With the unwavering confidence that comes with being four years old, I first learned to swim in the city pool a mile from my house. In the beginning, my strokes were a comical mix of awkward flailing and gasping breaths. My mother, watching with vague amusement and concern, often wondered if I wasn’t closer to drowning than actually moving forward. I didn’t know it then, but each desperate splash would be a step toward something even bigger than I could have dreamed. The city summer swim league quickly became a place of comfort for me. As the years passed, I became a stronger swimmer and grew to love the sport and the community. In high school, I began teaching swim lessons at the Boys and Girls Club on weekends. Here, I learned even more about the art of swimming. It wasn’t just about building skills; it was about instilling self-confidence, fostering camaraderie, and teaching kids the merits of trying their best. I wanted to use my own experiences to help them improve. I wanted them to fall in love with the pool, just as I had. I enjoyed being a swim instructor so much that I returned to the city pool that summer to coach for the team that had sparked my passion all those years ago. As I worked with the swimmers, honing their technique and times, I began to form genuine bonds with many of them. I pushed them, I cheered them on, and they looked up to me. Every time a kid would say my name—“help me, Coach Miya,” “was that better, Coach Miya?” “let me go again, Coach Miya”—my heart would swell with pride. I saw myself in their eager eyes. Now, I could be the same guiding figure that my coaches had been for me. But I found I didn’t want to stop there. I began offering private lessons to young children around the neighborhood. I even worked with the city to provide free lessons to children living in the Housing Authority, children who probably wouldn’t get the chance to learn to swim otherwise. When I saw the fearful way they stared down at the water during our first lesson, I knew my work had become essential. Beyond its mental and physical benefits, swimming is a life-saving skill, and I didn’t want to see anyone left behind. And here, I realized something: it occurred to me that our passions are not just for our own benefit, they can be a powerful force for good in the world. If you can harness your excitement and commitment, you can change the lives of others for the better. Now a freshman in college, I am studying neuroscience with the goal of developing a better understanding of the children I teach. I hope to go into a pediatric field like occupational therapy, where I can use the skills and passion I have honed over the years to help children gain the ability to carry out daily functions and activities. I especially hope to use my experience working with underprivileged populations and children with disabilities to make an impact in communities that might otherwise go overlooked. I am proud of the work I have done in my community, and cannot wait to use my experiences in college to improve my work and expand my outreach to those who need it.

As a child, I was utterly fascinated by the stories my grandfather would tell me: stories about surviving the bombings of Tokyo in World War Two, of growing up in the aftermath of destruction, and of immigrating to America with nothing but the desire to make the world a more harmonious place. Some of my favorite stories, however, were the ones he told about his grandfather, my great-great-grandfather, Masaharu Anesaki. He had dedicated his life to studying religion and promoting relations between the West and Japan. The early 1900s were a tumultuous time in global history, with two world wars on the horizon and widespread cultural misunderstandings. My great-great-grandfather received a grant to travel through Europe to understand how different cultures could coexist and learn from one another. Years later, after helping lead efforts to end World War Two, he worked closely with American officials to establish friendships across the seas. As a visiting professor at Harvard, he taught courses on Japanese society to eager American students, using knowledge as a bridge between once-hostile nations. But his work didn’t end with him. His son, and later my grandfather, carried the torch, pushing unity over division, no matter what international or cultural barriers stood in the way. My grandfather in particular used painting, music, and architecture to unify, proving through art that people across cultures share the same emotions, dreams, and values. Listening to these stories, I realized I am a product of all their efforts. I am Japanese-American, the embodiment of the bridge they dedicated their lives to building. In a very real sense, I am their legacy. But with that legacy comes responsibility. In high school, I sought ways to foster connection and mutual respect, just as my ancestors had. During the COVID-19 pandemic, as AAPI hate crimes surged across the country and in my home state of Georgia, I joined a mentorship program that paired Asian high school and elementary students to build solidarity and cultural pride through monthly meetings. Unity, I realized, had to begin within the community before it could extend outward. Later, as president of my high school’s Asian Student Union, I aimed to amplify Asian student voices and foster cultural representation across the entire school. We brought in guest speakers, led field trips to cultural events, and organized food and art-based activities that attracted students from all backgrounds. When people learn about each other’s cultures, walls begin to break down and bridges can be built. Most recently, I helped co-found the Coalition for AP Asian American Studies, a small but growing group working to introduce a national AP course dedicated to AAPI history and culture. Our hope is that by educating all students, regardless of race, about the Asian American experience, we can plant seeds of understanding and empathy that will continue to grow for generations. Legacy, to me, means honoring the work of those who came before you while daring to move it forward. It’s not about repeating their path exactly, but about evolving it, carrying the core values forward in a way that fits the needs of the present. My upbringing, full of stories of resilience, hope, and goals bigger than any one person, has shaped the lens through which I see the world. Legacy isn’t just something from the past; it’s something you live out everyday. I am not just continuing my family’s legacy, I’m expanding it, one connection at a time. As I do, I often think back to the people who came before, fighting for the same cause. And I’m proud to be part of this legacy.

