to persevere in my own goals but also to create opportunities for others. To address this gap, I founded Beyond the Curtains, a nonprofit theater program that introduces children in my community to performance and creative expression. Through the program, I organize rehearsals, coordinate volunteers, and work with students as they prepare for performances. My goal is to create a supportive environment where young people can explore storytelling and build confidence. Working with these students has reinforced my belief that talent exists everywhere, but opportunity does not. One participant, Lia, rarely spoke during rehearsals. By encouraging her to express herself through movement instead of dialogue, she was able to communicate powerful emotions on stage and discover her own strengths. Growing up with limited resources taught me that perseverance means turning challenges into motivation for change. I plan to continue expanding programs that make arts education more accessible so that more young people can find their voices and realize their potential.

Education has never been only about mastering skills or earning recognition. For me, it has been about discovering where I belong and helping others find that same sense of belonging. Years ago, I sat backstage at Carnegie Hall, surrounded by young Asian boys in custom-tailored suits. I suddenly became painfully aware of my box braids, my dark skin, and the oversized dress I had worn for the performance. In that moment, I felt profoundly out of place. When my name was called, fear overwhelmed me, and instead of walking onto the stage, I ran. I crouched in a bathroom stall, heart racing, convinced that I did not belong simply because of who I was. A few years later, I returned to the stage as an actor in the Broadway musical Once On This Island. Standing backstage, the same nerves returned, but this time I noticed fellow cast members with skin tones and hairstyles like mine. For the first time, I felt a connection that made the stage feel like a place where I could belong. I realized that education, especially through the arts, is not just about technique. It is about discovering confidence, collaboration, and voice. These experiences shaped how I view the power of education. I wanted other young people to experience the confidence and sense of belonging that theater had given me. This led me to found Beyond the Curtains, a nonprofit theater program that introduces children in my community to performance and creative expression. I organize rehearsals, coordinate volunteers, and guide students as they prepare for performances, creating a space where they can explore their identities safely and confidently. One participant, Lia, rarely spoke during rehearsals. At first, I worried that a dialogue heavy performance would exclude her. Over time, however, we discovered that storytelling does not always require words. By encouraging expression through movement, Lia communicated powerful emotions on stage without a single spoken line. Watching the audience understand her performance showed me that supportive education allows students to discover strengths they did not know they had. Experiences like these have shaped the legacy I hope to leave. Education is most meaningful when it empowers people to recognize their potential and feel that their voices matter. In college and beyond, I hope to continue expanding programs that combine arts, education, and community engagement so that more young people can step into creative spaces, explore their identities, and share their stories. If my work allows even a few students to step onto a stage, find their confidence, and realize that they belong, then I will know that the lessons education gave me have truly been passed on. My hope is that through creating spaces for self expression and connection, I can leave a legacy of opportunity, empowerment, and belonging for the next generation.

Growing up, theater was one of the few places where I felt completely confident. On stage, I could express emotions and ideas that were often difficult to share elsewhere. Yet the more involved I became in acting, the more I noticed a troubling pattern: access to theater education was not equal. Acting classes, workshops, and youth programs were often expensive, placing them out of reach for many families in my community. I began to wonder how many students might discover confidence and creativity if those barriers did not exist. To begin addressing this problem, I founded Beyond the Curtains, a nonprofit theater program that introduces children in my community to performance and creative expression. The program offers free workshops and rehearsals where students can explore acting, movement, and storytelling in a supportive environment. As the founder, I organize rehearsals, coordinate volunteers, and work with students as they prepare for performances. What began as a small project quickly became a powerful learning experience. During rehearsals, I saw how differently students expressed themselves and how important it was to create space for those differences. One student, Lia, rarely spoke during rehearsals. At first, I worried that a dialogue-heavy performance would make it difficult for her to participate. Over time, however, I realized that storytelling does not always rely on words. Instead of focusing only on speaking roles, we encouraged expression through movement. Lia’s gestures and posture became powerful forms of communication, and during the final performance the audience understood her character without a single line of dialogue. That moment showed me that when creative environments are flexible and supportive, students often discover strengths they did not know they had. Another moment involved Parker, a shy student who had only recently begun participating more actively. My co-director and I debated whether he should take a speaking role. Concerned about his confidence, she suggested giving him a silent part. I believed that even a small opportunity might help him grow. We ultimately gave him one line. On the night of the performance, Parker stepped forward and quietly delivered it: “I’m going to be something wonderful someday, you’ll see.” His voice was soft but steady, and the audience leaned forward to listen. In that moment, I saw how a small opportunity can change the way a student sees themselves. If I had greater financial resources and institutional support, I would expand Beyond the Curtains into a larger community arts initiative. My plan would include three key components. First, I would establish free after-school theater workshops across multiple neighborhoods so students from different schools and economic backgrounds could participate. Second, I would create a mentorship network connecting high school and college theater students with younger participants, allowing experienced performers to guide rehearsals while gaining leadership experience themselves. Finally, I would launch a mobile theater program that brings workshops and performances directly to schools and community centers that lack arts programming. With sufficient resources, these programs could reach hundreds of students each year while making creative education more accessible. More importantly, they would create spaces where young people feel seen, heard, and valued. Creating Beyond the Curtains taught me that meaningful solutions do not have to begin with large institutions or perfect plans. Sometimes they begin with a small group of students, a borrowed rehearsal space, and the belief that every young person deserves the chance to step onto a stage and realize that their voice matters.

Growing up, theater was one of the few places where I felt completely confident. On stage, I could express emotions and ideas that were often difficult to share elsewhere. However, as I became more involved in the arts, I began to notice that access to theater education was not equal. Acting classes and professional training were expensive, and many families in my community could not easily afford them. Knowing how transformative the arts had been for me, I wanted younger students to experience that same sense of confidence and belonging. This motivation led me to found Beyond the Curtains, a nonprofit theater program that introduces children in my community to performance and creative expression. Through the program, I organize rehearsals, coordinate volunteers, and guide students as they prepare for performances. My goal is not only to teach acting techniques but also to help students discover their voices and develop confidence through storytelling. One experience that deeply shaped my understanding of community service involved a young participant named Lia. During rehearsals she rarely spoke, which initially made it difficult for her to participate in a performance centered on dialogue. Over time, however, I realized that expression does not always come through words. Instead of focusing only on speaking roles, we began encouraging storytelling through movement. Lia’s gestures, posture, and facial expressions became powerful forms of communication on stage. Watching the audience understand her performance without a single line of dialogue showed me that when supportive environments are created, people often discover strengths they did not know they had. Another moment reinforced the importance of thoughtful leadership. My co-director Clara and I once disagreed about casting Parker, a shy student who had only recently begun participating more actively. Concerned about his confidence, Clara suggested giving him a non-speaking role. I believed he deserved the opportunity to try a small speaking part. After discussing our perspectives, we decided to give him just a few lines. On the night of the performance, Parker stepped forward and quietly delivered his line: “I’m going to be something wonderful someday, you’ll see.” His voice was soft but steady, and the audience leaned forward to listen. That moment reminded me that confidence often grows from small opportunities and encouragement. Experiences like these have shaped both my academic interests and my long-term goals. In college, I hope to study fields that combine the arts, education, and community engagement. I want to work with theater organizations, student groups, and local outreach programs that expand creative opportunities for young people. By continuing to develop programs like Beyond the Curtains, I hope to make arts education more accessible to students who might otherwise never have the chance to step on stage. After graduation, I hope to further expand initiatives that use storytelling and performance to empower young people. Whether through nonprofit work, arts education, or community partnerships, I want to help create spaces where students feel seen, heard, and valued. My experience with Beyond the Curtains has shown me that making a difference in the world does not always begin with large-scale change. Sometimes it begins with something simple: giving someone the chance to step forward, speak their line, and realize that their voice matters.

