Growing up with my cousin Noah, who is basically my brother, has shaped who I am in ways I can’t fully put into words. We’re only five months apart, and we’ve spent almost every day of our lives together. When we were two, Noah was diagnosed with type one diabetes, and from that moment on, it became a part of our family’s rhythm. Even as a toddler, I learned the routines of his care. I would get my finger pricked with him, a tiny act that somehow made me feel like I was helping. Testing strips became almost like breadcrumbs, marking where he had been. Meals were always gluten-free because of his celiac, and carrying a glucagon in my backpack became just another normal part of going to school. Sleepovers at his house sometimes weren’t about fun, they were about watching over him at night, making sure he was safe if his blood sugar dropped too low. And yet, in the middle of what could have been fear or frustration, we found ways to make it playful. We turned his highs and lows into a guessing game, shouting numbers, laughing, and celebrating when we guessed correctly. Living alongside Noah’s diabetes taught me lessons that went far beyond medical routines. I learned patience. Not just the patience to wait for the beep of the meter or the measuring of insulin, but the patience to deal with life’s unpredictabilities. I learned responsibility. Understanding that someone else’s safety sometimes depended on my awareness and care. And I learned empathy. Really understanding what it feels like to face challenges that aren’t always visible, challenges that can arrive in the middle of sleep, school, or a game. But it wasn’t just about managing diabetes, it was about how it shaped our bond. Being there for Noah through his daily struggles deepened our connection. We became teammates in the truest sense, supporting each other through frustration, discomfort, and fear, but also finding joy, humor, and creativity within those challenges. I grew up thinking about more than myself, thinking about how my actions could help someone else feel secure, loved, and understood. Looking forward, I know that this experience will influence how I approach life, relationships, and even my future career. I’ve learned to approach problems with resilience and flexibility, to anticipate needs, and to stay calm under pressure. I’ve learned the value of community, the way support can empower someone to keep going, even when circumstances feel limiting. And I’ve learned to see obstacles not as barriers but as opportunities to care, to connect, and to grow. Noah’s journey with diabetes has shaped not just my childhood, but my perspective on the world, teaching me that strength isn’t just about enduring; it’s about being present, proactive, and compassionate in the lives of those around you.

I’ve spent my whole life trying not to touch anything. Every surface felt like it could soil me, every moment a risk I could never fully rinse away. I believed that if I kept my hands away from the wrong things, scrubbed myself clean enough, I could stay safe. Each time I washed, I thought I was protecting my life. But over time, I learned that even the purest water can’t cleanse what lives beneath the skin. When I was admitted to treatment for my OCD, I thought I was there to become clean again, to rid myself of every trace of fear and contamination. I didn’t yet understand that the water I was using to wash myself clean was the same water I was drowning in. My mind had turned cleanliness into a cage. OCD convinces you that you can control chaos if you just keep obeying. That safety lies in the sting of overuse. I spent years scrubbing my fear until it felt sterile, mistaking pain for protection. But at treatment, I learned that true healing asks you to let the dirt stay, to confront what terrifies you, and sit in the grime. Treatment was made up of exposures that sounded almost cruel: reaching into jars of refrigerated vomit, eating food off public toilet seats. Each task forced me to face what I feared most: contamination, imperfection, loss of control. At first, I thought these exercises would ruin me. But each one became its own quiet miracle. The world didn’t collapse. My hands didn’t fall apart. I was still here. For the first time, I realized that washing had never made me clean; it had only kept me contained. Every ritual, every rinse, had stripped away not only another layer of skin, but a layer of living. The hands I’d spent so long trying to purify were the same ones I needed to navigate the world. When I left treatment, I believed I was cured; fresh, sanitized, ready to reenter life. I threw myself back into life, desperate to prove that I could stay in control on my own. It took one week before my life felt as cracked as my hands once were. The exhaustion was overwhelming, and for the first time, I understood that healing isn’t when you stop getting dirty—it’s when you learn how to live in the mess. For months, I felt like I had failed. I thought recovery was supposed to make me sterile, flawless, whole. But over time, I began to see that life doesn’t stay clean. Even the most careful hands pick up stains. And maybe that’s what makes them human. Now, when I look at my hands, I don’t see contamination. I see survival. I see proof of what I’ve washed through, held onto, and endured. My life isn’t sterile, but it’s full—and that’s what I fought for. Admitting I needed help was terrifying. It meant letting someone else see the mess I’d been hiding. But if there’s one thing treatment taught me, it’s that freedom doesn’t come from staying clean; but from letting yourself live. At the end of the day, I had to make a choice: a little relief with a lifetime of suffering, or a moment of discomfort for a lifetime of possibility. I chose the latter. Healing didn’t hand me perfection; it gave me the chance to start again. Not flawless, but real. Not rigidly controlled, but alive. For the first time, I can imagine a future—going to college, pursuing a career, building relationships—because I finally know I can survive the mess that comes with living.