In the oppressive heat of a Georgia summer, pools are sanctuaries, but also potential hazards. In my hometown, the public pools are always packed with people seeking relief from the heat, from babies to teenagers to grandparents. But as I joined them each summer in the cool, clear refuge, I started to notice something alarming: many of the kids, both young and old, crowding the shallow ends or strapped into lifejackets had never learned how to swim. For them, a relaxing day at the pool could quickly become a danger. Swimming had always been a huge part of my own life. After I showed interest in the water as a toddler, my mom signed me up for the city swim team when I turned four. At first, I was scared of the deep end and wildly unsteady in the water, but thanks to patient coaches and years of practice, I found confidence, community, and joy through the sport. As I got older, I decided to pass that experience on. I became a swim instructor at our local pool and started teaching lessons to toddlers and young children. I worked with a wide range of students, from the fearless ones who would do anything to impress me, to the ones who cried in my arms. Some had sensory sensitivities, autism, ADHD, or physical limitations. Others were just scared or intimidated. I adjusted my teaching style to meet each child’s needs: firm when necessary, silly when it helped, and always very patient. Slowly, I began to see real results: two-year-olds learning to float, four-year-olds swimming strokes, six-year-olds completing full laps. I wasn’t just teaching swimming; I was teaching safety, confidence, and persistence. But outside the lessons, I noticed a gap. Many kids who came to the pool regularly couldn’t afford formal instruction. Most lived in the nearby Housing Authority, and while their parents could scrape together the $2 pool fee, expensive private swim lessons were out of reach. So later that summer, I began volunteering to teach free lessons to those kids. We gave out goggles so they could open their eyes underwater, used kickboards to build leg strength, and taught them how to float on their backs. In the first few days, there were tears and fear. But by the end of the program, many kids were confidently swimming short distances, treading water, or navigating to safety. Some even showed interest in joining the swim team. I knew then that the difference I was making was real. My experience also revealed something I was interested in studying in college: neuroscience. I want to better understand how children learn, grow, and overcome both physical and cognitive challenges. I’ve taught kids with muscular disorders, autism, and intense phobias, and I want to be equipped to support them more effectively. I’m especially interested in research around motor development and neuroplasticity, and I hope to one day work in a pediatric setting. To me, swimming is about more than athleticism, it’s about equity. Every child deserves the opportunity to be safe around water, to build self-confidence, and to join a team that supports them. I’ve worked to build that a reality in my own community, and I plan to continue using my education and skills to expand access and create positive change wherever I go.

Education has always been very important to my family. My father’s parents did not go to college. His father worked in a factory to support the family and they were never very well off, but they always worked incredibly hard to provide my father with a chance to attend college after high school. Because of their efforts, my father was able to get a degree, move out of his hometown, and get a job as an architect in Atlanta. There, he was able to start a family and support us through his career. Education was also very important to my mother’s family, who lived in Japan. Many of my mother’s ancestors were professors or philosophers. Her parents moved to the US so that her father could continue his education an an American institute. Here, he discovered a whole new world of knowledge and perspective. Inspired by how different, yet similar, the two countries were, he devoted the rest of his life to promoting positive relations between the US and Japan. Because of my parents, I know how a good education can tranform your life: by providing you with opportunities to be successful, and by giving you an opportunity to experience new perspectives and lifestyles. I owe everything I have to education, as it is what brought my parents together and allowed them to give me the life that I have today. This scholarship will help me pursue my own dreams of a good education. I have always loved school and learning and pushing myself academically, and I cannot wait to continue doing so in college. Unfortunately, money is often a barrier between a dream and reality. This scholarship will help make that burden easier, closing the gap financially and helping me to realize my goals. I am very grateful to me parents for instilling in me the importance of education and the eagerness and fortitude to pursue it. I am also grateful to scholarships like this, which can make huge impacts on so many lives. I was deeply moved by the story of Kalia Davis when I came across this particular scholarship. She is an example of a person who understood the the value of knowledge and hard work. It is an absolute tragedy that she was not able to fully realize her goals. I know that, given the chance, she would have made indelible and incredible mark on our world. If I were to win this scholarship, I would be honored to be given the opportunity to carry on Kalia’s memory and legacy. This will be no easy task and I will not take it lightly, striving for academic excellence and remaining devoted to giving back to my comunity whenever possible. I plan to pay forward the gifts that my father, my mother, their families, and Kalia have given to me.