Growing up, theater was one of the few places where I felt completely confident. On stage, I could express emotions and ideas that were often difficult to share elsewhere. However, I quickly realized that access to theater education was not equal. Acting classes and professional training were expensive, and many families in my community could not easily afford them. Knowing how transformative the arts had been for me, I wanted younger students to have the opportunity to experience that same sense of confidence and belonging. This motivation led me to found Beyond the Curtains, a nonprofit theater program that introduces children in my community to performance and creative expression. Through Beyond the Curtains, I organize rehearsals, coordinate volunteers, and work with students as they prepare for performances. The program is designed not only to teach acting skills, but also to help young people develop confidence and self expression. One experience that deeply shaped my understanding of community service involved a young participant named Lia. During rehearsals she rarely spoke, which initially left me unsure how to help her participate in a performance centered on dialogue. Over time, I realized that expression does not always come through words. Instead of focusing only on speaking roles, we began encouraging storytelling through movement. Lia’s gestures, posture, and expressions became powerful tools of communication on stage. Watching the audience understand her performance without a single line of dialogue showed me that creating supportive environments allows people to discover strengths they might not realize they have. Another experience reinforced the importance of thoughtful leadership. My co director Clara and I once disagreed about casting Parker, a shy student who had only recently begun participating more actively. Concerned about his confidence, Clara suggested assigning him a non speaking role. I believed he deserved the opportunity to try speaking on stage. After discussing our perspectives, we agreed to give him a small role with just a few lines. On the night of the performance, Parker stepped forward and quietly delivered his line: “I’m going to be something wonderful someday, you’ll see.” His voice was soft but steady, and the audience leaned forward to listen. That moment reminded me that confidence often grows from small opportunities and encouragement. These experiences have shaped both my educational goals and my long term aspirations. In college, I hope to continue combining the arts with community service by working with theater groups, student organizations, or local outreach programs that provide creative opportunities for young people. I want to collaborate with other students who believe in the power of storytelling and performance to build confidence and connection. By expanding programs like Beyond the Curtains or creating similar initiatives near campus, I hope to continue supporting students who may not otherwise have access to arts education. After graduation, I hope to further develop programs that make creative education more accessible to communities that are often overlooked. Whether through nonprofit work, arts education, or community initiatives, I want to continue creating spaces where young people can explore their creativity and discover their potential. My experience with Beyond the Curtains has shown me that community service can begin with something simple: giving someone the opportunity to be seen and heard. By continuing to integrate education, creativity, and service, I hope to help more young people step forward with confidence and believe in their ability to become something wonderful.

When I founded Beyond the Curtains, a nonprofit theater program for children in my community, I hoped to create opportunities I once wished I had. Growing up, I loved acting. On stage, I felt confident and expressive in ways I rarely did elsewhere. However, theater classes and professional training were expensive, and many families in my community, including mine, could not easily afford them. I often wondered how many children might love performing but never have the chance to try. That question motivated me to start Beyond the Curtains, where students could explore theater, build confidence, and learn to express themselves. Launching the program while managing my school responsibilities was not easy. I spent afternoons organizing rehearsals, preparing activities, and coordinating volunteers. Many evenings were filled with communicating with parents, planning practice schedules, and making sure students had the support they needed, all while keeping up with homework and preparing for exams. Balancing these responsibilities was challenging, but watching students gradually become more confident reminded me why the work mattered. One student who deeply shaped my understanding of impact was Lia, one of our youngest participants. During rehearsals she never spoke. At first, I struggled to understand how to help her. I had created the program to help students find their voices, and I believed speaking on stage was the key to confidence. Over time, I realized that my definition of expression was too limited. Instead of pushing her to speak, I began encouraging storytelling through movement. Lia’s slowly became the center of the performance. A tilted head, sweeping arms, and moments of stillness communicated emotions more clearly than words. Watching the audience follow her story without a single line of dialogue taught me that helping someone grow does not always mean encouraging them to be louder. Sometimes it means recognizing their strengths and giving them the freedom to express themselves in their own way. Another moment challenged me in a different way. My co director Clara and I once disagreed about casting Parker, a shy student who had only recently begun participating more actively. Wanting to protect him from possible embarrassment, Clara suggested giving him a non speaking role. I worried that removing his lines would send the message that we did not believe in his progress. I told her that we could not let the fear of failure stop his chance to succeed. At the same time, our conversation helped me realize that encouragement should never become pressure. After discussing it together, we found a compromise. Parker would play Wally Webb in Our Town, a role with just a few carefully chosen lines. On the night of the performance Parker stepped forward and quietly delivered his line: “I’m going to be something wonderful someday, you’ll see.” His voice was soft but steady, and the audience leaned forward to listen. In that moment I saw how powerful even a small moment of courage can be when someone feels supported. Through building Beyond the Curtains, I learned that meaningful community impact often begins with listening. Helping others grow requires patience, empathy, and the willingness to adapt to different needs. The program began as a way to provide opportunities for young performers, but it has become a space where students learn to believe in themselves. In the future, I hope to continue contributing to my community by creating more opportunities for young people to explore creative expression and build confidence. Whether through theater, education, or mentorship, I want to keep supporting students as they discover their voices and their potential.

When I founded Beyond the Curtains, a nonprofit theater program for children in my community, I believed leadership meant making quiet voices loud. Growing up, I loved acting. On stage, I felt confident and free in a way I rarely did elsewhere. However, theater classes and professional training were expensive, and many families in my community, including mine, could not easily afford them. I often wondered how many other children might love performing but never have the chance to try. That question motivated me to create Beyond the Curtains, a program where students could experience theater, build confidence, and discover their own voices. Starting the program while keeping up with school quickly became a challenge. I spent afternoons writing scripts, organizing rehearsals, and coordinating volunteers. Many evenings were filled with responding to parents’ messages or adjusting rehearsal schedules, all while finishing homework and preparing for exams. Balancing these responsibilities was difficult, but every rehearsal reminded me why the work mattered. Theater was never only about performance. It was about helping students believe in themselves. One of the students who reshaped my understanding of leadership was Lia, one of our youngest participants. During rehearsals she never spoke. At first, her silence frustrated me. I had created the program to give every child a chance to express themselves, so I struggled to understand how I could help her if she refused to speak. Eventually I realized the problem was not Lia’s silence but my narrow definition of expression. Instead of insisting on dialogue, I began building scenes around physical storytelling. Lia’s gestures slowly became the center of the performance. A tilted head, sweeping arms, and even moments of stillness communicated emotions more powerfully than words. Watching the audience follow her story without a single line of dialogue taught me that leadership is not about making everyone louder. It is about recognizing each person’s strengths and creating space for them to express themselves in their own way. Another experience challenged me in a different way. My co director Clara and I once disagreed about casting Parker, a shy student who had only recently begun participating more actively. Wanting to protect him from failure, Clara suggested placing him in a non speaking role. I believed that removing his lines would send the message that we did not believe in his progress. I told her that we could not let the fear of failure stop his chance to succeed. At the same time, Clara helped me realize that my determination could unintentionally create pressure. After discussing it together, we reached a compromise. Parker would play Wally Webb in Our Town, a role with just a few carefully chosen lines. On the night of the performance Parker stepped forward and quietly delivered his line. “I’m going to be something wonderful someday, you’ll see.” His voice was soft but steady, and the audience leaned forward to hear him. In that moment I realized that leadership is not only about encouraging others to speak, but about creating an environment where they feel safe enough to try. Building Beyond the Curtains while managing my own responsibilities has shaped how I approach both my education and my role in my community. I have learned that helping others grow requires patience, empathy, and the willingness to listen. As I continue my education, I hope to keep creating opportunities for young people to discover confidence in their own voices, just as theater once did for me.

