I love hanging out with my friends. They give me advice, help me cope with challenges, support my decisions, and inspire creativity. But these friends aren’t ordinary people—they’re numbers, formulas, and elegant equations. They are patterns, logic, and structure. They are math. As unusual as it sounds, math has always felt like a friend to me—one that never judged my pronunciation, never required the perfect sentence, and never misunderstood me. For much of my early life, that sense of clarity and acceptance was rare. As a child, I struggled with communication. My reading and writing skills lagged behind those of my peers, and I often stumbled in Language Arts and the other Humanities. From kindergarten through third grade, I would go to sleep with a tight feeling in my chest, worried that a single bad English grade could drop me to a lower level. I feared not just the academic consequences, but also the personal ones—losing friends, feeling isolated, and slipping into the shadows of low self-confidence. But in math, I found a world I could understand. A world that made sense. A world where I wasn’t behind, but ahead. Numbers didn’t laugh at mispronounced words. Equations didn’t need you to explain your feelings—they simply asked you to solve. When everything else felt unpredictable, math gave me something concrete. Something I could trust. Something I could control. At first, I used math as a coping tool. I would calculate my grade point average to ease my anxiety about upcoming tests. I’d use simple probability to guess my chances of success on assignments, or apply geometry to figure out how to organize my space more efficiently. But gradually, my fascination with math evolved beyond just comfort. I started seeing beauty in the symmetry of algebra, the creativity in calculus, the elegance of patterns in nature. Math didn’t just help me survive—it made me curious, confident, and inspired. This passion followed me through middle and high school. I challenged myself with courses like AP Calculus BC and now, in college-level Differential Equations and Linear Algebra. But more than the coursework, I found excitement in applying math to real-world problems. During my time with the AI Scholars Program, I collaborated on a project focused on sustainable farming. We used artificial intelligence and mathematical modeling to analyze soil microbial data and predict crop yields. For the first time, I saw how abstract equations could lead to tangible change—how my love for numbers could help tackle food insecurity and environmental degradation. Outside of academics, financial instability has been a consistent challenge in my life. My family has faced economic hardship for as long as I can remember. There were times when basic school supplies felt like luxuries, when I had to choose between extracurricular opportunities and helping at home, and when I studied under the light of a single shared lamp because the power bill had to wait. While some students had access to private tutors or expensive enrichment programs, I relied on library books, free online forums, and sheer determination. I learned how to make the most of every resource, how to problem-solve beyond the classroom, and how to keep going even when the path was steep. These experiences didn’t just build resilience; they deepened my connection to math. I began to see it as more than a subject. Math became a form of independence—one that wasn’t dependent on privilege. It gave me the tools to understand the world around me and, more importantly, to shape it. Whether through statistical analysis in psychology, predictive models in medicine, or optimization techniques in sustainability, math gives me a way to contribute to the world with both precision and purpose. My financial challenges have also shaped the kind of impact I want to make in the future. I’m passionate about using mathematics to improve systems of care, particularly in mental health and healthcare access. I’ve seen firsthand how unaddressed mental health issues—especially in marginalized communities—can go unnoticed, dismissed, or misunderstood. I want to be part of the solution, developing data-informed approaches to expand access, reduce stigma, and improve treatment outcomes. I envision working at the intersection of biostatistics, psychology, and medicine—whether it’s by contributing to clinical research, developing AI-powered diagnostic tools, or helping public health agencies use math to better serve underserved populations. My love for math is not confined to one discipline—it spans many. It enhances my understanding of neuroscience by helping me interpret behavior through data. It connects me to environmental science through models that predict climate change and resource scarcity. And it draws me into medicine through equations that describe the body’s functions and predict treatment efficacy. Math is not just a tool—it’s a language. One that transcends borders, cultures, and disciplines. One that empowers people like me, who may not have had all the advantages, to still have a voice, a vision, and a path forward. As I prepare for college and the opportunities ahead, I carry with me the lessons I’ve learned from both math and life: how to persevere, how to stay curious, how to find patterns in chaos, and how to make something meaningful out of limitations. I’m eager to explore new mathematical theories, collaborate on research projects, and push the boundaries of what math can do—not just for me, but for the people and communities who are often left behind. Ultimately, math is more than a subject I excel in. It’s the friend that’s always been there for me—the one that never gave up on me, even when I struggled to find my voice. Now, I want to use that voice, and that friendship, to make a difference.