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" It’s a question I’ve been asked countless times, starting on my first day of kindergarten. My answers have changed drastically over the years: “An author!” I would have said at age four. “A botanist!” would have been seven-year-old me’s reply. “A journalist!” I would have said in middle school, or “a pediatrician!” Back then, the question felt infinitely open-ended. The future was so far away, and I could be anything I wanted…right? As I entered high school and began preparing for college, the nuance of the question shifted. People were no longer asking a little kid about her dreams; they were asking a grown-up student about a realistic future that needed to be planned. And when it mattered, I found that I didn’t have an answer. I felt lost. How was I supposed to know what I wanted to do with my life when I barely knew who I was? Throughout high school, as I branched out and became more involved in my life, I learned more about my interests and abilities, and as I did so, the clouds of fear and confusion started to thin. Needing to start saving for college, I decided to find a job. I applied to various places—ice cream shops, cafes, candy stores—but no one was hiring. Ultimately, I landed a job as a swim instructor at Dynamo, thanks to my background in competitive swimming. What started as a way to earn money evolved into a deep passion and a window to my future. I discovered I was adept at working with kids, supporting them and pushing them toward success. I was fascinated by the varying responses from the children during our lessons. Some were terrified by even the thought of the water. Others could barely wait for me to tell them to jump in. Some were proud of themselves when they accomplished something they hadn’t thought they could, while success made others burst into frantic tears. In my head, I developed different methodologies to help them: whether I should use a calm voice or an authoritative one, be encouraging or critical, ask them about their day or keep them focused. It was occurring to me that the patterns and strategies I was picking up on were not just convenient for the job; they were skills I could use my entire life, as well as help the children be safe and successful. It was only once I began teaching free lessons to children living in the Housing Authority that I truly began to understand the impact of my work. These were children that would probably never get the chance to learn to swim otherwise. When I saw the looks of fear on their faces as they stared down at the water during our first lesson, I knew my work had become essential. I knew I wanted to help them, to better understand what was happening in their heads. I knew that I wanted to study neuroscience. "So… what do you want to be when you grow up?" The truth is, I still don’t know the specifics. But I have a direction. I want to pursue neuroscience, to explore the human brain and body and use that knowledge to help those in need. The next few years will be formative for me. In high school, I’ve already started to understand who I am, but as I venture outside my comfort zone and experience the larger world, I am confident I will discover my purpose—not just in my life, but in the lives of others as well.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" It’s a question I’ve been asked countless times, starting on my first day of kindergarten. My answers have changed drastically over the years: “An author!” I would have said at age four. “A botanist!” would have been seven-year-old me’s reply. “A journalist!” I would have said in middle school, or “a pediatrician!” Back then, the question felt infinitely open-ended. The future was so far away, and I could be anything I wanted…right? As I entered high school and began preparing for college, the nuance of the question shifted. People were no longer asking a little kid about her dreams; they were asking a grown-up student about a very realistic future that needed to be planned. And when it mattered, I found that I didn’t have an answer. I felt lost. How was I supposed to know what I wanted to do with my life when I barely knew who I was? Throughout high school, as I branched out and became more involved in my own life, I started to learn more about my interests and abilities. And they all seemed to point toward one thing in particular. Biology and chemistry quickly became my favorite subjects. I was fascinated by the idea of understanding the natural world, something always present but rarely appreciated. I took both IB biology and IB chemistry, enjoying chemistry so much that when the two-year course ended, I supplemented it with a chemistry internship during my senior year. There, I assisted teachers in the lab, preparing solutions and setting up equipment for their classes. I became comfortable in the lab, familiarizing myself with various chemicals and their places on the shelves. As I considered my post-secondary education, I explored a few possible majors that were tightly tied to natural science. My chemistry teacher suggested several fields—chemical engineering, biochemistry, and materials science among them—but one kept catching my eye: neuroscience. It encompasses natural science and also includes other fields that I am interested in like psychology, anatomy, and communications. My affinity for neuroscience deepened when I started saving up for college and looking for a job. I applied to various places—ice cream shops, cafes, candy stores—but no one was hiring. Ultimately, I landed a