What am I doing here? I was frozen backstage, surrounded by young Asian boys in custom tailored suits, suddenly hyperaware of how my box braids defied gravity, how my dark skin absorbed light, and how my ninety nine dollar ruffled dress hung like a costume. That morning my grandmother braided my hair and whispered that I would be the first in our family to play at Carnegie Hall. She meant to encourage me, but her words felt heavy with unspoken expectations. When my name was called, I sat at the piano and placed my hands above Middle C. They would not move. Hundreds of unfamiliar faces stared back at me. Instead of playing, I ran. I hid in a bathroom stall with my forehead pressed against the cold wall and my heart pounding in my chest. A Black security guard with braids like mine followed me and gently asked if I was okay. Her voice reminded me of my grandmother. She said they were waiting for me, but I could not return to the stage. I spent the rest of the recital sitting quietly in the audience, listening to applause that felt like a reminder of the moment I had failed. For a long time, I avoided the piano. I threw myself into acting instead, eventually performing on Broadway in Once on This Island. Being surrounded by diverse performers helped me see something I had not understood before. My voice, my appearance, and my story belonged in artistic spaces. One night backstage before a performance, the same panic I had felt years earlier suddenly returned. My hands trembled and my heart raced. A fellow actor gave me a fist bump and wished me luck. I looked around and noticed something that changed how I felt. Some of my castmates had braids like mine. Others shared my skin tone. For the first time, the stage did not feel like a place where I was an outsider. I stepped onstage and performed with a calm I had never felt before. That moment helped me realize that fear did not have to control my choices. Three years later, I returned to piano lessons. It was not a triumphant comeback. My wrists ached from hours of scales, and I had to rebuild discipline and patience. Eventually I performed again and returned to Carnegie Hall. This time my hands were steady, and I finished the piece with focus and confidence. Overcoming that fear shaped both my identity and my future goals. I plan to continue pursuing a career in the performing arts while also studying psychology. I am fascinated by how storytelling, music, and performance allow people to express emotions that are difficult to put into words. I have already begun sharing this belief by teaching piano to young Black and Brown girls. Many of them have never seen someone who looks like them in classical music spaces. I remind them that their hands deserve to be on these keys and their voices deserve to be heard. My goal is to continue using art to inspire confidence, create connection, and open doors for others who may feel that they do not belong. The stage once felt like a place where I was invisible. Now I want to help others step into the spotlight and know that they belong there too.

What am I doing here? I was frozen backstage, surrounded by young Asian boys in custom tailored suits, suddenly hyperaware of how my box braids defied gravity, how my dark skin absorbed light, and how my 49 dollar ruffled dress hung like a costume. “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” my grandmother whispered while weaving my braids earlier that morning. She meant to encourage me, but her words felt heavy with unspoken expectations. Then my name was called. As I sat at the piano at Carnegie Hall, my hands froze over Middle C. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, I bolted. I vanished into a bathroom stall, crouched with my forehead pressed against the porcelain wall. My heart pounded in my chest. A Black security guard with plaits like mine followed me. “You okay, baby?” she asked gently from outside the stall. Her voice sounded warm, like my grandmother’s. “They’re waiting for you.” Me? I don’t belong here. Eventually, I left the stall and sat quietly in the audience, watching everyone else perform. Each round of applause reminded me of every note I should have played. A few months later, I found myself about to bolt again. This time it was backstage at Circle in the Square Theater on the opening night of a Broadway production. I had quit piano and thrown myself into acting, filling my weeks with rehearsals and auditions. Right before my first entrance, the same panic rushed back. My hands shook and my heart raced. Then something unexpected happened. Daniel, a fellow actor, gave me a fist bump and said, “Break a leg.” For the first time I noticed how Daniel’s skin reflected the stage lights like mine. Another actor, Cassondra, wore braids just like me. Suddenly the stage felt different. I took a deep breath and stepped onstage to sing. I focused on my breathing and the story we were telling. When the music ended and I took my final bow, happiness surged through me. For the first time in a long time, I proved something to myself. I could do it. Three years later, I returned to piano lessons. Performing had given me confidence in my own voice, and I wanted to reclaim piano for myself. It was not easy. My wrists ached from hours of scales, and I repeated missed notes until they became muscle memory. Eventually I entered my first competition since returning to piano. Even when I began my Chopin piece on the wrong note, I did not run. I paused, took a breath, and continued. My fingers moved steadily across the keys until I finished the piece with focus. Over the following year I practiced through exhaustion and doubt. When I finally returned to Carnegie Hall, everything felt different. My posture was strong and my fingers were steady. As I played, I remembered my grandmother braiding my hair, the security guard comforting me, and my castmates encouraging me. In their own ways they had all told me the same thing. I belonged. Completing that performance is the personal achievement I am most proud of. It changed how I face challenges in my life. Instead of running from fear, I learned to stay. Today I share that lesson by teaching piano to young Black and Brown girls, reminding them that their hands deserve this music too.

What am I doing here? I was frozen backstage, surrounded by young Asian boys in custom tailored suits, suddenly hyperaware of how my box braids defied gravity, how my dark skin absorbed light, and how my $49 ruffled dress hung like a costume. “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” my grandmother whispered while weaving my braids earlier that morning. She meant to encourage me, but her words felt heavy with unspoken expectations. I sat at the piano, my hands froze over Middle C. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, I bolted. I hid in a bathroom stall, my forehead pressed against the porcelain wall, knees swallowed in layers of tulle. My heart pounded like a drum. A Black security guard with plaits like mine followed me. “You okay, baby?” she asked gently. Her voice sounded warm, like my grandmother’s. “They’re waiting for you.” Me? I didn’t belong here. Eventually, I left the stall and watched the others perform. Each round of applause felt like a hammer hitting every note I should have played and every bow I should have taken. That moment stayed with me, teaching me about fear, expectation, and the courage it takes to step forward even when you feel out of place. Months later, I found myself backstage at Circle in the Square Theater on the opening night of Broadway’s Once On This Island. I had quit piano and devoted myself to acting, filling my weeks with rehearsals, auditions, and television scripts. Right before my first entrance, panic rushed back. My hands shook. My heart raced. Then Daniel, a fellow actor, gave me a fist bump and said, “Break a leg!” I noticed castmates with braids like mine and skin tones like mine. For the first time, I saw myself reflected on stage. I stepped onstage to sing “We Dance,” focusing not on my fear but on telling a story about hope and resilience. When the music ended, I realized I had done something I once thought impossible. That experience and the years I spent reclaiming my voice at the piano taught me more than performance skills. They taught me that belonging comes not from avoiding fear, but from confronting it and using what I have learned to lift others. That insight shaped my decision to pursue higher education. I want to gain the knowledge, skills, and opportunities college offers to create spaces where others can find their voice and see themselves represented. Today, I teach piano to young Black and Brown girls in my community, many of whom have never had access to formal music education. Watching them gain confidence and joy, seeing them perform for their families, reminds me why education matters. College will give me tools to expand that impact, combining music, mentorship, and advocacy to serve communities that are often overlooked. The decision to pursue a college education is deeply personal, shaped by family, fear, and the discovery of my own resilience. It is also communal, motivated by the desire to ensure that the next generation of young artists, regardless of background, knows they belong and can thrive. My experiences performing, teaching, and mentoring have made clear that education is a bridge. It is a way to transform personal growth into lasting community impact.