I’ve spent my whole life trying not to touch anything. Every surface felt like it could soil me, every moment a risk I could never fully rinse away. I believed that if I kept my hands away from the wrong things, scrubbed myself clean enough, I could stay safe. Each time I washed, I thought I was protecting my life. But over time, I learned that even the purest water can’t cleanse what lives beneath the skin. When I was admitted to treatment for my OCD, I thought I was there to become clean again, to rid myself of every trace of fear and contamination. I didn’t yet understand that the water I was using to wash myself clean was the same water I was drowning in. My mind had turned cleanliness into a cage. OCD convinces you that you can control chaos if you just keep obeying. That safety lies in the sting of overuse. I spent years scrubbing my fear until it felt sterile, mistaking pain for protection. But at treatment, I learned that true healing asks you to let the dirt stay, to confront what terrifies you, and sit in the grime. Treatment was made up of exposures that sounded almost cruel: reaching into jars of refrigerated vomit, eating food off public toilet seats. Each task forced me to face what I feared most: contamination, imperfection, loss of control. At first, I thought these exercises would ruin me. But each one became its own quiet miracle. The world didn’t collapse. My hands didn’t fall apart. I was still here. For the first time, I realized that washing had never made me clean; it had only kept me contained. Every ritual, every rinse, had stripped away not only another layer of skin, but a layer of living. The hands I’d spent so long trying to purify were the same ones I needed to navigate the world. When I left treatment, I believed I was cured; fresh, sanitized, ready to reenter life. I threw myself back into school, volleyball, work, and friendships, desperate to prove that I could stay in control on my own. It took one week before my life felt as cracked as my hands once were. The exhaustion was overwhelming, and for the first time, I understood that healing isn’t the moment you stop getting dirty—it’s when you learn how to live in the mess. For months, I felt like I had failed. I thought recovery was supposed to make me sterile, flawless, whole. But over time, I began to see that life doesn’t stay clean. Even the most careful hands pick up stains. And maybe that’s what makes them human. Now, when I look at my hands, I don’t see contamination. I see survival. I see proof of what I’ve washed through, held onto, and endured. My life isn’t sterile, but it’s full—and that’s what I fought for. Admitting I needed help was terrifying. It meant letting someone else see the mess I’d been hiding. But if there’s one thing treatment taught me, it’s that freedom doesn’t come from staying clean; it comes from letting yourself live. At the end of the day, I had to make a choice: a little relief with a lifetime of suffering, or a moment of discomfort for a lifetime of possibility. I chose the latter. Healing didn’t hand me perfection; it gave me the chance to start again. Not flawless, but real. Not rigidly controlled, but alive. For the first time, I can imagine a future—going to college, pursuing a career, building relationships—because I finally know I can survive the mess that comes with living.

Business, at its heart, is about people. It’s about the choices we make that shape lives—not only our own, but the lives of employees, customers, and communities. For me, the way I will navigate the business world will be defined by a set of beliefs and values that center on service, responsibility, and integrity. One of my strongest values is the belief that everything I have been given—opportunities, resources, education—has been placed in my life for a purpose: so that I can give back. I don’t see success as something to hoard or measure only in personal gain. Instead, I see it as a responsibility. If I have more, I can give more. If I learn more, I can share more. The point of achieving is not to stand above others, but to lift others with me. That is why giving back to the community is not just something I want to do—it is central to who I am. I believe deeply that every person deserves equal opportunities, and that belief will drive how I make decisions in the business world. If I have the chance to lead a company one day, I will use that position to create access for people who are often overlooked. If I can use business strategies to generate profit, I will also use them to generate change. My values also center on fairness and integrity. In a competitive environment, it can be tempting to cut corners, but I believe that lasting impact is only possible when built on trust. Whether it is through transparent leadership, ethical decision-making, or simply keeping promises, I want to be someone whose word means something. Businesses that prioritize honesty not only earn loyalty, they set a standard that inspires others to do the same. Another guiding belief for me is responsibility. I know that in business, decisions ripple outward. A single choice can affect dozens or even hundreds of lives. I want to make those choices carefully, balancing profit with people, and strategy with service. For me, leadership is not about having power over others—it’s about taking responsibility for others and using that responsibility to improve lives. As I prepare to attend a four-year college and pursue a degree in economics, I see these values as more than abstract principles. They are a roadmap. My education will give me the tools to analyze data, solve problems, and build strategies. But my beliefs—about giving back, about fairness, about responsibility—will determine how I use those tools. I don’t want to succeed in business just to prove I can; I want to succeed so that I can create opportunities for others to succeed as well. I know the business world will present challenges and pressures to compromise, but my values give me direction. Service reminds me to look beyond myself. Integrity reminds me to keep my word. Responsibility reminds me to measure success not just in dollars but in lives impacted. These are the beliefs that will shape the kind of businessperson—and person—I want to be