job as a swim instructor at Dynamo, thanks to my extensive background in competitive swimming. What started as a way to earn a little money evolved into a deep passion and a window to my future. I discovered I was adept at working with kids, supporting them and pushing them toward success. I was fascinated by the varying responses from the different children during our lessons. Some were terrified by even the thought of touching the water. Others could barely wait for me to tell them to jump in. Some were proud of themselves when they accomplished something they hadn’t thought they could, while success made others burst into frantic tears. In my head, I developed different methodologies for helping the different kinds of children: whether I should use a calm voice or an authoritative one, whether I should ease the child in or bring him straight to the deep end, whether I should ask them about their day or keep them fully focused on swimming. It was occurring to me that the patterns and strategies I was picking up on were not just convenient for the job; they were skills I could use my entire life, as well as vital to helping the children be safe and successful. Teaching the children about body control, coordination, and stamina had introduced me to the world of physical rehabilitation, and my interest in the way their brains operated again led me back to neuroscience. As I sat down and mulled it all over, I found the previously blurry path to the future was starting to clear up. People say you’re supposed to “find yourself” in high school, and I believe I did. I discovered my passions, strengths, and interests, effectively laying the foundation for the next stage of my life. "So... what do you want to be when you grow up?" The truth is, I still don’t know the specifics. But I have a direction. I want to pursue neuroscience, to explore the human brain and body and contribute to the understanding and treatment of disorders that affect so many lives. The next few years will be very formative for me. In high school, I’ve already started to understand who I am, but as I venture outside of my comfort zone and experience the larger world, I am confident I will discover my purpose—not just in my life, but in the lives of others as well.

Empowerment is more than holding authority over others. It’s more than the rush of serotonin you get when you feel a sense of pride. It’s more than holding a bigger stick. Empowerment means taking the opportunity to be in a position of leadership and using that position to help others. In my junior high of high school, everyone started panicking about college applications. “Colleges have to see leadership roles in your resume,” I was told countless times by friends, teachers, and counselors alike. People started scrambling to accumulate such roles as fast as they could, often starting clubs just so that they could be president, without putting much work into what that club actually became. Just like everyone else, I also wanted to spice up my resume with a word like “manager” or “captain.” But I didn’t want to just adopt some random role that I barely cared about for the sake of being accepted to a university. Instead, I reflected on my current life, searching for any way I could be a leader for something I cared about. It didn’t take long for me to find exactly what I wanted to do. My school’s Asian Student Union, an organization that I’d participated in since freshman year, was in need of a new president to take over when the previous one graduated. I eagerly filled out the application, praying that I would be selected. Asian Student Union had become a place of comfort for me over the last few years, but I recognized some vital ways in which it needed to be improved. I loved how it provided a space for marginalized students to come together and realize their similarities, as our city had a glaringly low population of Asians, but I wished that it was more interactive. I envisioned cultural cooking classes, guest speakers, and volunteer opportunities through justice organizations. I wanted to go on field trips and participate in community festivals. I was delighted when I was chosen to be the new president and wasted no time adding it to my resume. But I knew that I couldn’t stop there. True empowerment isn’t your title; it’s what you do with it, and I had a lot of promises to fulfill. The first thing I did was organize a field trip to the Asian grocery store, H-Mart, a half-hour from our school. Nearly thirty students participated and were able to purchase foods from their own countries of origin, as well as explore foods that they weren’t familiar with. Excited by the success, I continued my work. Together with the other members of the leadership team, I applied for grant money to fund our ventures. In the span of a few months, we had collaborated with Asian history professors from nearby universities to come and speak to the members of our club, led several food-based activities like a kimbap-making lesson, and saw our club’s numbers nearly double in size. I could not have been prouder. I had taken my opportunity to be a leader and used it to positively affect an entire community of people. Because of that, I felt inspired to become a leader in other aspects of my life, like leading swimming lessons at the local pool and helping the PTSA organize teacher appreciation events. And that’s empowerment. Not seeking power to give yourself leverage, but realizing that being a positive force in people’s lives is fulfilling and impactful. Once you’ve formed a passion for helping others, you’re inspired to continue doing so, reaching into many different parts of your world with the intent to make them better.