What am I doing here? I was frozen backstage, surrounded by young Asian boys in custom tailored suits, suddenly hyperaware of how my box braids defied gravity, how my dark skin absorbed light, and how my $99 ruffled dress hung like a costume. “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” my grandmother whispered while weaving my braids earlier that morning. She meant to encourage me, but her words felt heavy with unspoken expectations. I sat at the piano, my hands froze over Middle C. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, I bolted. I hid in a bathroom stall, heart pounding, knees swallowed in layers of tulle. A Black security guard with plaits like mine followed me. “You okay, baby?” she asked gently. Her voice sounded warm, like my grandmother’s. “They’re waiting for you.” Me? I didn’t belong here. Eventually, I left the stall and watched the others perform. Each round of applause felt like a hammer hitting every note I should have played and every bow I should have taken. That experience stayed with me, shaping how I understood fear, belonging, and perseverance. Jack Terry’s story inspires me because he faced unimaginable adversity and still chose to act with courage and compassion. Like Jack, I have had moments when fear made me want to run, but I learned that resilience means standing through the fear and using that strength to help others. His example reminds me that even small acts of perseverance—whether surviving trauma or stepping back onto a stage—can create ripples beyond oneself. A few months later, I found myself about to bolt again, this time backstage at Circle in the Square Theater on the opening night of Broadway’s Once On This Island. Right before my first entrance, panic rushed back. My hands shook. My heart raced. Then a fellow actor, Daniel, gave me a fist bump and said, “Break a leg!” I noticed some castmates had braids like mine and skin tones like mine. I took a deep breath and stepped onstage to sing “We Dance.” That night, I realized I could use my voice not just for myself but to tell stories that give hope to others. Years later, I returned to piano, and eventually began teaching young Black and Brown girls in my community. Many had never had the opportunity to play an instrument. Some were hesitant, unsure if they belonged at the piano bench. I recognized their fear because I had once felt the same way. Through patient teaching and encouragement, I helped them discover their musical voices. Watching them grow in confidence and joy showed me how sharing what I had learned could impact others’ lives. Through my studies, I hope to combine music, performance, and arts education to expand access to the arts for underserved communities. Just as Jack Terry’s courage inspires action, I want to help young artists find their own voices, feel they belong, and use their talents to enrich the world. By giving access, mentorship, and representation, I hope to create spaces where resilience and creativity flourish together.

What am I doing here? I was frozen backstage, surrounded by young Asian boys in custom tailored suits, suddenly hyperaware of how my box braids defied gravity, how my dark skin absorbed light, and how my $99 ruffled dress hung like a costume. “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” my grandmother whispered while weaving my braids earlier that morning. She meant to encourage me, but her words felt heavy with unspoken expectations. I sat at the piano, my hands froze over Middle C. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, I bolted. I vanished into a bathroom stall, crouched with my forehead pressed against the porcelain wall, knees swallowed in layers of tulle. My heart pounded like a drum in my chest. A Black security guard with plaits like mine followed me. “You okay, baby?” she asked gently from behind the door. Her voice sounded warm, like my grandmother’s. “They’re waiting for you.” Me? I didn’t belong here. Eventually, I left the stall and watched the others perform. Each round of applause felt like a hammer hitting every note I should have played and every bow I should have taken. That experience stayed with me, shaping how I viewed the arts not just as performance, but as belonging and representation. A few months later, I found myself about to bolt again, this time backstage at Circle in the Square Theater on the opening night of Broadway’s Once On This Island. I had quit piano and thrown myself into acting, filling my weeks with rehearsals, television scripts, and auditions. Right before my first entrance, the familiar panic returned. My hands shook. My heart raced. Then Daniel, a fellow actor, gave me a fist bump and said, “Break a leg!” For the first time, I noticed how some castmates had braids like mine. Others shared my skin tone. I took a deep breath and stepped onstage to sing “We Dance.” I focused on controlling my breathing and sharing the story of hope breaking through barriers of race, class, and prejudice. When the song ended and I took my final bow, I realized I had done something I once thought impossible. I could do it. Years later, I returned to piano, determined to reclaim my music. Practice was slow and humbling. My wrists ached, and I stumbled through difficult passages. Eventually, I entered a competition. When I began my Chopin piece on the wrong note, I paused, took a breath, and continued. I finished with focus and calm, earning an honorable mention. Today, I share what I have learned with others. I teach piano to young Black and Brown girls in my community, many of whom have never had the chance to learn an instrument. I show them that music is not just for someone else; it is for them too. When a student plays her first melody or performs proudly for her family, I see the wonder and confidence that art can create. Through my future career in music and performance, I hope to inspire others, spark curiosity, and create spaces where young artists feel they belong. Art has the power to evoke emotion, build empathy, and encourage dialogue. By sharing my skills and experiences, I want to help others discover that their voices, like mine, deserve to be heard.

The first time I was scheduled to perform at Carnegie Hall, I ran away. Backstage, surrounded by young Asian boys in tailored suits, I suddenly became painfully aware of how my box braids defied gravity and how my dark skin absorbed the stage lights. My $99 ruffled dress felt more like a costume than something I belonged in. When my name was called, my hands froze above the piano keys. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, I panicked and bolted. That moment stayed with me for years. It was not simply stage fright. It was the quiet realization that spaces like classical music often did not feel built for people who looked like me. Years later, after performing on Broadway in Once On This Island and eventually returning to piano, I began to see that my experience was not unique. In many classical music programs, very few students were Black or Brown. Even fewer were girls who looked like the younger version of me standing nervously backstage. I began asking a simple question. What might change if those girls saw themselves reflected in the music room before they ever doubted they belonged there? That question led me to start something small but meaningful. I began teaching piano lessons to young Black and Brown girls in my community, many of whom had never touched a piano before. Some were initially hesitant, convinced that classical music was something meant for someone else. I recognized that feeling immediately because it was the same doubt I had carried into Carnegie Hall years earlier. Instead of focusing only on technique, I focused on building confidence. We talked about composers, improvisation, and storytelling through music. I shared my own experiences performing on large stages and the fear I once felt walking into rooms where no one looked like me. Slowly, I began to see a transformation. Students who once sat timidly at the bench started experimenting with melodies. One girl who barely spoke during her first lesson began composing her own short pieces by the end of the semester. Another proudly performed for her family for the first time. What started as informal lessons grew into a small mentoring community. The girls encouraged each other, celebrated progress, and began to see music not as something distant or elite but as something they had a right to claim. This project was not about creating the next concert pianist. It was about representation and access. Too often, talented young musicians from marginalized communities never get the opportunity to explore classical music simply because they do not see themselves reflected in it. Through these lessons, I try to change that narrative. My goal is to continue expanding this work as I pursue a career in music, performance, and arts education. I want to develop community-based programs that bring instruments, mentorship, and creative opportunities to students who might otherwise never encounter them. Music has taught me that talent exists everywhere. Opportunity does not. By creating spaces where young artists feel welcomed and represented from the very beginning, I hope to ensure that the next generation of musicians never has to question whether they belong on the stage. Because sometimes the most powerful act of innovation is simply opening a door that has been closed for too long.

What am I doing here? I was frozen backstage, surrounded by young Asian boys in custom tailored suits, suddenly hyperaware of how my box braids defied gravity and how my $49 ruffled dress hung like a costume. That day I was preparing to perform at Carnegie Hall, but standing there, I felt like I had wandered into a place never meant for me. “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” my grandmother whispered while weaving my braids that morning. She meant to encourage me, but her words felt heavy with expectations. When my name was called, my hands froze above the piano keys. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, I panicked and ran. I hid in a bathroom stall, heart pounding, convinced I did not belong on that stage. A few months later, I found myself backstage again, this time at the opening night of Broadway’s Once On This Island. After quitting piano, I had thrown myself into acting, spending my days in rehearsals and auditions. Right before my first entrance, the same fear rushed back. My hands shook and my heart raced. For a moment, I thought about running again. Then a fellow actor, Daniel, gave me a fist bump and said, “Break a leg.” I noticed something I had not before. Some castmates had braids like mine. Others shared my skin tone. For the first time, I saw myself reflected onstage. When I stepped out to sing “We Dance,” something shifted. I focused not on fear but on telling a story about hope breaking through barriers of race, class, and prejudice. When the song ended and the audience applauded, I realized I had done something I once thought impossible. I stayed. That experience changed how I saw myself. Belonging is not always something we are given. Sometimes it is something we must claim. Years later, I returned to piano, determined to face the fear that once drove me offstage. Practice was slow and humbling. My wrists ached from scales and I struggled through difficult passages. Eventually I entered a piano competition. When I began my Chopin piece on the wrong note, panic rose again. But this time, I did not run. I took a breath and kept playing. The performance earned an honorable mention, but more importantly it proved that resilience is not about perfection. It is about continuing even when things go wrong. When I finally returned to Carnegie Hall, everything felt different. My posture was strong and my fingers were steady. Today those experiences shape how I see my future. I plan to pursue a career combining music, performance, and education so I can expand access to the arts for young people who rarely see themselves represented in classical music spaces. Already, I teach piano to young Black and Brown girls in my community. When they sit at the keyboard, I tell them something I once needed to hear: their hands deserve this music too. Through my future career, I hope to create spaces where the next generation of musicians feels welcome long before they begin to doubt themselves. Talent exists everywhere, but opportunity does not. My goal is to help close that gap so more young artists can see themselves not as outsiders, but as rightful performers on the world’s stages.

What am I doing here? I was frozen backstage, surrounded by young Asian boys in custom tailored suits, suddenly hyperaware of how my box braids defied gravity, how my dark skin absorbed light, and how my $49 ruffled dress hung like a costume. “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” my grandmother whispered while weaving my braids earlier that morning. She meant to encourage me, but her words felt heavy with expectations. Then my name was called. As I sat at the piano, my hands froze over Middle C. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, I bolted. I vanished into a bathroom stall, crouched with my forehead pressed against the porcelain wall. My heart pounded. A Black security guard with plaits like mine followed me. “You okay, baby?” she asked gently from outside the stall. “They’re waiting for you.” Me? I don’t belong here. Eventually, I left the stall and sat quietly in the audience. Each round of applause felt like a hammer hitting every note I should have played. A few months later, I found myself about to bolt again. This time it was backstage at Circle in the Square Theater on the opening night of Broadway’s Once On This Island. I had quit piano and thrown myself into acting, filling my weeks with rehearsals and auditions. Right before my first entrance, the panic returned. My hands shook. My heart raced. Then something unexpected happened. Daniel, a fellow actor, gave me a fist bump and said, “Break a leg!” For the first time I noticed how Daniel’s skin reflected the stage lights like mine. Another actor, Cassondra, wore braids like me. I took a deep breath and stepped onstage to sing “We Dance.” I focused on controlling my breathing and sharing the story of hope breaking through barriers of race, class, and prejudice. When the music ended and I took my final bow, happiness surged through me. I proved something to myself. I could do it. Three years later, I returned to piano lessons. My time performing in Once On This Island had given me confidence in my voice, and I wanted to reclaim piano. It was not a triumphant return. My wrists ached from hours of scales. I repeated missed notes until they became muscle memory. Eventually I entered my first competition since returning to piano. Even when I began my Chopin piece on the wrong note, I did not run. I paused, took a breath, and continued. My fingers moved steadily across the keys, and I finished with focus and calm. The performance earned me an honorable mention, but more importantly it proved that I could stay. Over the following year I practiced through exhaustion and doubt. When I finally returned to Carnegie Hall, everything felt different. My posture was strong. My fingers were steady. As I played, I remembered my grandmother braiding my hair, the security guard comforting me, and my castmates encouraging me. In their own ways they had all told me the same thing. I belonged. Their voices inspire me not just to perform for myself but also for others. Today I teach piano to young Black and Brown girls, reminding them that their hands deserve this music too. When I finished my performance at Carnegie, the applause filled the hall. I imagined my grandmother watching from heaven, clapping not because I was perfect, but because I persevered. Resilience has become more than my ability to overcome fear. It is something I now pass on, helping others believe that they belong on the stage too.

Long before I met her, Lea Salonga had already changed the way I saw the stage. Her Tony-winning role in Miss Saigon showed that performers of color could succeed even in spaces where they had long been underrepresented. Watching her career made me believe that artists who look different from Broadway’s traditional image could belong. I spent nearly a year and a half working alongside Lea in the Broadway production of Once On This Island, from first rehearsal to the final curtain. That experience taught me the discipline, teamwork, and dedication needed in professional theater before I ever performed in front of an audience. During that run, my microphone cut out on stage, leaving me frozen in silence. Before panic could take over, Lea quietly offered me her microphone. Her gesture, almost invisible to the audience, meant everything. She protected my voice without drawing attention to the mistake and showed me that leadership often looks quiet: noticing when someone needs help and stepping in. That lesson has stayed with me. As a first-generation college student, I carry it into academics, extracurriculars, and my relationships. My family has encouraged me to pursue opportunities they never had, but navigating school and planning for the future often means figuring things out on my own. I have learned to rely on community and to build it whenever I can. When workloads become heavy, I am often the one who starts group chats for studying, gathers classmates into empty classrooms, or creates shared documents for projects so no one feels overwhelmed. Leadership, I have learned, is rarely about standing in front—it is making sure everyone has the support they need to succeed. Performing also taught me the importance of representation and mentorship. As a Black performer in spaces that often lacked diversity, I sometimes questioned whether I belonged. Seeing Lea succeed helped me imagine a place for myself in the arts. Experiencing her generosity firsthand made that belief stronger. Because of that, I work to encourage younger students in my community. Teaching young Black and Brown girls piano, helping peers prepare for performances, or simply reminding someone they deserve to be heard are ways I pass on what I have received. Being a first-generation college student means my journey carries the hopes of my family and those who may follow. College will allow me to grow as both a musician and a leader who understands the power of mentorship. I hope to create spaces where young performers from underrepresented communities feel seen, supported, and confident to share their voices. Years ago, Lea shared her microphone so I would not lose my voice in a difficult moment. That lesson guides me today: leadership is not always loud, and sometimes the most important thing you can do is help someone else be heard.