With the unwavering confidence that comes with being four years old, I first learned to swim in the city pool a mile from my house. In the beginning, my strokes were a comical mix of awkward flailing and gasping breaths. My mother, watching with vague amusement and concern, often wondered if I wasn’t closer to drowning than actually moving forward. I didn’t know it then, but each desperate splash would be a step toward something even bigger than I could have dreamed. The city summer swim league quickly became a place of comfort for me. As the years passed, my short, thrashing strokes became long and graceful. I fell in love with the taste of chlorine, the smell of sunscreen, and the feel of the water rushing over my skin. I grew close with my coaches and teammates; they pushed me past my limits and encouraged me to never give up. When the opportunity arose, I began teaching swim lessons at the Boys and Girls Club on weekends. Here, I learned even more about the art of swimming. It wasn’t just about building skills; it was about instilling self-confidence, fostering camaraderie, and teaching kids the merits of trying their best. I wanted to use my own experiences to help them improve. I wanted them to fall in love with the pool, just as I had. I enjoyed being a swim instructor so much that I returned to the city pool that summer to coach for the team that had sparked my passion all those years ago. As I worked with the swimmers, honing their technique and times, I began to form genuine bonds with many of them. I pushed them, I cheered them on, and they looked up to me. Every time a kid would say my name—“help me, Coach Miya,” “was that better, Coach Miya?” “let me go again, Coach Miya”—my heart would swell with pride. I saw myself in their eager eyes. Now, I could be the same guiding figure that my coaches had been for me. But I found I didn’t want to stop there. I began offering private lessons to young children around the neighborhood. I even worked with the city to provide free lessons to children living in the Housing Authority, children who probably wouldn’t get the chance to learn to swim otherwise. When I saw the fearful way they stared down at the water during our first lesson, I knew my work had become essential. Beyond its mental and physical benefits, swimming is a life-saving skill, and I didn’t want to see anyone left behind. And here, I realized something: it occurred to me that our passions are not just for our own benefit—they can be a powerful force for good in the world. If you can harness your excitement and commitment, you can change the lives of others for the better. In college, I intend to study neuroscience, to develop a better understanding of the children that I teach. If I can better understand the ways in which young minds learn and grow, I can tailor my teaching methods to be even more effective and impactful, particularly for children with disabilities, of whom I teach several. I am proud of the work I have done within my community, but using the education and experience I will obtain through college, I will be able to improve my work and expand my outreach to children everywhere. Ultimately, I am committed to ensuring that every child has the opportunity to swim and thrive, just as I did.

Swimming has always been a huge part of my life. When I first joined my city’s summer league, I was four years old and could barely keep my head above the water. I was intimidated by the older kids, whose limbs were so graceful and who shot through the water like bullets and won medals at meets. I was scared of the coaches, who watched us train with critical eyes and blew their louds whistles when they noticed something they didn’t like. But as the years went by, I quickly fell in love with the sport. The coaches became my role models and heroes. Beyond the four strokes, they taught me grit and determination, grace and strength, teamwork and accountability. Before I even realized it, I was in high school, swimming the same events that the older kids I had idolized used to swim. It was at that age that people at school were starting to look for jobs, and because swimming was such a unique and important part of my life, I decided to pursue it over serving ice cream or being the waiter at a restaurant. I applied for and was hired at the recreational pool not far from my house and began to spend my afternoons teaching there. During this time, I learned more about swimming than ever before. It wasn’t just about winning medals or improving times, it was about instilling self-confidence, fostering camaraderie, and teaching kids the merits of trying their best. I worked long and hard with the children, helping them to overcome their fears and become better for it. Here, I worked with all different kinds of kids. There were natural-born swimmers who had no qualms about diving head-first into the water. There were toddlers who would wail and thrash in my arms. There were children with disabilities, children with autism, children who would listen to me and children who wouldn’t. For each lesson, I would alter my strategy, learning about each individual pupil until I was able to get through to them and help them succeed. Once I’d realized how passionate I was about teaching swimming, I expanded my outreach. That summer, I helped give free lessons at the city pool to children living in the Housing Authority, children who probably wouldn’t get a chance to learn to swim otherwise. During our first lesson, they were terrified, staring down at the shallow water in fear. But after a few lessons, many of them were eager to jump into the pool and able to kick their way around. Beyond athleticism or competition, I knew swimming was a crucial life skill and didn’t want to see anyone left behind. My experiences in swimming helped me to discover what I want to study in college. I intend to major in neuroscience, to study the structure, function, and development of the brain. I want to be able to better understand how to help the kids I teach, whether that’s the seven-year-old boy who can’t lift his left arm but wants to be an Olympian, or the autistic girl who loves the water but is afraid to put her head under. Though I don’t know entirely what I would like my future to be, I am considering doing some clinical research and then delving into the world of physical therapy and musculoskeletal disorders. No matter their circumstance, I believe every child should be able to safely navigate the water as well as join a summer swim league, which, to me, is a rite of passage for any kid.