Music has been one of the most important parts of my life, but pursuing it has also taught me important lessons about finances and responsibility. As someone growing up in a family where college and formal financial education were unfamiliar territories, I learned early that opportunities often come with costs, and that careful planning and support are necessary to pursue them. When I was younger, I had the opportunity to perform at Carnegie Hall. At the time, I was proud but also aware of the sacrifices behind that moment. Music lessons, competitions, and travel required financial commitment from my family. Although my family always encouraged my passion for music, I knew that every lesson and performance opportunity represented a meaningful investment. As I grew older, I became more aware of the financial realities behind pursuing music and higher education. Preparing for competitions, maintaining lessons, and balancing school responsibilities required both discipline and planning. I learned to value every opportunity I received and to make thoughtful decisions about how to use my time and resources. During high school, I returned to piano after spending several years focused on other creative pursuits. Rebuilding my skills required many hours of practice and dedication. At my first competition after returning, I began my Chopin piece on the wrong note. In the past I might have run from the stage, but instead I paused, took a breath, and continued playing. That moment taught me not only perseverance, but also the importance of committing to the opportunities that my family had worked hard to support. Music has also helped me understand the importance of giving back and expanding access to opportunities. During high school, I began teaching piano to young Black and Brown girls in my community. Many of them are experiencing music lessons for the first time. I understand how meaningful access to arts education can be, especially when financial barriers sometimes limit those opportunities. Teaching has strengthened my belief that knowledge, resources, and mentorship should be shared whenever possible. As a first generation college student, financial education is especially important to me as I plan for the future. Navigating college costs, scholarships, and long term financial planning requires skills that I continue to develop. I want to learn how to make responsible financial decisions, manage educational expenses wisely, and build a stable future for myself and my family. This scholarship would help relieve some of the financial pressure associated with pursuing higher education. More importantly, it would allow me to focus on my academic and artistic growth while continuing to mentor younger students who share my passion for music. The lessons I have learned through music extend far beyond the piano bench. They have taught me discipline, responsibility, and an appreciation for the resources that make opportunities possible. As I continue my education, I hope to apply what I learn about financial planning and responsibility to build a future where I can support my family, sustain my artistic goals, and create more opportunities for the next generation of young musicians.

One of the earliest challenges I faced happened when I was ten years old, backstage at Carnegie Hall. Surrounded by accomplished young musicians in custom tailored suits, I suddenly became hyperaware of everything about myself. I noticed how my box braids seemed to defy gravity, how my dark skin absorbed the stage lights, and how my $99 dress hung awkwardly like a costume. My grandmother had braided my hair that morning and whispered, “First in our family to play at Carnegie.” She meant to encourage me, but her words carried weight. When I sat down at the piano, my hands froze above Middle C. My heart raced, my mind went blank, and in front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, I ran. I hid in a bathroom stall, convinced that I did not belong there. For a long time, that moment stayed with me. I stepped away from piano and threw myself into acting, eventually performing in Broadway’s Once On This Island. On opening night, I felt the same fear return backstage. Just before I stepped onstage, a fellow actor gave me a fist bump and said, “Break a leg.” Surrounded by supportive castmates, I stepped forward and sang. That experience helped me rediscover the courage to return to piano during my high school years. Coming back required patience and discipline. My wrists ached from hours of practice, and I worked through mistakes until the music slowly began to feel natural again. At my first competition after returning, I began my Chopin piece on the wrong note. Years earlier I would have run from the stage. Instead, I paused, took a breath, and continued playing. I earned an honorable mention, but the real victory was finishing the performance. The following year, I returned to Carnegie Hall. This time my hands were steady and my breathing calm. As I played, I thought about my grandmother braiding my hair and the people who had supported me along the way. Their encouragement reminded me that belonging is something we grow into through persistence. Music has also inspired me to give back. During high school, I began teaching piano to young Black and Brown girls in my community who often feel unsure of themselves when they first sit at the bench. I remind them that their hands deserve this music too. Like my grandmother said years ago, performing at Carnegie Hall was a first for my family. Becoming a college graduate will be another. As a first generation college student, pursuing higher education brings financial challenges for my family. Receiving this scholarship would help make my education possible and allow me to continue pursuing music while creating opportunities for young students who may not see themselves represented in classical music spaces. The challenges I have faced, from running off a stage in fear to returning with the confidence to perform, have shaped who I am today and strengthened my determination to use music to inspire others.

Music has shaped my high school years in ways I never expected. What once felt like a source of fear slowly became a space where I learned resilience, discipline, and confidence in my own voice. When I was younger, I had the opportunity to perform at Carnegie Hall. Surrounded by talented young musicians, I suddenly became painfully aware of how different I felt. My grandmother had braided my hair that morning and whispered, “First in our family to play at Carnegie.” She meant to encourage me, but the words felt heavy with expectation. When I sat down at the piano, my hands froze above Middle C. My heart pounded, my mind went blank, and I ran from the stage, hiding in a bathroom stall convinced that I did not belong there. For a while, I stepped away from the piano entirely. Instead, I threw myself into acting, eventually performing in Broadway’s Once On This Island. Acting felt playful and freeing, but on opening night I felt the same familiar fear return backstage. My hands trembled and my heart raced as I waited for my cue. Just before I stepped onstage, a fellow actor gave me a fist bump and said, “Break a leg.” In that moment, surrounded by castmates who supported me and reflected parts of my own identity, something shifted. I walked onto the stage and sang. As I performed, I realized that art has the power to connect people and give them courage. Sharing a story through music and performance allowed me to move beyond fear and focus on expression. That experience gave me the confidence to return to the piano during my high school years. Coming back to piano was not dramatic or glamorous. It required patience, discipline, and humility. My teacher rarely offered praise, and my wrists ached from hours of scales and repetition. I practiced through missed notes and frustration until the music slowly began to feel natural again. Piano became a daily practice of perseverance, shaping my routines and mindset throughout high school. At my first competition after returning, I began my Chopin piece on the wrong note. For a split second, panic flashed through me. Years earlier I would have run from the stage. Instead, I took a breath and kept playing. I focused on the rhythm of the music and the movement of my fingers along the keys. When I finished, I earned an honorable mention, but the real victory was staying on the bench and completing the performance. That moment taught me that mistakes do not define us. What matters is the courage to continue. Music has also encouraged me to think beyond my own growth. During high school, I began teaching piano to young Black and Brown girls in my community. Many of them sit at the bench feeling unsure of themselves, just as I once did. I remind them that their hands belong on these keys and that their creativity deserves to be heard. Watching their confidence grow has been one of the most meaningful parts of my musical journey. Looking back, music has shaped my high school years by teaching me perseverance, self-expression, and empathy. It helped me transform fear into confidence and personal growth into community impact. Whether I am performing, practicing, or teaching, music continues to guide how I challenge myself and how I hope to uplift others through the power of art.

I first realized the power and fragility of my voice when I was ten, backstage at Carnegie Hall. Surrounded by accomplished young musicians, I froze over Middle C, my heart pounding and my hands refusing to move. My grandmother had braided my hair that morning and whispered, “First in our family to play at Carnegie.” She meant to encourage me, but her words carried weight, a reminder of expectations I was not sure I could meet. I bolted to a bathroom stall, pressing my forehead against the cold porcelain, knees swallowed in layers of tulle. My chest heaving, my fingers trembling, I felt that my voice, my ability to express myself, was trapped inside me. A security guard with plaits like mine followed me and asked softly, “You okay, baby? They are waiting for you.” Her calm presence reminded me that courage and belonging sometimes come through support from others, even when our own confidence falters. Years later, I faced a similar challenge backstage at Broadway’s Once On This Island. I had immersed myself in acting, filling my weeks with rehearsals, auditions, and scripts. Right before my first entrance on opening night, familiar nerves returned. My hands shook, my heart raced, and the urge to run was overwhelming. Then Daniel, a fellow actor, gave me a fistbump and said, “Break a leg.” Another actor had braids like mine. Their presence and encouragement allowed me to step onto the stage, to sing “We Dance,” and to tell a story that mattered. As I focused on sharing hope breaking through barriers of race, class, and expectation, I realized that using my voice is not only about performing; it is about connecting, inspiring, and showing others that they too belong. That night, I discovered that courage grows when we trust ourselves and allow our voices to be heard, even when fear is present. Returning to piano after years away presented another challenge. I had to relearn pieces I once feared, including Chopin, Debussy, and Bach, enduring aching wrists, long hours of practice, and repeated mistakes. At my first competition since returning, I began on the wrong note, paused, and then continued. I allowed my fingers to glide over the keys, completing the piece with confidence and focus, earning an honorable mention. The experience reminded me that expressing myself through music, even imperfectly, is powerful. I learned that confidence comes from persistence, practice, and the courage to continue when things feel uncertain. Now, I teach piano to young Black and Brown girls, encouraging them to use their voices and hands to claim space in music and in life. I show them that their creativity deserves to be heard and that expressing themselves is a form of power. Teaching has taught me that communication is more than words; it is empathy, patience, and the courage to create. I hope to continue using my voice to uplift others, to create spaces where people feel seen and heard, and to inspire the next generation to share their own stories and talents with confidence. My experiences on stage and at the piano have shown me that a voice, once found, can ripple far beyond oneself, shaping communities, empowering others, and giving courage to those who feel unheard.

Being the first in my family to attend college carries a weight and a promise I feel every day. My grandmother once whispered, “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” while weaving my braids before a childhood piano performance. At the time, her words were meant to encourage me, but I felt the weight of expectation pressing down. That memory stayed with me as I navigated challenges both on stage and in life, teaching me that breaking new ground requires courage, persistence, and belief in oneself. Becoming a first-generation college graduate means I will carry that same spirit forward, not only for myself but for my family and for the young people I hope to inspire. I first experienced that mixture of fear and possibility backstage at Carnegie Hall. Surrounded by accomplished musicians, I froze over Middle C and ran to a bathroom stall, heart racing, certain that I did not belong. A security guard with plaits like mine found me and asked, “You okay, baby? They’re waiting for you.” Her warmth reminded me that belonging sometimes begins with someone noticing you. That lesson followed me to Broadway, where I faced similar fear before my first performance in Once On This Island. Right before stepping onstage, nerves returned with full force, but encouragement from fellow actors and the sight of others who looked like me helped me focus. Singing “We Dance,” I discovered that courage grows when we connect with others and step into our own voices. These experiences shaped the way I approach both music and life. Returning to piano after years away, I struggled through scales, technical exercises, and complex pieces until they became muscle memory. At my first competition since returning, I started on the wrong note, corrected myself, and finished with steady fingers, earning an honorable mention. The journey taught me perseverance, self-discipline, and resilience, the same qualities that first-generation college students must carry when navigating unfamiliar paths. Teaching piano to young Black and Brown girls has allowed me to share what I have learned. I encourage them to embrace their hands, voices, and creativity, to step into spaces where they might feel unseen, and to take pride in their progress. Guiding them has strengthened my empathy, leadership, and sense of responsibility, reinforcing that success is most meaningful when it is shared. Becoming a first-generation college graduate will be the continuation of this journey. It will allow me to expand my music education, refine my skills, and grow my teaching program to reach more students. It will demonstrate to my family and to the young people I mentor that perseverance, dedication, and courage can open doors that once felt impossible. My extracurricular experiences in music, theater, and mentorship have not only shaped who I am today but also guide how I will continue to contribute to my community in the future.

No, I am not in foster care. I grew up feeling both the weight and the wonder of possibility. As a child, I first experienced this backstage at Carnegie Hall, surrounded by young musicians in crisp suits, while I clutched a $49 dress that felt more like a costume than clothing. My grandmother had whispered, “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” weaving my braids that morning. I should have felt pride, but instead, I froze. My hands could not touch the keys, and I bolted into a bathroom stall, heart racing, body trembling. A security guard with braids like mine found me and said, “You’re okay, baby. They’re waiting for you.” Her warmth reminded me that belonging sometimes begins with someone noticing you. That day, I watched others perform, their applause a bittersweet echo of the music I had yet to claim. Years later, I faced a different stage, but familiar nerves, at Broadway’s Once On This Island. Acting became my playground and my discipline. On opening night, my hands shook, my heart pounded, and the urge to run back to safety rose like it had at Carnegie. Then Daniel gave me a fistbump and said, “Break a leg.” I noticed that my fellow actors shared my skin, my braids, and my story. I stepped onstage and sang “We Dance,” focusing on sharing hope breaking through barriers of race, class, and expectation. For the first time, I proved to myself that I could confront fear and transform it into expression. This lesson followed me back to piano. I had quit years before, but I returned, determined to reclaim music for myself. Relearning was tedious. My wrists ached from scales, and perfection remained elusive. Yet I persisted, practicing the pieces I once feared, Chopin, Debussy, and Bach, until they became familiar ground. When I returned to Carnegie Hall, dressed in clothes that felt like me, I played a Chopin piece on the wrong note, but I corrected myself, and completed the performance with steady fingers and a steady heart. The applause reminded me that perseverance and presence matter more than flawless execution. Now, I teach piano to young Black and Brown girls, sharing not only music but the belief that their voices and hands belong in every space they aspire to occupy. Each lesson is a reminder that encouragement, visibility, and mentorship can transform fear into confidence. My students’ small victories echo my own journey, and I see the same spark of possibility in their eyes. When I receive my degree, I plan to extend this work beyond individual instruction. I want to create programs that provide mentorship, access to arts and education, and spaces where young people can explore their talents without fear of judgment. I aim to cultivate communities where support is not just a gesture, but a practice. Peers, teachers, and mentors will notice, uplift, and encourage one another. The stages I have faced, from Carnegie to Broadway, taught me that belonging, courage, and resilience are communal. My goal is to pass that lesson forward, so that others can perform, learn, and grow in spaces where they are seen, celebrated, and empowered.

When I was ten, I stepped onto a Broadway stage to sing Young Ti Moune in Once On This Island. My microphone cut out, and silence filled the theater in a way no ten-year-old is prepared for. Before panic could take over, Lea Salonga stepped beside me and pressed her microphone to mine. She didn’t say a word. Quiet, instinctive, generous. That moment taught me that challenges are rarely meant to be faced alone, and that true growth often comes when someone else lends their strength. As I continued performing, I began to notice that same instinctive support everywhere. During high school productions like Tartuffe, the theater was never perfect. Cues were missed, props fell, and costumes tore. But no one ever truly stood alone. A classmate would help pin a costume at the last minute. Another would whisper a forgotten line. Before every scene, someone offered a reassuring smile or squeeze of the hand. I realized that the magic of theater is not just in hitting the right notes or delivering the perfect line. It is in noticing when someone needs help and stepping in. These lessons extended beyond the stage. I volunteered with younger students, helping them navigate assignments and presentations. I organized study groups and shared documents so that team projects felt less overwhelming. I learned that resilience is shared. Growth occurs when people notice struggles, step in to help, and when we allow ourselves to accept support. I also learned to balance responsibility with collaboration, understanding that carrying everything alone can be isolating. Mentors like Lea Salonga and my teachers reinforced these lessons. They taught me the value of quiet leadership, patience, and trust. They showed me that offering help is a strength, and accepting guidance is not a weakness. These experiences shaped how I lead, how I collaborate, and how I live with others in mind. Looking ahead to college, I hope to continue building communities where people lift each other up, where voices are shared, and where collaboration is valued as much as individual effort. I aim to combine the generosity I experienced on that Broadway stage with the leadership skills I have practiced in school, continuing to share my strengths while trusting others to share theirs. Many years ago, Lea shared her microphone so I would not lose my voice. Today, in my own ways, I try to share mine with others, carrying forward the lesson that growth happens when we face life together rather than alone.

What am I doing here? I was frozen backstage, surrounded by young Asian boys in custom-tailored suits, suddenly hyperaware of how my box braids defied gravity, how my dark skin absorbed light, and how my $99 “ruffled, too big” dress hung like a costume. “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” my grandmother whispered while weaving my braids earlier that morning. She meant to encourage me, but her words felt heavy with expectation. Then my name was called. As I sat at the piano, my hands froze over Middle C. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, I bolted. I hid in a bathroom stall, my forehead pressed against the cool porcelain wall as my heart pounded. A Black security guard with plaits like mine followed me. “You okay, baby?” she asked gently. “They’re waiting for you.” Me? I don’t belong here. I eventually left the stall and watched everyone else perform, the applause reminding me of every note I should have played. A few months later, I found myself about to bolt again, this time backstage at Circle in the Square Theatre on the opening night of Broadway’s Once On This Island. I had quit piano and thrown myself into acting, filling my weeks with rehearsals and auditions. Though I found acting playful, the familiar nerves returned right before my first entrance. Then Daniel, a fellow actor, gave me a fist bump and said, “Break a leg!” For the first time, I noticed how his skin reflected the stage lights like mine. Another actor, Cassondra, had braids just like me. I took a breath and stepped onstage to sing “We Dance,” focusing not on my fear but on sharing a story of hope breaking through barriers of race, class, and prejudice. Happiness surged through me as I took my final bow. For the first time in a long time, I proved something to myself. I could do it. Three years later, I returned to piano lessons, determined to reclaim the instrument I had abandoned. There was no dramatic comeback, just aching wrists, endless scales, and missed notes repeated until they became muscle memory. At my first competition back, I even began my Chopin piece on the wrong note. But this time I did not run. I took a breath, found my place, and kept playing. The performance earned me an honorable mention. Over the next year, I practiced through exhaustion and doubt. The pieces I once feared gradually became familiar. When I returned to Carnegie Hall, everything felt different. My posture was steady and my fingers calm. Today, music remains an important part of my life. I teach piano to little Black and brown girls who hesitate before placing their fingers on the keys, just as I once did. After completing my degree, I hope to continue performing while also mentoring young musicians through teaching and community music programs. I want to help students, especially those who may feel out of place in classical music, build confidence and discover that they belong in these spaces too.

What am I doing here? I was frozen backstage, surrounded by young Asian boys in custom-tailored suits, suddenly hyperaware of how my box braids defied gravity, how my dark skin absorbed light, and how my $99 “ruffled, too big” dress hung like a costume. “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” my grandmother whispered while braiding my hair that morning. She meant to encourage me, but her words felt heavy with expectation. Then my name was called. I sat at the piano, my hands hovering above Middle C. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, panic flooded my chest. I bolted. I hid in a bathroom stall, my forehead pressed against the cool porcelain wall as my heart pounded uncontrollably. A Black security guard with plaits like mine followed me. “You okay, baby?” she asked gently. “They’re waiting for you.” Me? I don’t belong here. Eventually I left the stall and watched everyone else perform, each round of applause reminding me of every note I should have played. A few months later, I nearly ran again ，this time backstage at Circle in the Square Theatre on opening night of Broadway’s Once On This Island. I had quit piano and thrown myself into acting, filling my weeks with rehearsals, scripts, and auditions. Right before my entrance, the same panic returned. My hands trembled. Then a fellow actor, Daniel, gave me a fist bump. “Break a leg!” he said. For the first time, I noticed how his skin reflected the stage lights like mine. Another actor, Cassondra, had braids just like me. I stepped onstage to sing “We Dance.” Instead of focusing on my fear, I focused on telling a story about hope breaking through barriers of race, class, and prejudice. When I took my final bow, something shifted. For the first time in a long time, I felt that I belonged. Three years later, I returned to piano lessons, determined to reclaim the instrument I once abandoned. There was no dramatic comeback just aching wrists, endless scales, and missed notes repeated until they became muscle memory. At my first competition back, I even began my Chopin piece on the wrong note. But this time, I didn’t run. I took a breath, found my place, and kept playing. Over the next year, the pieces that once intimidated me gradually became familiar, and with them my confidence returned. Today, I teach piano to little Black and brown girls who hesitate before placing their fingers on the keys, just as I once did. I recognize the same quiet uncertainty the question of whether they truly belong. Working with these students has made me realize how deeply fear, identity, and belonging shape the way we see ourselves. I have watched confidence grow not only through encouragement, but through the act of artistic expression itself. These experiences have drawn me to psychology. I want to understand how anxiety, self-doubt, and representation influence confidence, and how creative expression through music, performance, or storytelling can help people process emotions and build resilience. By studying psychology while continuing to engage with the arts, I hope to explore how creativity can support mental and emotional well being. Ultimately, I want to help create environments where young people feel seen, supported, and empowered to express themselves both onstage and beyond it.

What am I doing here? I was frozen backstage, surrounded by young Asian boys in custom-tailored suits, suddenly hyperaware of how my box braids defied gravity, how my dark skin absorbed light, and how my $99 “ruffled, too big” dress hung like a costume. “First in our family to play at Carnegie,” my grandmother whispered while braiding my hair that morning. She meant to encourage me, but her words felt heavy with expectation. Then my name was called. I sat at the piano, hands hovering above Middle C. In front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, panic flooded my chest. I bolted. I hid in a bathroom stall, my forehead pressed against the cool porcelain wall as my heart pounded. A Black security guard with plaits like mine followed me. “You okay, baby?” she asked gently from outside the door. “They’re waiting for you.” Me? I don’t belong here. Eventually I left the stall and watched everyone else perform, each round of applause landing like a reminder of every note I should have played. A few months later, I almost ran again ，this time backstage at Circle in the Square Theatre on opening night of Broadway’s Once On This Island. I had quit piano and thrown myself into acting, filling my weeks with rehearsals, scripts, and auditions. Right before my first entrance, the same panic returned. My hands trembled. My breathing quickened. Then a fellow actor, Daniel, gave me a fist bump. “Break a leg!” he said. For the first time, I noticed how his skin reflected the stage lights like mine. Another actor, Cassondra, had braids just like me. I stepped onstage to sing “We Dance.” Instead of focusing on my fear, I focused on telling a story about hope breaking through barriers of race, class, and prejudice. When I took my final bow, something shifted. For the first time in a long time, I believed I could belong onstage. Three years later, I returned to piano lessons, determined to reclaim the instrument I once abandoned. There was no dramatic comeback just aching wrists, endless scales, and missed notes repeated until they became muscle memory. At my first competition back, I even began my Chopin piece on the wrong note. But this time, I didn’t run. I took a breath, found my place, and kept playing. The performance earned me an honorable mention, but more importantly, it restored my confidence. Over the next year, I practiced through exhaustion and doubt. The pieces that once intimidated me Chopin’s turbulence, Debussy’s quiet, Bach’s clarity slowly became familiar. When I finally returned to Carnegie Hall, everything felt different. My posture was steady, my fingers calm. As I played, I thought about my grandmother braiding my hair, the guard comforting me, and my castmates encouraging me all reminding me, in their own ways, that I belong. Today, I teach piano to little Black and brown girls who hesitate before placing their fingers on the keys, just like I once did. I tell them that their hands deserve this music too. Music has become more than performance for me it is a way to create belonging. That is why I want to pursue a degree in music: to grow as a pianist while helping expand access to classical music for students who, like I once did, wonder if they belong in it.